Voh kaun hai jo mujh pe ta'assuf nahin karta

My state is such that pity's echo can be found, But see my soul, for not a single sound will I make.

What cruel fate, her coming is still held in doubt, While my last breath, in leaving, no delay will it make.

Lest you suspect my heart holds some other account, My love, of Joseph's tale no mention will I make.

My rival's letters there she will not once recount, Unless to my own style, some changes he will make.

My heart, with poverty's true wealth, has such amount, On worldly gold, a sound of scorn I will not make.

Until the heart is cleansed by truth's ecstatic fount, The lore of Sufi texts, a pure soul will not make.

Oh Zauq, from ceremony, troubles we can't surmount; True peace is his who no such formal show will make.