Dil se jo baat nikalti hai asar rakhti hai

A word that from the heart begins its flight, Though featherless, it soars to awesome height. Of holy stock, it seeks the lofty spheres, From dust it rises, and through heavens steers. My Passion was a rebel, sharp and sly, My fearless wail went ripping through the sky.

The Ancient of the Skies then spoke: “Who calls?” The planets whispered, “From the highest walls Of Heaven’s Throne, a voice descends to hear.” The Moon replied, “No, from the earthly sphere.” But only Heaven’s Guardian understood; He knew the man cast out from Eden’s wood.

The angels too were stunned: “What voice is this? A secret veiled even from halls of bliss? Has man now reached the very Throne on high? Has this mere pinch of dust now learned to fly? How ignorant of grace, these sons of clay! How bold and brash, the lowly who hold sway!”

So insolent, he dares with God to chide? Is this the Adam, once the angels’ pride, To whom they bowed? He knows what can be known, But seeds of humble grace he has not sown. Mankind is proud of its own gift of speech, Yet how to speak is far beyond its reach.

A Voice replied: “Your tale is filled with grief, Your cup of tears o’erflows beyond belief. Your frenzied cry has reached the heavens’ ear; How bold the tongue of your wild heart, I hear! Yet you gave grievance such a graceful art, You taught a slave to speak with God, heart to heart.

We are inclined to grace, but who has prayed? To whom to show the path? No one has strayed In search of it. The training is for all, But where’s the gem to answer to the call? The clay from which a new man can be made, Is simply not within this world’s parade.

To one who’s worthy, We grant kingly might; To those who search, We give new worlds of light. Your hands are weak, your hearts to doubt are sworn; You bring your Prophet nothing but your scorn. The Idol-Breakers have all passed away; The Idol-Makers hold the stage today.

The father was an Abraham, so true; The sons are Azars, through and through. New drinkers, and new wine, new flasks as well; A new Kaaba, new idols, a new spell You cast upon yourselves, a brand-new you. A new Haram, a different point of view.

There was a time this faith was beauty’s core, The desert tulip, pride of seasons’ lore. Whoever was a Muslim, was possessed By love of God; this fickle one you blessed And called your own Beloved, long ago. Go now, and pledge your faith to some new vow.

Go serve a master, be a local race, And leave the Prophet’s Nation, and its space. How burdensome you find the morning prayer! You love your sleep, for Us you have no care. The fast of Ramadan, a heavy chain Upon your spirit—is this faith, or pain? You say it is. Is this how you are true? A nation has a faith; if not, then what are you? If there’s no gravity to bind you all, The gathering of stars will surely fall.

You are the ones who have no worldly art; You are the folk who do not care to start To build a nest. You are the harvest where The lightning rests, content to linger there. You sell the tombs of your great ancestors; You trade on graves to open up new doors. If you can profit from such sacred stone, Would you not sell carved idols of your own?

Who was it that erased all falsehood’s trace From history’s page, for all the human race? Who freed mankind from slavery’s cruel chains? Whose foreheads blessed My Kaaba’s holy plains? Whose hearts embraced My Qur’an as their own? They were your fathers. Tell me, what have you grown To be? You sit with hands upon your hands, And wait for futures in these promised lands.

You say We promise Houris just for you? A baseless charge requires wisdom, too. The law of Justice, from eternity, Is from the Maker of all things you see. If Kafirs live by Muslim codes, they’ll find Both palaces and Houris for their kind. But none among you even wants that prize; The light of Sinai gleams before your eyes, But there is not one Moses to be found.

This nation’s profit and its loss are one, Its Prophet, faith, and creed are also one. One sacred Haram, one God, one Qur’an; It would have been no great thing, if as one The Muslims of the world had also stood. But sects and castes divide your brotherhood. Is this the way to flourish and to thrive? Is this the way to keep your world alive?

Who has abandoned the great Prophet’s laws? Whose actions serve expediency’s cause? Whose eyes are now entranced by foreign ways? Whose gaze has turned from their own yesterdays? No fire in the heart, no soul to feel; The Prophet’s message has for you no zeal, No meaning, nothing that you hold as true.

The poor are those who line up in the mosque, The poor are those who bear the fast’s hard task. The poor are those who call upon Our name, The poor are those who shield your creed from shame. The rich are drunk on wealth, forgetting Us; The Shining Nation lives because of thus: The faith and fire of the humble man.

The preacher’s sharp and seasoned thought is gone, The lightning of his wit no longer drawn. The ritual of the call to prayer remains, But Bilal’s soul no longer fills the plains. Philosophy is left, a hollow creed; Ghazali’s vital teaching has no seed. The mosques lament: where have the faithful gone? The men of Hijaz, where is their great dawn?

