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 h 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
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 affright.
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 Ayyaz
In 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 Translation
of Dr. Muhammad Iqbal’s Urdu Shikwah Jawabe Shikwah (Complaint & Answer)