Reason is a bird

from our nest;

Galaxies are some dust

risen from our doorstep.

The world-illuminating sun,

the sovereign of the East,

Is an ornamental image

on the ceiling of our hall of mirrors.

The blood you see

in the eye of the horizon at sunset

Is the sips

of our nocturnal wine.

What we hunt

is no one but the hunter;

Our trap is the same

as our bait.

Our arrow pierces

through the armour of the firmament,

For our target is

the heart of the universe.

No charm can lure us

away from the path

Since the two worlds

are full of our fascinating tale.

Though with the people of the time

we are not happy,

Happy are those

who live in our time.

If there exists a paradise,

it lies in the dust of his doorstep,

Where we have

our eternal abode.

Khajoo,

now our songs are sung

All over the world

with the music of our fame.