makke gaya gall mukadee naaheen
chaahe sau sau jumme padha़ aaiye
bulleshaah ko padha़en to jahan men
kabeer svat a jaaiye
ganga gaya gall mukadee naaheen
bhaaven sau sau gote khaaiye

gaya gayaan gall mukadee naaheen
bhaaven sau sau pind bahaaie
bulle shaah gall taahiyo mukadee
jad main noon dilon mukaaiyo
padha़ padha़ aalam phaaja़l hoyaan
kadeen apane aap nu padha़ya nahee

ja ja vada़ya mandir masjida
kadee man apane vich vadaya nahee
ev roja़ kare, shaitaan naal lada़
kadee naphas, apane, naal lada़aaie
bulle shaah asmaan uda़deeya phada़da he
jeda ghar baitha onnu phadaya naahee

sar te topee te neeyat khotee
lena kee topee sar dhar ke
tasveer pheree par dil n phireyaa
lena kee tasveer hath phada़ ke
chille keeta par rab n milaya,
lena kee chilleyaan vich vada़ ke

bulleya jaamun bin doodh nahee jamadaa
te bhaanve laal hove kadh kadh ke
nee main jaana jogee de naala
nee main jaana jogee de naala
kannee mundara pa ke
matthe tilak laga ke nee main jaana
e jogee mere man vich basiya
ai jogee mera ja़ura kha़sseeyaan

sach aakhaan main kasamae kuraana
jogee mera deennae eemaan
jogee mere naal main
nee main jogee de naal naala
nee main jaana jogee de naal

Mecca's path, a journey's end unseen,
Though a hundred Fridays in prayer convene.
When Bulleh Shah's words ignite the soul,
Kabir's spirit finds its destined role.
Ganges' flow, a cycle never ceasing,
Though a hundred dips in its waters increasing.

To Gaya's ground, a finality denied,
Though a hundred sacred offerings abide.
Bulleh Shah's truth, a closing to the quest,
When the "I" within is laid to rest.
Scholarly minds, knowledge ever growing,
Yet the self, within, remains unknowing.

Into temples and mosques, the footsteps tread,
But the heart's own chambers remain unsaid.
Each day battles with shadows' sway,
Yet the self's own cravings never held at bay.
Bulleh Shah grasps at heavens high,
While the one within, he lets pass by.

Upon the head, a cap of pious guise,
Yet the heart's intent, it slowly dies.
What worth a cap, if the soul's untrue?
A rosary's touch, if the spirit's askew?
Fasting's vow, a ritual's embrace,
Yet the Beloved's face, we cannot trace.

Bulleh, the curd won't set, though the milk is churned,
Though the color is red, again and again returned.
I go with the yogi's wandering feet,
I go with the yogi, my soul's retreat.
With earrings adorned, a sacred sign,
A mark on my brow, divinely aligned.
He dwells within, my yogi's grace,
My worries fade in that sacred space.

Truth I speak, by Qur'an's decree,
The yogi is my faith, eternally.
The yogi is with me, hand in hand,
I go with the yogi, across the land.
I go with the yogi, my heart's desire.