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Iqbal's
Shikwa and Jawab-e- Shikwa
( English translation of Iqbal's
renowned poem on the state of
Muslim umaa )
Shikwa:
Why should I abet the loss, why
forget the gain,
Why forfiet the future, bemoan
the past in vain?
Hear the wail of nightingale,
and remain unstirred,
Am I a flower insensate that
will not say a word?
The power of speech emboldens me
to speak out my heart,
I'll sure be damned, I know, if
fault my God.
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Hear, O Lord, from the faithful
ones this sad lament,
From those used to hymn a
praise, a word of discontent.
Eternally were you present,
Lord, eternally omniscent,
The flower hung upon the tree,
but without incense.
Be Thou fair, tell us true, O
fountainhead of grace,
How could the scent spread
without the breeze apace?
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The world presented a queer
sight ere we took the stage,
Stones and plants in your stead
were worshipped in that age.
Man, being inured to senses,
couldn't accept a thing unseen,
How could a formless God impress
his senses keen?
Tell me, Lord, if anyone ever
invoked Thy name,
The strength of Muslim arm alone
restored Thy fame.
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There was no dearth of peoples
on this earth before,
Turkish tribes and Persian clans
lived in days of yore;
The Greeks and the Chinese both
bred and throve,
Christians as well as the Jews
on this planet roved.
But who in Thy holy name raised
his valiant sword,
Who set the things right,
resolved the rigmarole?
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We were the warrior bands
battling for Thy cause,
Now on land, now on water, we
the crusades fought.
Now in Europe's synods did we
loudly pray,
Now in African deserts made a
bold foray.
Not for territorial greed did we
wield the sword,
Not for pelf and power did we
suffer the blows.
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Had we been temped by the greed
of glittering gold,
Instead of breaking idols, would
have idols sold.
We impressed on every heart the
oneness of our mighty Lord,
Even under the threat of sword,
bold and clever was our call.
Who conquered, tell us Thou, the
fearful Khyber pass?
Who vanquished the Imperial
Rome, who made it fall?
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Who broke the idols of the
primitive folks?
Who fought the kafirs, massacred
their hordes?
If the prayer time arrived right
amid the war,
With their faces turned to
Kaaba, knelt down the brave
Hejaz.
Mahmud and Ayaz stood together
in the same flank,
The ruler and the ruled forget
the difference in their rank.
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The rich and poor, Lord and
slave, all were levelled down,
All became brethern in love,
with Thy grace crowned.
We roamed the world through,
visited every place,
Did our rounds like the cup,
serving sacred ale.
Forget about the forests, we
spared not the seas,
Into the dark, unfathomed ocean,
we pushed our steeds.
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We removed falsehood from the
earth's face,
We broke the shackles of the
human race.
We reclaimed your Kaaba with our
kneeling brows,
We pressed the sacred Quran to
our heart and soul.
Even then you grumble, we are
false, untrue,
If you call us faithless, tell
us what are you?
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You reserve your favors for men
of other shades,
While you hurl your bolts on the
Muslim race.
This is not our complaint that
such alone are blesse,
Who do not know the etiquette,
nor even can converse.
The tragedy is while kafirs are
with houries actually blest,
On vague hopes of houries in
heaven the Muslim race is made
to rest!
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Poverty, taunts, ignominy stare
us in the face,
Is humiliation the sole reward
of our suffering race?
To perpetuate Thy name is our
sole concern,
Deprived of the saqi's aid can
the cup revolve and turn?
Gone is your assemblage, off
your lovers have sailed,
The midnight sights are no more
heard, nor the morning wails;
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They pledged their hearts to
you, what is their return?
Hardly had they stepped inside,
when they were externed.
Thy lovers came and went away,
fed on hopes of future grace,
Search them now with the lamp of
your glowing face.
Unassuaged is Laila's ache,
unquenched is Qais's thirst,
In the wilderness of Nejd, the
wild deer are still berserk.
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The same passion thrills the
hearts, enchanting still is
beauty's gaze,
You are the same as before, same
too is the Prophet's race.
Why then this indifference,
without a cause or fault?
Why with your threatening looks
dost thou break our heart?
Accepted that the flame of love
burneth low and dim,
We do not, as in your, dance
attendance on your whims;
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But you too, pardon us, possess
a coquettish heart,
Now on us, now on others, alight
your amorous darts.
The spring has now taken leave,
broken lies the lyre string,
The birds that chirped among the
leaves have also taken wing;
A single nightingale is left
singing on the tree,
A flood of song in her breast is
longing for release.
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From atop the firs and pines the
doves have flown away,
The floral petals lie scattered
all along the way.
Desolate lie the garden paths,
once dressed and neat,
Leafless hang the branches on
the naked trees.
The nightingale is unconcerned
with the season's range,
Would that someone in the grove
appreciates her wail.
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May the nightingale's wail
pierce the listeners' hearts,
May the clinking caravan awaken
slumbering thoughts!
Let the hearts pledge anew their
faith to you, O Lord,
Let's re-charge our cups from
the taverns of the past.
Through I hold a Persian cup,
the wine is pureHejaz,
Thought I sing an Indian song,
the turn is of the Arabian cast.
