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These songs of turtle doves and nightingales are merely ear’s illusion
Behind this uproar the world of the garden is silent |
O Western wine the effect of your goblets is only this
That cup-bearer is laughing and the entire assembly is unconscious |
In the world’s sorrowful house you are not traceable
Was creation also a crime so Your nature is concealed? |
Ah! What the world considers heart is not heart
In the human breast this is a silent tumult |
Walk on the path of life but walk carefully
Understand that some glass work is on your shoulders |
Through whom Delhi and Lahore were drawn together
Ah! Iqbal that nightingale is silent now. |
Translated by: M.A.K. Khalil |
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