Na aate, humein is mein takraar kya thi

Had you not come, we’d have no argument to state; But in making a promise, what shame made you hesitate?

Your messenger came and laid every secret bare; My Lord, in that, what fault of this servant was there?

In the crowded hall, you singled out your lover’s face; Your eyes, in their trance, what a sharp and knowing gaze!

There was hesitation in their coming, messenger, I know; But tell me this: what was the art of their ‘no’?

I was drawn, as if by force, toward Moses’s holy height; O thirst for a single glimpse, what was your magnetic light?

Somewhere, Iqbal, your name is still a whispered art; Was it a spell, your speech—what magic did it impart?