By dint of Spring the poppy‐cup,
With vintage red is over‐flown:
With her advent the hermit too
Temperance to the wind hath thrown.
When great and mighty force of Love
At some place its flag doth raise,
Beggars dressed in rags and sack
Become heirs true to King Parvez.
Antique the stars and old the dome
In which they roam about and move:
I long for new and virgin soil
Where my mettle I may prove.
The stir and roar of Judgement Day
Hath no dread for me at all:
Thine roving glance doth work on me
Like the Last Day’s Trumpet Call.
Snatch not from me the blessing great
Of sighs heaved at early morn:
With a casual loving look
Weaken not thine fierce scorn.
My sad and broken heart disdains
The Spring and dower that she brings:
Too joyous the song of nightingale!
I feel more gloomy when it sings.
Unwise are those who tell and preach
Accord with times and the age.
If the world befits you not,
A war against it you must wage.
[Translated by Syed Akbar Ali Shah]
*
The subtle point that life would not end with
the death of the body
I learnt from Abul Hasan1:
1 Abul Hasan Ash‘ari.
254 Collected Poetical Works of Iqbal
The un, if it would hate its beam
Will lose all its brilliance.
[Translated by Muhammad Munawwar Mirza