It is my heart, not a rock of stone,
Why should it not cringe with pain?
Weep I shall for a thousand times,
Why grieve me again and again?

It is not a motel nor a sacred place,
Nor a doorstep or house of a beloved,
I am resting at a thoroughfare where,
What's the need for praise, disgrace?

Yes, I am not a devout or holy man,
Yes, I am known as unfaithful,
Why then should those with faith and hearts,
Care to even mention my name?

Be it such living or chains of sorrow,
Both are the same: imprisonment;
Why then should I be free to borrow,
A respite from all the punishment?

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