In the Year of the Fish, Death came on Nawruz Day,
To block my father's path in stark array.
Papa was sixty4ive then. So fate rules
Our world. Death struck - and took his breath away.

He played no part in man's grubbing for gold.
From mundane pleasures he'd himself withhold.
Old ragged clothes were all he ever wore.
The Afterlife was what he'd fain behold.

He said, Earth shall decay and life will end,
Peach quits the day, sleep does not night attend.
Agnostics doubt: Faithful alone are free.
Friends of my father are the Prophet's friend.

What I saw I would not merely guess.
He is a holy refuge God will bless.
Angels and demon-things will play their part,
Yet father's tomb will not go sentryless.

I met Three Hundred Leaders, wise and white,
And saw my father reached the Forty's height.
Among the nobles, he was of the Seven,
And passes now among the Abdals bright.

Though men must die, his name still echoes round.
This secret, people know, does not resound.
His home is Paradise, his soul shines there:
His body lies contented under ground.

O Makhtumkuli, keep your secrets nice!
So find and serve a good man without price.
All who are true friends of my grand Papa
On Judgement Day will enter Paradise.