TirīNigāhFaromāyaHaathhaiKotāh
TirāGunah ki Naḳhīl-e-BulandkāhaiGunāh
Your vision and your hands are chained, earthbound,
Is it your nature’s fault, or of the thought too high?
Galā to ghoñTdiyā ahl-e-madarsa ne tirā
Kahāñ se aa.eSadāLāIlaah Il-Lallāh
The school-men have strangled your nascent soul,
And stifled the voice of passionate faith in you.
Ḳhudīmeñ gum haiḳhudā.ītalāshkarġhāfil
Yahīhaitereliye ab salāh-e-kārkīraah
Absorb yourself in self-hood, seek the path of God,
This is the only way for you to find freedom.
Hadīs-e-dilkisīdarvesh-e-be-galīm se pūchh
Ḳhudākaretujheteremaqām se āgāh
Ask an unclad dervish what the heart doth say,
May God show you your place in the world of men.
Barahnasarhai to azm-e-bulandpaidākar
Yahāñfaqatsar-e-shāhīñkevāstehaikulāh
If bare‐headed, have a towering will,
The crown is not for you, but for the eagle alone.
Na haisitārekīgardish na bāzi-e-aflāk
Ḳhudīkīmauthaiterāzavāl-e-nemat-o-jāh
When you lose self hood, you lose power, too;
Blame not the stars and fate for your fall.
UThāmaiñMadrasa o Ḳhānqāhse Ġhamnāk
Na Zindagīna Mohabbatna Ma.arifat na Nigāh
Monasteries and schools left me sad and dejected,
No life and no love; no vision and no knowledge.
Bal-e-Jibril-044
ḲhiradkepaasḲhabarkesivāKuchhaur Nahīñ
TirāIlaaj Nazar keSivāKuchhaur Nahīñ
The mind can give you naught, but what with doubt is fraught:
One look of Saintly Guide can needful cure provide.
Har ikMaqāmse AageMaqāmhaiTerā
HayātZauq-e-Safar keSivāKuchhaur Nahīñ
The goal that you presume is far and out of view:
What else can be this life but zeal for endless strife?
Girāñ-bahāhai to Hifz-e-Ḳhudīse hai varna
GuharmeñĀb-e-GuharkeSivāKuchhaur Nahīñ
Much worth the pearl begets, for guard on self it sets:
What else in pearl is found except its sheen profound?
RagoñmeñGardish-e-ḲhūñhaiAgar to KyāHāsil
Hayāt Soz-e-Jigar keSivāKuchhaur Nahīñ
Though blood in veins may race, To Life it lends no grace:
Only the glow of heart to Life can zeal impart.
Urūs-e-LālaMunāsibNahīñhaiMujhse Hijāb
Ki maiñNasīm-e-Sahar keSivāKuchhaur Nahīñ
Wherefore, O Tulip Bride, From me your charms you hide?
I am the breath of morn, Your face I would adorn.
JiseKasādSamajhtehaiñTājirān-e-Farañg
Vo Shai Mata-e-HunarkeSivāKuchhaur Nahīñ
What Frankish dealers take for counterfeit and fake,
Is true and real art—Not valued in their Mart.
BaḌāKarīmhai‘Iqbāl’-e-be-navā lekin
Atā-e-Shola ShararkeSivāKuchhaur Nahīñ
Though indigent I be, I am of hand yet free:
What can the Flame bestow except its spark and glow?
(Source: https://iqbalurdu.blogspot.com)