ḲhudīvoBahr haijiskākoīKināranahīñ
TūaabjūiseSamjhāagar to Chāranahīñ
The self of man is ocean vast, and knows no depth or bound:
If you take it for a stream, How can your mind be sound?
Tilism-e-Gumbad-e-Gardūñko toḌsaktehaiñ
Zujājkī ye ImārathaiSañg-e-Ḳhāranahīñ
The magic of this whirling dome we can set at naught:
Not of stone but of glass its building has been wrought.
ḲhudīmeñDūbtehaiñphirUbharbhīAatehaiñ
Magar ye Hausla-e-Mard-e-hech-kāranahīñ
In Holy Trance in self we drown, and up we rise again;
But how a worthless man can show so much might and main?
Tire Maqāmko Anjum-ShanāsKyāJaane
Ki Ḳhāk-e-ZindahaitūTāba-e-Sitāranahīñ
Your rank and state cannot be told by one who reads the stars:
You are living dust, in sooth, not ruled by Moon or Mars.
YahīñBahishtbhīhaiHuuro Jibra.īlbhīhai
TirīNigahmeñabhīShoḳhi-e-Nazāranahīñ
The maids of Ed’n and Gabriel eke in this world can be found,
But, alas! You lack as yet glances bold and zeal profound.
Mire Junūñne Zamāneko ḲhuubPahchānā
Vo PairahanmujheBaḳhshāki paarapaaranahīñ
My craze has judged aright the bent of times wherein I am born:
Love be thanked for granting me the gown entire and untorn.
ĠhazabhaiAin-e-Karam meñbaḳhīlhaifitrat
Ki lāl-e-nābmeñātish to haisharāranahīñ
Spite of Nature’s bounty great, its guarding practice, mark!
It grants the ruby reddish hue, but denies the heat of spark.
Bal-e-Jibril-042
Ye Payāmde ga.īhaimujheBād-e-Sub.h-gāhī
Ki ḲhudīkeĀrifoñkāhaiMaqāmPādshāhī
The morning breeze has whispered to me a secret,
That those who know their self-hood, are equal to kings.
TirīZindagīisī se TirīAabrūisī se
Jo RahīḲhudīto Shāhīna Rahīto Rū-Siyāhī
Self-hood is the essence of your life and honor,
You shall rule with it, but without it be in disgrace.
Na DiyāNishān-e-Manzil mujhe ai Hakīmtū ne
MujheKyāGilahotujh se tū na rah-nashīñ na raahī
You have not led my way, O man of wisdom!
But why, complain? You know not the way.
Mire Halqa-e-SuḳhanmeñabhīZer-e-Tarbiyathaiñ
Vo Gadāki jāntehaiñ rah-o-rasm-e-kaj-kulāhī
Fakirs who know the wont and way of kings
Are as yet being trained in my literary circle.
Ye MuāmlehaiñNāzukjo tirīRazāhotūkar
Ki Mujheto ḳhush na aayā ye tarīq-e-ḳhānqāhī
Your monastic cult is a strait and narrow path,
Which I like not, but your freedom I respect.
TūHumākāhaiShikārīabhīIbtidāhaiterī
NahīñMaslahat se ḳhālī ye jahān-e-murġh-o-māhī
This world of inferior prey is meant to sharpen your claws,
You are an eagle‐hunter, but are a novice yet.
Tū Arab hoyāAjam hotirāLāIlaahIllā
Luġhat-e-Ġharībjab taktirādil na de Gavāhī
Whether you are in the East or West, your faith
Is meaningless, unless your heart affirms it.
(Source: https://iqbalurdu.blogspot.com)