o friends, pity my helplessness
Before a cruel destiny.
My soul is wounded to its core -
My own dear child was ripped from me.

My time of happiness has flown,
All tarnished is my golden throne,
Chill autumn wind has overthrown
My tender growing sapling tree.

Untimely death, allowing no appeal,
Has cast me down the well of pain I feel.
My heart is shattered quite on fortune's wheel -
My feeble body is a falling tree.

I cannot rest a moment, cannot stay -
Not in this world of imminent decay:
I'm blind to everything except dismay,
Which can but leave me weeping helplessly.

Like moths aflame whichever way they dart
Fly sorrows to the candle of my heart.
My back is bowed, my eyes drip tears that smart
To quench this anguish from fate's cruelty.

Alas, how deeply sorrows burn!
I scream aloud1 I scream and yearn
To hold my son close. His return
Alone might salve my beggary.

So Makhtumkuli can't abate
His cries1 such is his inner state.
His loss has left him desolate
And black is all futurity.