Anokhi waza hai, saare zamane se nirale hain

Their style is strange, their world a different plane, O Lord, what city could these souls contain?

In treating anguish, I embrace its pain, The thorns in blisters, I've drawn out with strain.

O Lord, may my hope's garden thrive and gain, I fed these shoots with my own heart's blood-rain.

The stars' deep silence makes me weep again, My love is strange, and strange is my refrain.

Ask not the joy I find in ruin's plain, I've built a hundred nests and burned with flame.

From fellow travelers, do not act with strain, O spark, wait! We too are born to wane.

Hope for a Houri makes the preacher feign, He seems so simple, innocent, and plain.

O Iqbal, why should my verse seem in vain? They are my broken heart's own cries of pain.