|This wonder by some glance is wrought, or Fortune’s wheel has come full round:|
At last the Frankish charm has broke, the East by which in past was bound.
|By the building of my nest, this secret hid was brought to view|
That for the bards that sing and chant the choice of nest is bolt from blue.
|If slave to God, you grow divine, if slave to world a beggar mean:|
You are the master of your fate, so make the choice the two between.
|Of selfhood heedless never be, your gaze to self always confine:|
Who knows, you mat anon become the threshold of some sacred shrine.
|O heir to creed no god but He, in you I see no sign or trace|
Of mighty deeds that terror strike, your talk devoid of charm and grace.
|Your glances bold would strike the heart with awe, though sheathed within the breast:|
Alas! a qalandar’s fervent zeal in you is dead and is at rest.
|Of Sanctuary’s secret hid Iqbal perhaps is well aware:|
His speech and song display alike a confidential mode and air.
Translated by: Syed Akbar Ali Shah