I am freed from this self and desire, a living calamity, a dead calamity

Living and dead, my homeland is nothing but the grace of God

I am freed from this verse and ode, O king and eternal sultan

Mafta'elon mafta'elon mafta'elon has killed me (a rhythmic phrase)

Tell the rhyme and sophistry, let the flood carry it all away

It was skin, it was skin, worthy of the brains of poets

O silence, you are my brain, the curtain of that preciousness of mine

Less is the excellence of silence that does not have fear and hope

On the ruined village, there was no tithe of the land of migration and wandering

I am intoxicated and ruined, do not seek criticism and error in my words

Until it ruins me, how will it give that treasure to me?

Until it gives me to the flood, how will the sea of bounty draw me?

What does the man of speech know of silence like sugar?

What does the dry know, what is wet? Taralla, taralla (a rhythmic phrase)

I am a mirror, I am a mirror, I am not a man of discourses

My state will be seen if your eyes become your ears

I shake my hands like a tree, I spin like the moon

My spinning is purer than the spinning of the heavens from the color of the earth

O wise speaker, speak so that I may pray for you

For when I become happy and intoxicated, every dawn is the time for prayer

My patched coat and my dervish cloak, there would be no regret from you

And that which reaches me from the sultan, half is for me, half for you

From the sultan's hand reaches me a cup and a bowl of old wine

The spring of the sun would be its draught for a beggar

I am silent, with a tired throat, O wise speaker, speak

For you have the breath of David, and I am like a mountain that has moved from its place