Zamana sakht kam-azaar hai ba-jaan-e-Asad

To passion's chains our bodies we don't cede, we hold; From worldly things, a heart entirely freed, we hold.

In good and evil, endless arguments unfold; A single, simple page, like a mirror's truth, we hold.

Like shadows, we accept our servitude's dark fold; The heart's own wound upon a naked brow, we hold.

The zealot’s pulsing vein becomes his pagan cord of old; Our head before a non-existent god, we hold.

We pardon preachers for the foolish tales they've told; Our heart to any lover’s hand we have not sold, we hold.

Our sharp-tongued friends, like fields of grass that stretch untold, A thousand poison-tempered blades in unison, they hold.

True Reverence anoints our eyes with wonder, manifold; With silent tongue and watchful eyes, this sacred state we hold.

The world brings little torment to your servant, Asad, be told; For of its harshness, greater expectations still, we hold.