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?