O servant, return to our threshold, come

Hear from the heavens the call to prayer (Hayya `ala al-sala)

We have opened the doors of the rose garden for you

How long will you run barefoot in the thorn field?

I created the soul and gave it pain

The one who gave the pain will also make its cure

If you desire a stature like the cypress, go to the garden of love

For this hunchbacked wheel (of fortune) will bend your stature double

A garden whose leaves and branches are eloquent and alive

A garden that has no soul is not soul-increasing

O you born of the living, how are you with the stench of the dead?

Does not nausea seize you from these dead of yours?

Both worlds are full of the Living, the Life-Giver

Do not be content with a five-day soul from us

Souls are counting the suspended particles

Each one like a sun in the heavens of majesty

They, like us, were bats at first

The bat became the sun from that giving and bestowal