There is a thief in the folds of my arms.

There is a thief in the folds of my arms. 

There is a thief in the folds of my arms, 

Whom shall I tell? 

There is thief in the folds of my arms. 

He has, of late, escaped on the sly, 

No wonder there is a stir in the sky, 

And in the world there is a hue and cry. 

Whom shall I tell? 

The Muslims are afaid of fire 

And the Hindus dread the grave. Both 

of them have their fears 

And keep on sharpening their staves. 

Whom shall I tell? 

Ramdas here and Fateh Mohammad 

there, 

This has kept them emitting spleen; 

Suddenly their quarrel came to an end 

When someone else emergerd on the scene, 

Whom shall I tell? 

There was furore in the flushed sky, 

It reached Lahore, the capital town. 

It was Shah Inayat who crafted the kite. 

It's he who moves it up and down. 

Whom shall I tell? 

He who believes, he alone has known, 

Everyone else is floundering. 

All the warngling came to an end 

When Bulleh came to town. 

Whom shall I tell? 

Translated by K.S.Duggal