Why ask about the condition of fakirs like us
We are water, separated from its river
Emerged from a tear, Melancholy, distressed
Though I knew that pictures are just
A collage of some colors
When I entered the emporium of love
I was entranced by them
Countless bodies did I find
But not one mind did I meet
This was written in my fate
In the four lines of my palm
My destiny was my rival

I could never find a way to escape it
I did not leave JHANG, did not pierce my ears
And a multitude of HEERS walked by
People listen to my songs
And call me godless
Because I called my pain KAABA
And named sorrow my GOD (Rabb)
Among intelligent folk
I have often spoken loudly
Maybe I was arrogant about my love
Perhaps I felt I had a claim upon pain
You call yourself a wise man
I say I am a lover
Let us leave it to the people to decide
To whom they will give the esteem of a PIR

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