I have many troubles, which of them shall I take?
Heart-wound is refreshed again
How come shall I find a cure to this trouble
Unless its cure is from a friend's hands
My master, my master, my very own master
A cure for my trouble, my master
Wearing kinds of clothes, kinder than roses
Nightingale, don't surround it, it's a pity for rose
I've been longing so long that my bosom is crushed
Heart-paren comes with smiling
My master, my master, my very own master
A cure for my trouble, my master
My tall, cypress sycamore maple
I'm burning having a fever in my heart
You're my qibla, I turn my face to you
Between your eyebrows is my altar
My master, my master, my very own master
A cure for my trouble, my master
I'm Pir Sultan, you're flying high over the storey
You're coming and going without saluting
Belle, why do you get away the fondness?
Was our wises' custom like that?
My master, my master, my very own master
A cure for my trouble, my master