To a Muslim Missionary in England

Time has rekindled Nimrod’s fire so that the mettle of Islam may once again be proved.

Come; let us lift the veil from our heart’s wound, for it is the sun’s nakedness that makes it shine over the world.

You have made many subtle points before the charmers of the West, and melted many idols’ hearts with the heat of your arguments.

Come, now give some news of the city of Sulayma to the people of Hijaz, and fling a spark into the dead, cold conscience of the people of Turan.

O knower of maqam, strike the note of Iraq and Khurasan; revive the singing of ghazals in the assemblies of the ‘Ajamis.

It is a long time since the Afghan’s lute awaits the plectrum’s strokes. What melodies have turned to blood, pent up within its breast.

Why tell Love’s story to a people given to lust? Why put the surma of wise Solomon into ants’ eyes?