Saqaliya

Weep now, unburden your heart, O eye that rains down tears of blood, For there, in sight, lies the grave of Hejazi civilization.

Here once was the tumult of those desert-dwellers, For whose ships the sea itself was but a playground.

Whose presence sent tremors through the courts of emperors, In whose very swords the lightning made its nest.

Whose coming was the message of a world renewed, Whose impatient sword consumed the ancient age.

A dead world came to life at their resurrecting call, And humankind was freed from the chains of superstition.

Whose thunderous echoes still delight the ear— Is that great Takbir's call now silenced forever?

Ah, O Sicily! You are the honor of the sea, A guide upon this desert made of water.

May your beauty ever adorn the ocean’s face, And your light bring solace to the mariner.

May your vistas ever delight the traveler’s eye, May the waves dance forever on your rocky shores.

You were once the cradle of that nation's culture, Whose world-consuming beauty was a fire to behold.

The nightingale of Shiraz raised its lament for Baghdad; And Dagh wept tears of blood over Jahanabad.

And when heaven laid to waste the splendor of Granada, A cry of anguish rose from the grieving heart of Ibn Badrun.

To sorrow-fated Iqbal, your mourning was bequeathed, For destiny had chosen a heart that knew your secrets.

Whose story lies concealed within your ruins? Even the silence of your shores holds its own eloquence.

Tell me your pain, for I too am pain incarnate; I am but the dust of that caravan for which you were the destination.

Fill this old portrait with color and reveal it to me; Make me writhe with the telling of tales from days gone by.

I shall carry you as a gift to Hindustan; I weep here myself, to make others weep there.