To The Holy Prophet (P.B.U.H)

O Messenger of Allah (P.B.U.Y), you are the greatest wealth of us helpless souls —

Grant this nation deliverance from the fear of death.

O Messenger of Allah (P.B.U.Y), you burned down the ancient idols of Lat and Manat —

You breathed new life into the ancient world.

In the realm of thought and remembrance of men and jinn —

You are the morning prayer, and you are the call of the Adhan.

The delight of burning and ecstasy flows from La Ilaha —

The dark night of apprehension is illumined by the light of La Ilaha.

Beloved Master, we took neither cow nor donkey for our god —

Nor did we bow our heads before the soothsayers.

We did not prostrate before ancient deities —

Nor did we circle the palaces of kings and nobles.

All this is by the grace of your boundless favor —

Our thought is nurtured entirely by your benevolence.

The remembrance of you is our wealth of delight and ecstasy —

By this alone does the nation stand proud in its poverty.

Beloved Master, you are the ultimate station and destination for every traveler —

In the heart of every seeker, it is your pull that resides.

Beloved Master, our lute has become so utterly voiceless —

That even the strike of the plectrum weighs heavy upon its strings.

I have wandered through Ajam and I have roamed through Arab —

Those dyed in your hue are rare, while the likes of Abu Lahab are many.

Such is the state of this bright-minded Muslim generation —

The dark realm of their conscience remains without a lamp.

In youth, he is as soft and delicate as silk —

The yearning born in his breast is swiftly suffocated.

This is a slave, son of a slave, son of a slave —

For him, even the thought of freedom is forbidden.

Modern schooling has stolen the passion of faith from him —

Of his existence, I know only that he once was.

He is a stranger to himself, intoxicated by Western thought —

He desires only to receive a loaf of barley bread from the hands of the Franks.

This starving wretch purchased bread at the price of his pure soul —

His conduct has compelled us to utter sorrowful laments.

Like a domesticated bird, he can only peck at seeds —

He remains a stranger to the vastness of the azure skies.

The schoolmaster is inept and short-sighted —

He has failed to awaken this new generation to its true station.

The fire of the Franks has melted him down —

That is to say, this inferno has utterly deformed his true nature.

He is a believer, yet unaware of the reality of death —

It is as if his heart has no faith in "None is victorious save Allah."

Because his heart has died within his breast —

He can think of nothing but eating, drinking, and slumber.

For a single loaf, he endures the wounds of the lancets of "no" and "yes." —

And for the sake of one stomach, he bears the favors of hundreds.

He purchases his idols from the Franks —

Though a believer, alas, his mind is a temple of idols.

Beloved Master, say "Arise by My command" and bring him back to life —

Bestow life upon his heart with the chant of Allah Hu.

We are all spellbound by the culture of the West —

The Franks have slain us without sword or battle.

Beloved Master, from this nation whose goblet has shattered —

Reveal a single dervish intoxicated by God.

So that the Muslim might discover himself once more —

And thus make himself the chosen one of the world.

O Heavenly Rider, rein in your steed for but a moment —

My words will not easily or swiftly come to my tongue.

God knows if my longing will even reach my lips —

For love shall not be shackled by the bounds of etiquette.

Longing says, "O bearer of pain, open your lips." —

While love commands, "Keep your lips sealed and open your eyes to witness.".

Beloved Master, the entire universe revolves around you —

I entreat you for a single glance of your favor.

My remembrance, my thought, my knowledge, and my gnosis are all you —

My vessel, my ocean, and my storm are all you.

I am but a frail, wretched, and feeble gazelle —

In this world, no one has bound me to their saddle-strap.

Beloved Master, your blessed street is my sanctuary —

Clinging to a single hope, I come running toward you.

Gone is the art of nurturing the anthem in the breast —

And lost the breath that woke a hundred blossoms from their rest.

My song has shattered right within my throat —

Not a single flame has leapt forth from my breast.

The burning passion within the breath remains no more —

The sweet joy of reciting the Quran at dawn is no more.

That lament which cannot be contained within my conscience —

How long shall it remain imprisoned in my breast?

For it demands a boundless expanse —

Indeed, it requires the vastness of the nine heavens.

Alas for the sorrow that has afflicted both body and soul!

Its only remedy is a glance from the corner of your eye.

My frail life cannot abide these medicines —

The bitterness and odor of the remedy are a torment to my mind.

The matter of this sick one cannot be advanced any further —

For, seeing my medicine, I begin to weep like a child.

I deceive the bitterness of the remedy by mixing it with sugar —

At which my healer can barely hold back his smile.

Like Busiri, I too seek healing from you —

So that I may be restored to my former state of health.

Your compassion for sinners is ever greater —

In forgiving faults, your love is like the tenderness of a mother.

I clash with the worshippers of darkness —

Beloved Master, pour more oil into my lamp!

Beloved Master, your blessed being is a new spring for the entire universe —

Do not withhold your radiant reflection from me.

Since I harbor no hope in anyone other than Allah —

Therefore, Beloved Master, make me either a sword or a key.

My intellect is swift and sharp in comprehending the faith —

But alas, no seed of action has sprouted from the soil of my body.

Sharpen my axe even further —

For the toil that lies before me is greater than that of Farhad.

I am a believer; I do not deny my own essence —

Put me to the whetstone, for I am not of worthless iron.

Though the field of my life has yielded no harvest —

I still possess a trifling thing that is called a heart.

I have kept it hidden from the eyes of the world —

For upon this heart lies the mark of the hoof of your majestic steed.

For such a slave who seeks neither wealth nor provisions —

Life without the nearness of the Master is equal to death.

Beloved Master, you bestowed the fire of Arabia upon a Kurd —

Summon this slave of yours into your sacred presence as well.

A slave who bears a scar in his liver like the tulip —

And whose friends remain entirely oblivious to his sorrow.

A slave who laments in the world like a reed-flute —

And whose soul has been melted by unrelenting melodies.

My state is like that of a half-burnt log in the wilderness —

The caravan has passed by, and I am smoldering still.

I lie burning in this vast desert and mountain pass —

In the hope that perhaps another caravan might come this way.

Because of separation, my soul cries out within my body —

Alas for my lament, oh, alas for me!