Zamana aaya hai be-hijabi ka, aam deedaar-e-yaar hoga

An age of unveiling is at hand; the Beloved's face will be in sight. The secret that the silence planned will now be brought into the light.

Gone is that age, O Cupbearer, of drinking in the dark of night, The world becomes one tavern, and each soul will be a drunken wight.

Those who once roamed in passion's grip will leave their wild and lonely flight, Though barefoot still, a thorny path will rise to test their inner might.

The silence of Hijaz at last has spoken with a holy might, The covenant with desert men will be restored to its full right.

The one who rose from desert sands and humbled Rome's imperial might, I hear from Holy Ones that lion will awaken to the fight.

When the Cupbearer spoke my name among the drinkers late one night, The Tavern's Elder said, "He's brazen, and disgrace will be his plight."

O dwellers of the Western lands! God's city is no merchant's right, The coin you think is pure and true will prove to be debased and light.

Your culture, with its own drawn blade, will author its own bloody plight, The nest that's built on a frail bough will not survive a single night.

The caravan of feeble ants will make a ship of petals bright, Though waves may rage, it will cross through the river in the darkest night.

The tulip shows its heart's dark scar to every bud that sees its plight, It knows this show will count it with the lovers burning ever bright.

We were but one, O searching Gaze, you showed us scattered, left and right, If this is your condition, who will trust your power to see aright?

I told the dove, "The 'free' we see have feet mired deep in mud and blight," The buds replied, "Of our whole grove, he'll be the keeper of the light."

God's lovers number in the thousands, wandering lost in lonely plight, I'll serve the one whose love for all God's people is his guiding light.

The rule of this frail world, my heart, makes even looking seem a slight, What honor will be left for us, if you are restless in their sight?

I'll lead my weary caravan out from the darkness of the night, My sigh will be a rain of sparks, my every breath a burning light.

If your life's aim is nothing more than just a momentary sight, You'll vanish in a single breath, just like a spark's ephemeral flight.

Don't ask where Iqbal can be found; his state remains a sorrowed plight, He sits somewhere upon the road, a victim waiting for the light.