Bilad-e-Islamiya

The Abodes of Islam

The soil of Delhi is a shrine for the grief-stricken heart; In every particle, the blood of our forebears lies asleep.

How could the earth of this ruined garden not be sacred ground? This land is the sanctum of the majesty of Islam.

In this dust sleep the sovereigns of the Best of Nations, On whose governance the world's own order turned.

The heart still yearns for the warmth of that vibrant gathering's memory; The harvest is burnt, but the memory of the harvest is preserved.

Though Delhi is a shrine for every Muslim soul, Baghdad, too, is worthy of this sacred honor.

This is the garden that became the pride and glory Of that desert tulip known as the culture of Hijaz.

How could the dust of this city not rival Iram's own paradise, This ground that witnessed the steps of the Prophet's successors?

This is that garden whose every bud was a garden in itself; This is the final tomb of those before whom Rome would tremble.

The land of Cordoba, too, is the light of a Muslim's eye, A Lamp of Sinai that shone in the darkness of the West.

Its flame went out, and scattered the Shining Nation's assembly, Yet in its dying breath, it lit the lamp of the civilization of today.

This sacred land is the tomb of that civilization, From which the vine of Europe's garden drew its very lifeblood.

The realm of Constantinople, once the abode of Caesar, Now an eternal symbol of the Ummah's power and grandeur.

Like the dust of the Holy Sanctuary, this land is also pure; It is the threshold of a throne that serves the Lord of Creation's Purpose.

Its very air is as pure as the fragrance of a rose; From the tomb of Ayyub Ansari, a voice arises.

"O Muslim! This city is the very heart of the Islamic nation; It is the harvest of centuries of struggle and sacrifice."

But you are that sacred land, O resting place of the Chosen One, For the Kaaba itself, a glimpse of you is more than the Great Pilgrimage could ever be.

In the ring of all existence, you shine bright like a gem; Your very soil was the birthplace of our own grandeur.

In you, that most exalted Sovereign at last found his peace; In the shelter of his mantle, the nations of the world found refuge.

Those who merely invoked his name became sovereigns of the world, Becoming successors to Caesar, heirs to the throne of Jamshid.

If the nationhood of Islam were bound to any single place, Then its foundation would be India—not Persia, not Syria.

Ah, Yathrib! You are the Muslim's true homeland, you are his sanctuary; You are the focal point that gathers all the rays of our soul's devotion.

As long as you endure on this earth, we too shall endure; If you are the morning, we are the pearls of dew within this garden.