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There is a thief in the folds of my arms.

Whom shall I tell?

There is a thief in the folds of my arms

He has, of late, escaped on the sky

No wonder there is a stir in the sky

And the world there is a hue and cry.

Whom shall I tell?

The Muslims are afraid 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 Muhammad there

This has kept them emitting spleen

Suddenly their quarrel came to an end

When someone else emerged 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 id floundering

All the wrangling came to an end

When Bulleh came to town.

Whom shall I tell?

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