Kushaada dast-e-karam jab woh beniyaaz kare

When the One Beyond Need His generous grace displays, The humble soul finds glory in its lowly ways.

O Preacher, you have placed your God upon The Throne; What kind of God would leave His worshippers alone?

He is no mystic in my eyes, O Sāqi bright, Who separates ecstatic joy from sober light.

Keep your ear always to the heart, a fragile string, For only when it's broken can a secret sing.

And ask the Preacher what great harm to him is done, If God shows mercy to the deedless, sinful one.

O God, from where does this fire in my poetry start? It is the very thing that melts a stony heart.

The nightingale's lament can tell the rose from thorn; Would that a world with such discerning eyes were born.

His pious arrogance has taught the Preacher's art: To lash his tongue at servants of a faithful heart.

O Iqbal, may a wind from India take flight, And make me dust upon the road to Hejaz' holy light.