1. O breeze of the fragrant garden and the shaded willow,
This wafts aromas and that from a flowing stream,

2. Inclining towards the Grand Judge one morning
Amid the scent of flowers or precious gifts,

3. And bear from me to him a message
Of sincere devotion or a robe of praise,

4. So when the dawn casts you forth from its abode
Circulate in the courtyard of the exalted,

5. Where glory has trailed the hem of its gown
And eminence has walked with a proud gait,

6. And excellence has illuminated the night of every calamity,
The full moon of the lofty and the stars of enlightened views,

7. From a dwelling well lit against the dark of the nights
By that which outshone the partition of gloom,

8. Had I wished I could have grasped the Pleiades while seated
And unfurled the necklace of the brilliant stars,

9. And kissed a hand outstretched generously
As though I’d kissed the cheek of the heavens,

10. And filled the space between his brow and right hand
With my eyelids, lights and radiance,

11. Gliding between the strongly held principles
Of his valour and the resolute hillock of his honour,

12. There a curling lock of auspiciousness
Woven from the yarn of joy,

13. Had you seen me circle around it
You’d have seen a sun and a gleaming sword,

14. I anchored in God with it a ship of tranquility
And stretched the rope of hope,

15. Fate has robed him in the raiment of happiness
Independent of all names,

16. Eulogy's dew-like fragrance seems as though
It were a basil plant oozing moisture,

17. His face in God smiles eternally
And beyond the veil of the unseen is a watchful eye,

18. Eloquence and lucidity have flowed together in him
Evident to the hearing and visible to the beholder,

19. And it is as if he combines will in mercy,
Ferocity in water,

20. Between spontaneity and determination he is like
The kindler of the flame of the brown Indian blade,

21. If he wished he could copy the dawn to replace night
And erase the blackness of the dark night,

22. The wind of virtues is folded by it
Where the tongues of poets chime,

23. And it is as if his chanting
Were the chapter of spring and the coo of the dove,