One night I burned with the oil of thought

I lit the lamp of eloquence

I heard scattered sayings of my hadith

And saw no other way but to say 'Excellent!'

He added a wicked nature to it

So that, inevitably, a cry of pain would rise

His thought is eloquent, and his opinion high

In this manner of asceticism, deceit, and advice

Not in bricks, mortar, and heavy clubs

For this manner ends with others

He does not know that we are not at war

Otherwise, there would be no shortage of words

I can draw the sword of the tongue

I can pull the pen across the world of speech

Come, let us challenge in this manner

We shall make the enemy's head a stone, a pillow

Happiness lies in the grace of the judge

Not in the grasp or strength of force

If fortune does not bestow from the high heavens

It will not come to manliness in a snare

No hardship came from the weakness of an ant

Nor did lions suffer from their claws and strength

If one cannot stretch their hands to the heavens

It is necessary to adapt to its rotation

If a long life has been written for you

Neither the serpent, sword, nor lion can harm you

And if no purpose remains in your life

The antidote will pull you like poison

Not even Rustam, when the day ends

Did Shaghad not rise against him from within?