Wherever you step His beauty clear there is,
Wherever you put your head the place of the worship of that beauty (the real Beloved) there is.
Everyone is wandering about (the real Beloved)'s dishevelled hair,
In the grief of His visage's separation, so much fervency and clamour there is.
All the beautiful genuflected to your beauty,
What sort of turturing is this that for the aged and the youth a treasure it is?
The lovers are the high-ranking figures of the spritual world,
Being Proud is the one who at your court of beauty the beggar is.
The one who took shelter in your place, is away from boasting,
The neglected of the worlds never think of us?
Take off this stained cloak and break this idol,
Settle down yourself at the love's gate which itself the Qiblah indicator is.