(Translated from the Urdu by by Maaz Bin Bilal.)
Trying to create a new circle of splendour,
The lamps are busy fixing the air with wonder.
That person is not even a man in my eyes,
Whom the world wants to turn into a god, that bounder.
Don’t bother them for the sake of god,
The patients are busy making medicine, tender.
Those who sent me wandering all my life,
Are constructing my mausoleum to bury me under.
And they, who claimed they’d make a sun,
Are tired now having rent lamps asunder.
These chosen folks who are the best of the lot,
They made me evil, I am their plunder.
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