Desire took a jest at the owner of heart and soul,

At that time, there was no harvest in between

His belt and hands were empty and clean,

As if gold was scattered on his face like dust

Out rushed the seeker, with a blind gaze,

He began to censure him in the street

Beware of these silent scorpions,

The predators in cloaks of wool

For they bend the knee like a cat to the heart,

And if prey falls, they pounce like a dog

They have brought their shop to the mosque,

For in the home, a catch is harder to find

The path is carved by the lion-hearted,

But they dress as if they belong to the people

They sew patches of black and white together,

With deceit, they hoard gold in secret

Alas, the wheat sellers pretend to be grain dealers,

The world traveler is but a beggar’s harvest

Do not judge the old and weak by their worship,

For in dance and posture, they are youthful and swift

Why should they pray while seated,

When in dance, they can leap and bound?

The staff of the pious is often trampled,

But outwardly, it seems frail and yellow

They are neither pious nor wise,

It suffices that they consume the world through faith

They wear a woolen cloak on their body,

But adorn themselves with garments made by the women of Habash

You see no effect of tradition in them,

Except their past dreams and the bread of dawn

Their bellies are full, from neck to waist, of meager bites,

Like a beggar's basket, full of varied desires

I shall not speak more of this description,

For your actions are the truest reflection of your nature

He said, from this path speak no more,

For the eye of the critic sees no art

One has caused much disgrace,

But what care does he have for the honor of anyone?

A disciple conveyed this word to the sheikh,

If you seek justice, do not ask reason

Evil behind my back spoke my faults and mocked,

Worse than him is the companion who brought it and spoke

One shot an arrow, and it fell in the way,

He did not harm my being, nor cause me pain

You picked it up and came toward me,

And in your stride, you walked beside me

The good-hearted master smiled,

For easier than this, speak of more difficult things

Still, what he said of my evil is but little,

Of those that I know, it is but one out of a hundred

From the face of doubt, these things are said about me,

But I know with certainty what I am within

This year, he joined us in union,

How could I know the fault of seventy years?

No one in the world knows my faults better than I,

Except for the Knower of the unseen, who is me

I have not seen anyone with such a noble mind,

Who thought my fault to be only this and nothing more

If in the Day of Judgment, he is witness to my sins,

I shall not fear Hell, for my deeds are good

If my ill-wishing one speaks of my faults,

Come, take a prescription before me

There have been men of the path of God,

Who have endured the arrows of calamity

Be humble like the skin of a garment,

For the wise carry the burden of their words

If from the soil, the men make a vessel,

They will break it, rebuking it with stones