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The Ghazi, these mysterious bondsmen Of Thine,
To whom Thou hast granted zest for Divinity.
Deserts and oceans fold up at their kick,
And mountains shrink into mustard seeds.
Indifferent to the riches of the world it makes,
What a curious thing is the joy of love?
Martyrdom is the desired end of the Momin,
Not spoils of war, kingdom and rule!
For long has tulip in the garden been waiting,
It needs a robe dipped in Arab blood.
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Thou made the desert dwellers absolutely unique,
In thought, in perception, in the morning Adhan;
What, for centuries, life had been seeking,
It found the warmth in the hears of these men;
Death is the opener of the heart's door,
It's not the journey's end in their sight.
Revive, once again, in the heart of the Momin,
The lightning that was in the prayer of 'Leave Not'.
Wake up ambition in the breasts, O' Lord!
Transform, the glance of the Momin into a sword.
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