My wrist in the beloved’s grip,
I cannot ask Him to leave hold.
Dark is the night, the cloud is dripping,
I suffer it for lack of a messenger,
The tyrant has sent a call.
They alone know what is love and longing,
Who have it in their lives.
Like digging a well in dry land,
With no cart to carry away the sand.
Carrying loads everyday,
You will leave at last.
Says Husain, the humble fakir,
Put thy eyes into mine, O love.
(Translated by Sant Singh Sekhon)