S. R. Faruqi:

(1) What's the point of weeping for the season of youth when you're old?
Day is about to dawn, go and have some sleep.

(2) Oh my God, when my eye falls on those rosy cheeks
I feel like gazing hard enough to bury my eyes in them.

(3) Prostration in prayer should be done with purity of heart,
otherwise wasting time in such acts avails nothing.

(4) I really wonder how the grieving manage to bathe themselves in their tears.
The water is so hot I wouldn't dip my finger in it!

(5) Like the blind I never attain what I seek.
I just grope and feel and beat about the bush.

(6) My spirit now feels much irked by its clay coat.
How long must I bear this petty basket of dirt upon my shoulders?

(7) Oh Mir, were they to be smeared with the dust of that street
I wouldn't wash my feet, not even with the water of life.

 

FWP:

(inspired by SRF's translation)

(1) In old age, why weep for youth?
Day is about to dawn-- now get a bit of sleep.

(2) When I see her rosy cheeks-- omigod!
I feel an urge to bury my eyes in them.

(3) In prayer there must be purity of heart.
Otherwise, it's a useless waste of time.

(4) How the grief-stricken bathe in tears!
Don't touch that scalding water-- not even with a fingertip!

(5) Like someone blind, I can't find what I want.
I just flail around at random, groping in all directions.

(6) Now my spirit is greatly vexed by this body of dust!
How long would I lug around this basket of dirt?

(7) Mir, if they would be stained with the dust of that street,
Even with the 'water of life', I'd never wash my feet.

 

Zahra Sabri:

Zahra Sabri is a special guest translator for this site.

(1) What’s the point of weeping over the season of youth in old age?
It’s nearly morning now; sleep for a moment at least

(2) Oh, when I look at her beautiful cheeks
I feel like gazing so closely, my eyes sink into them

(3) In prayer, a sincere and truly heartfelt prostration is what’s needed
Otherwise, there’s no use wasting time like this

(4) How on earth do those filled with sorrow immerse themselves in tears?
One wouldn’t wish to touch a finger to this scorching liquid

(5) Like a blind man, I never reach my desired objective
I just grope about, leaping and floundering

(6) My spirit has now grown very tired of my body made of clay
For how long can one lug around this basketful of dirt?

(7) Were they to become soiled with the dust of that lane, “Mir”
I wouldn’t wash those feet even with the ‘Water of Life’