Wednesday, July 02, 2008


Not yet have other nations seen

What thou art truly worth;

The realm of being has need of thee

For perfecting this earth.


If aught yet keeps this world alive,

‘Tis thine impetuous zeal,

And thou shalt rise its ruling star

And thou shalt shape its weal.


This is no time for idle rest

Much yet remains undone:

The lamp of Tauhid needs thy touch

To make it shame the sun;


Thou art like fragrance in the bud

Diffuse thyself: be free,

Perfume the garden breeze, and fill

The earth with scent of thee.


From dusty speck, do thou increase

To trackless desert-main,

From a faint breeze, a tempest grow

Become a hurricane.


Raise thou through Love, all humble things

To greatness and to fame;

Enlighten thou the groping world

With dear Muhammad’s name.


On thee relies the bark of God

Adrift beyond the bar,

The new born age is dark as night,

And thou. its pole star


The world remembers still the tales

Which hymn their bravery

And in their storied book of life

Shines their sincerity.


The Muslim was sincere of speech

Of fear his voice was free;

Just, staunch, he scorned the slightest breath

Of partiality. In nature, like a tree kept fresh


By modesty most rare,

Yet braver than the bravest he,

Intrepid past compare Like wine upon the drinker’s lips

His joy, in losing, lay


As the cup pours its liquor out

He poured his self away.

What the knife is to cankerous growth

To all untruths was he,


His actions, in life’s mirror shone

Like light vibratingly. If he was confident of aught

It was his right arms might,He feared but God, while thoughts of death

Your craven souls


Apostate hearts and palsied hands

Your earthly lives debase.

You all to your great Prophet are,

Bringers of deep disgrace.


From Christians you have learnt your style

Your culture from Hindus;

How can a race as Muslims pass

Who shame even the Jews?


But if the faith of Abraham

There, once again. is born,

Where leaps this flame, flowers will bloom

And laugh its blaze to scorn To my Muhammad be but true


And thou hast conquered me;This world is naught; thou shalt command

My Pen of Destiny.

Mahmood the king and slave AyyazIn line, as equal, stood arrayed


The lord was no more lord to the slave

While both to the One Master prayed.

And one your Kaaba, One your God

And one your great Quran,


Yet still divided from each

Lives every Musalman.

You are known as Syed and Mughal

You call yourselves Pathan;


But can you truly claim as well

The name of Musalman.

The honored of their times they lived

For theirs was true Iman,


You live disgraced, as having left

The paths of Al-Quran. When sons, lacking their father’s worth

Are neither skilled nor sage,With what deserving can they claim

Their father’s heritage?


The pageantries of mighty kings

To us were shows that mattered not,

Beneath the shade of blades unsheathed

In Kalima we glory sought.


Late Altaf Hussain Editor DAWN, Karachi’s Versified English Translationof Dr. Muhammad Iqbal’s Urdu Shikwah Jawabe Shikwah (Complaint & Answer) Forwarded by:ABDUL WAHID OSMAN BELAL

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