Making my dear life lost to all that's good,
An evil fate wrought awesome sacrilege,
Hurling the books I'd written to the flood,
To leave me bookless with my grief and rage.

The foe surrounded us. Surprised, we shook
And scattered - so we all our friends forsook.
As for my five years' work, my precious book,
The Kyzylbash destroyed it, page by page.

Then some were left behind, tired and afraid,
And some of us were into slavery made,
Freedom to gain if ransom then was paid -
The price according to each captive's gauge.

This fate has dragged me almost to the ground.
My being wept with sorrow so profound
To see my manuscript untimely drowned
That rivers all were hateful at this stage.

Many's the man who meets with some success,
While many more are starving, more or less.
The world echoes to all their loud distress.
My own lament was heard throughout an age.

We stagger under fate's too harsh duress:
It proffers well but lies, to our distress.
So Makhtumkuli speaks the truth out. Yes,
There's nothing can my broken heart assuage.