O our friend, our beloved, O knower of our secrets

O Joseph of our sight, O the prosperity of our market

Behold, at the beginning of this year, a happy lover came to us last year

We are paupers, and you are a hundred treasures and a hundred dinars for us

We are lazy, and you are a hundred pilgrimages and a hundred battles for us

We are asleep, and you are a hundred awakened fortunes for us

We are weary, and you are a hundred ointments for our sick

We are very ruined, and you, out of your generosity, are our architect

Last night I said to Love, "O our discerning king"

"Do not turn your head away, do not deny it, you have taken our turban (i.e., honor)"

In reply, he said to me, "This is not our doing, it is from you"

For whatever you say, it echoes back like the sound of our mountains

I said to him, "We ourselves are nothing, and this echo is our speech"

Because no one has any choice, O our chosen one