My heart is restless and I am unaware, I am a dervish

What happened to that bewildered hunter that he came before me

When I tremble on the head of my faith

For my heart is in the hand of the bow of the eyebrow, which is an infidel's game

The imagination of the sea's patience is boiling, alas

What is in the mind of this impossible-thinking drop

I kiss that playful, mischief-making eyebrow

For the wave of the water of life is stirring on its tip

From the sleeve of the physicians, a thousand bloods flow

If they put their experienced hand on the heart of the old man

I will go to the tavern, crying and with my head bowed

For I am ashamed of my own accomplishments

Neither the life of Khidr remains nor the kingdom of Alexander

Do not dispute over the lowly world, O dervish

Know that the hand of every beggar cannot reach the waist

Bring a treasure to the palm, more than the treasure of Qarun