All of us with loins girt are waiting for the bark.

A good many have gone before, the rest will soon embark.

 

Vex us not, O fragrent breeze, go, mind your task,

You are in a mood to tickle, we feel distraught.

 

Their heads rest at the Saqi,s feet, their fancy skyward soars,

The drinkers are at present in a different mood absorbed.

 

Fagged out, we sink and squat, too weak to stand,

Stuck in the street of desire, like footprints on the path.

 

Such is our crippled state, by weariness waylaid,

For hours on end listless we lie, wherever a shade doth fall.

 

Who cares for poise and patience, what is name or fame?

We have mourned over this stuff, buried it once for all.

 

The whirlwheel of Time, Insha, spares not a soul,

God be thanked, some friends are left to sit togather and talk.