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tire siine meñ dam hai dil nahīñ hai
tirā dam garmi-e-mahfil nahīñ hai

Ambition rests within your chest but not a heart
Your wheedling, warmth of assembly is not nor its art

guzar jā aql se aage ki ye nuur
charāġh-e-rāh hai manzil nahīñ hai!

Go beyond paths of reason in quest of light
Lamp of the way it is but not a destination

ḳhirad ke paas ḳhabar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
tirā ilaaj nazar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

Intellect has news and nothing more
A divine glance is your cure and nothing more

har ik maqām se aage maqām hai terā
hayāt zauq-e-safar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

Beyond all ranks is your prestige
Life is a delightful journey and nothing more

ragoñ meñ gardish-e-ḳhūñ hai agar to kyā hāsil
hayāt soz-e-jigar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

If veins have flowing blood, then what is the reward?
An existence with a burning heart and nothing more

jise kasād samajhte haiñ tājirān-e-farañg
vo shai mata-e-hunar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

What traders of the West consider as synthetic?
These are entities of flawless craft and nothing more

urūs-e-lāla munāsib nahīñ hai mujh se hijāb
ki maiñ nasīm-e-sahar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

Bride like a radiant tulip, why modesty from me?
Morning breeze I am and nothing more

baḌā karīm hai 'iqbāl'-e-be-navā lekin
atā-e-shola sharar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

Very gracious is voiceless Iqbal and yet
A gifted flame with sparks of fire and nothing more

✒ Translated by ℐamil Hussain
Words of Muhammad Iqbal
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2021
.
In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                         ­         Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.



— a metamorphosis
.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2021
.
Morning doves cooing
Neighborhood singing in mist
Both songs from elsewhere
.
Thomas Harvey Oct 2021
A red crow came to visit today
He asked for which treasure I seek
I told him Walton's Gold, buried a few clicks past the creek
His eyes were void and he spoke real low: be careful for which you say

I scurried him away and proceeded down the worn out mountain path
An eagle landed on a tree stump and told me to turn back
While I appreciated the laugh, I continued along with his feathers on my back
When I reached the creek, only then did I understand the eagles wrath

A man stood tall with a suit of white
He said "I'll give you all the gold in this clay, if you can answer one question for me today"
I asked for what he had to say
he said "how many times have you seen a crow and an eagle fight?"

A blue crow came to visit today
He asked for which treasure I seek
I told him Rudford's Gold, buried a few clicks past the creek
His eyes were void and he spoke real low: be careful for which you say
Melody Mann Jun 2021
An assortment of constellations scatters her surface,
An aura of serenity cascades across her conscious,
Benevolent is the truth vested within her,
Divine is the mystics she pursues,
A wanderer weary from travel she rests upon the fallen star,
Regaining her momentum to stride across the dreamscape she ponders,
A silent soul forevermore,
Searching for the essence infinite.
Derrick Jones Apr 2021
The mystic missed the mist

For he was focused on the most

The waterfall, the all, the awe

No longer just the grist, the gist

He was the mill, the real, the wheel

No longer knowing, he could fully feel

Past the taste, the snack, and to the meal

So freely given he could not hope to steal
Thank you for being. If you would like to see more of my poetry, essays, and other writings, check out my blog on Medium: https://medium.com/words-ideas-thoughts
Joseph Miller Mar 2021
You have found me
i am here
inside these glowing pixels
come with me
beyond the mystery
for just a moment now
move closer to the center
feel the power of life
transcending space and time
an infinite connection
lives forever
deep inside your mind
the essence of our being
does not fade or die
it knows the truth
and does not lie
all this i can tell
for i have seen the light
i want you to know
the spark of truth
is burning bright!
see more
SearchLightOn.com
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