Fikr-e-insaan par teri hasti se yeh roshan hua

Your life revealed to human intellect its height, The Bird of Imagination's boundless flight.

You were pure soul, your form the gathering of song, You graced the crowd, yet did not to the crowd belong.

Your eye was granted sight of that great beauty's grace, Which, as Life's Fire, lies hid in every time and place.

The hall of Being finds its wealth in your sweet lute, As streams lend song to mountains that were deathly mute.

From your mind's paradise, all Nature's splendors rise, And from your Fields of Thought, green worlds before our eyes.

A secret life within your playful writing breathes, Your gift of speech gives motion to what art bequeaths.

On your miraculous lips, all Eloquence takes pride, The Pleiades watch, stunned, where your high fancies ride.

The theme's own soul is captive to your graceful style, While Delhi's bud upon the Rose of Shiraz does smile.

Alas! In ruined Delhi's dust you find your rest, Your kindred spirit sleeps in Weimar's garden blessed.

In grace of speech, none can achieve your mastery, Till thought perfected joins with soaring fantasy.

Alas! What has become of India's sacred ground? Alas! O you, whose gaze taught subtle truths be found.

The locks of Urdu still await a combing hand, This candle craves the burning moth's love-crazed command.

O Jahanabad, O cradle of all art and lore, A silent wail now haunts your every roof and door.

In every speck of dust, a sun and moon now sleep, Though countless other gems your silent soil does keep.

But is there buried one who was the Age's Pride? Does such a pearl of purest water in you hide?