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Jawab-e-Shikwa:
The word springing from the
heart surely carries weight,
Though not endowed with wings,
it yet can fly in space.
Pureand spiritual in its
essence, it pegs its gaze on
high,
Rising from the lowly dust,
grazes past the skies.
Keen, defiant, and querulous was
my passion crazed,
It pierced through the skies, my
audacious wail.
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"Someone is there," thus spoke
the heaven's warder old,
the planets said, "From above
proceeds this voice so bold."
"No, no," the moon said," "tis
someone on the earth below,"
Butted in the milky way: "The
voice is hereabouts, I trow."
Ruzwan alone, if at all,
understood aright,
He knew it was the man, from
heaven once exiled.
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Even the angles wondered who
raised this cry,
All the celestial denizens
looked about surprised.
Does man possess the might to
scale empyreal heights?
Has this mere pinch of dust
learnt the knack to fly?
What are these earthly folks?
Careless of all respect,
How bold and impudent, the lowly
dwellers of the earth!
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Extremely rude and insolent,
cross even with God,
Is it the same Adam whom angels
once did laud?
Steeped in bliss, man is of
wisdom's lore possessed,
Nonetheless, he's alien to
humility's sterling worth.
Man feels proud of the power of
his speech,
But the fool doesn't know how
and what to speak.
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You narrate a woeful tale, thus
the voice arose,
Your heart is boiling over with
tears uncontrolled.
You have delivered your plaint
with perfect skill and art,
You have brought the humans in
contact with God.
We are inclined to grant, but
none deserves our grace,
None treads the righteous path,
whom to show the way?
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Our school is open to all, but
talent there is none,
Where is that soil fertile to
breed the human gems?
We reward the deserving folks
with splendid meed,
We grant newer worlds to those
who strive and seek.
Arms have been drained of
strength, hearts have gone
astray,
The Muslim race is a blot on the
Prophet's face.
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Idol-breakers have left the
scene, idol-makers remain,
Aazar has inherited Abraham's
glorious name.
Wine, flask, and drinkers-all
are new and changed,
A different Kaaba, different
idols now your worship claim.
There was a time when you were
respected far and wide,
Once this desert bloom was the
season's wealth and pride.
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Every Muslim then was a lover
profound of God,
Your sole beloved once was the
all-embracing Lord.
Who removed falsehood from the
earth's face?
Who broke the shackles of the
human race?
Who reclaimed our Kaaba with
their kneeling brows?
Who presses the sacred Quran to
their heart and soul?
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True, they were your forbears,
but what are you, I say?
Idle sitting, statue-like you
dream away your days.
What did you say? Muslims are
with hopes of houries consoled,
Even if your plaint is false,
your words should be controlled.
Justice is the law supreme,
operative on this globe,
Muslims can't expect the houries,
if they follow the kafir's code.
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None of you is, in fact,
deserving of the "hoor",
A Moses is but hard to fin,
burneth still the Tur.
Common to the race entire is
their gain or loss,
Common is their faith and creed,
common too the Rasul of God;
One Kaaba, one Allah, and one
Quran inspire their heart,
Why can't the Muslims then
behave like a single lot?
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Cast, creed and factions have
disjointed this race,
Is this way to forge ahead, to
flourish in the present age?
It's the poor who visit the
mosque, join the kneeling rows,
The poor alone observe the
fasts, practise self-control.
If someone repeats our name,
it's the poor again,
The devout poor hide your sins,
preserve your vaunted name.
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Drunk with the wine of wealth,
the rich are unconcerned with
God,
The Muslim race owes its life to
the poor, indigent lot.
"Muslims have vanished from
earth," this is what we hear,
but we ask, " Were the Muslims
ever the Jewish sects.
You are Nisars by your looks,
but Hindus by conduct,
Your culture puts to shame even
the Jewish sects.
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If the son is alien to his
learned father's traits,
How can he then claim his
father's heritage?
All of you love to lead a soft,
luxurious life,
Are you a Muslim indeed? Is this
the Muslim style?
All of you desire to be invested
with the crown,
You should first produce a heart
worthy of renown.
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The new age is the lighting
blast, it will set your barns on
fire,
It can't produce in groves or
deserts the Old Sinai's burning
spire.
The new fire consumes for fuel
the blood of nations old,
The clothes of the Prophet's
race are incinerated in its
folds.
Don't be depressed, gardener, by
the present scene,
The starry buds are about to
burst with a brilliant sheen.
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The garden will soon be rid of
its thorns and weeds,
The martyr's blood will bring to
bloom all the dormant seeds.
Mark how the sky reflects its
orange purple hues,
The rising sun will flush the
sky with its rays anew.
Islamic tree exemplifies
cultivation long and hard,
A fruit of arduous gardening
over centuries past.
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Your caravan needn't fear the
perils of the path,
But for the call of bells you
own no wealth at all.
You are the plant of light, the
burning wick that never fails,
With the power of your thought
you can incinerate the veil.
We'll love you as our own, if
you follow the Prophet's ways,
The world is but a paltry thing,
you'll command the pen and page.
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