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I am choked by my own joy, I am mournful
How cruel I am to claim that I am the oppressed
Even if my body and soul are free, what does it matter
If my heart is my own, then I am oppressed
This habit of bearing pain does not suit me
Everyone thinks that I am devoid of feelings
I too have the honor of their slavery
I say that I am not a servant, I am the master
Although my practice of poetry has been ongoing for a long time
But in my own existence, where am I composed?
People know me as Ali, but
The question is, do I know myself?
