Rind-e-kharaab-haal ko zaahid na chhed tu

O pious judge, don't mock this ruined soul with your disdain; Just settle your accounts with God, and leave me to my pain.

O Claw of Passion, may God grant you never grow your nails, in vain, Or you will rip the very seams of reason's fragile chain.

Be patient with this restless prey, don't cause it needless pain; Don't let my spattered blood become your sleeve's and collar's stain.

Who, even dead, can break free from your tresses' binding chain? For from my grave, a tree grown from that net will sprout amain.

O two-faced zealot, do not act the master, it's in vain; You are the false dawn's light, a promise that will surely wane.

This narrow world is not a home for comfort, but for pain; O heedless one, from stretching out the feet of greed, refrain.

The tree of love, if cut, can still grow green and thrive again; But what if from the earth you tear its very roots in twain?

On him who wakes a sleeping flock just for his own cruel gain, Just shut your door on that "world-dog" and his chaotic train.

This flowing life, a swift and clever steed, is your domain, Bestowed on you to spur it on from this world's fleeting plain.

Give up this wandering in love's lane, O Zauq, the path is vain; This tangled, heavy burden is a weight you can't sustain.