|My hills and dales! Where can I go, leaving everything behind?|
The dust and bones of my ancestors lie scattered here and everywhere.
You had been the rendezvous of hawks and falcons since eternity,
Unaware of the rose and tulip, and songs of nightingale.
My paradise lies in serpentine roads:
Your soil smells like amber and water shines like crystal.
One accustomed to pigeons and doves can hardly be like a hawk.
For the sake of body, how can I kill my soul?
O my jealous faqr! Which would you prefer:
Englishman’s robes or tattered clothes?