In maze of Latin script and sin,
Your bearings, no doubt, you have lost
Belief that none has might save God,
Is cure for weak that acts so fast.
A man who likes to hunt the facts
Must quit All hopes of West, is cleat
Its atmosphere is full of charm,
But one can't find musk-yielding deer.
The self of man derives much strength
From tears he sheds at early morn
Much good that tulip, like the dart,
The marge of some brook may adorn.
This idol-house of hue and scent,
Or fane so ancient, old and hoar
Hunts those who don't believe in God,
On Muslims has effect no more.
O Shaikh, get all the rich expelled
From precincts of the Holy mosque
For niche of mosque is angry with
Them all for their much impious task.