The cry is raised: “The Muslims are all gone!” We ask: “Were there true Muslims, to have withdrawn?” Your style is Christian, and your culture Hindu; Are these the Muslims, shamed by even a Jew? You may be Syeds, Mirzas, Afghans, all; You are so many things—but do you heed the call? Can you say truly, “I’m a Muslim, too”?

The Muslim’s speech was fearless in its truth, His justice strong, untainted by the sleight Of preference; his nature, from his youth, Was steeped in modesty, a gentle light. In courage, he was something to behold, A being that transcended mortal mold. His very essence melted in the wine Of faith; to lose himself was his design.

Each Muslim was a lancet to the vein Of falsehood; in his mirror, action shone. The only strength he trusted was the main Force of his arm; God’s fear was his alone. You live in fear of death; he feared his Lord. If son can’t grasp his father’s learned word, Then how can he be worthy of the prize, The legacy his father’s life supplies?

You are all drunk on ease, and love your rest; You call yourselves Muslims? Is this the test? Is this the way of Muslim life you show? You have no strength of Ali, poor and low, Nor wealth of Uthman. What spiritual tie Connects you to your fathers, long gone by? They were revered for being Muslims true, While you, who left the Qur’an, are scorned by all you knew.

You rage against each other; they were kind. You are the sinners, they would look behind The fault, and pardon. You all wish to rise To Pleiades, to claim the highest skies. But first, create a heart that’s pure and whole, A spirit worthy of so great a goal. The throne of China’s Emperor was theirs, The throne of Persia’s kings. Are these but airs You put on now? Do you have that same fire?

Your way is suicide; they held themselves far higher. You flee from brotherhood; for it, they’d die. You are all talk; their lives were deeds that fly. You long to see a bud; they held the garden near. The nations still recall their tales with fear And admiration; on the page of time, Their truth is etched, a story sublime.

You shone like stars upon your nation’s sky, But in your love for India’s gods, you vie With Brahmins. In your zeal to fly, you spurned Your nests. The youth, with action unconcerned, Grew wary of their faith, and turned away. This new age freed them from all bonds, to stray From Kaaba’s walls, and brought them to reside Within the idol-house, and there abide.

Qais no longer seeks the desert’s lonely pain, He breathes the city air, and won’t again Roam wastelands. He is mad, it matters not If he’s in town or not. What must be sought Is that the veil of Laila be removed. Let there be no complaint of wrongs reproved, No cry of tyranny. If Love is free, Why should not Beauty also be?

The modern age is lightning, and it burns Each harvest, old and new. It overturns The desert and the garden, spares no place. The fuel for this new fire is the ancient race Of nations; and the Prophet’s own great creed Wears now a robe of flame, a fiery deed. But if the faith of Abraham were born Again today, this fire could be transformed, And in its heart, a garden could arise.

Do not despair, O gardener, at the skies’ Dark hue, or at the garden’s present plight; The branches from the star-like buds gleam bright. The garden will be cleansed of thorn and weed; The martyrs’ blood, a life-bestowing seed, Is painting all the flowerbeds with red. Look at the sky, its crimson hue is spread— It is the glow of the ascending sun.

In life’s great garden, nations have picked clean The boughs of fruit; while others, unforeseen, Are stripped of fruit, by autumn’s chill laid bare. Hundreds of trees stand withered, hundreds there Are green and growing, hundreds still unseen Within the garden’s womb, a vibrant scene. The tree of Islam is a symbol of that might, The fruit of centuries of tending light.

Your hem is free from dust of any land; You are that Joseph, for whom every strand Of sand in Egypt is a Canaan new. Your caravan can never be cut through. Your only baggage is a single bell, A cry to march. Your roots in fire dwell, A candle-tree whose smoke is in its root; Your shadow burns the thought that bears no fruit.

You will not perish if Iran should fall; The ecstasy of wine is not in thrall To any single cup. The story told Of the great Tartar onslaught makes it bold And clear: from idol-temples, guards were sent To save the Kaaba, on its safety bent. The ship of Truth finds you its anchor-hold; This modern age is night, and you, a faint star, old And dim, but still a star against the dark.

The great uproar the Balkan onslaught makes Is but a message for the one who wakes From slumber. You believe it is a source Of grief for you, a devastating force. But it’s a test of your self-sacrifice, A trial of your honor, and its price. Why do you fear the neighing of the foe? The light of Truth can never be brought low By their mere breath; it is a holy flame.

From nations’ eyes your truth is still concealed; The world has need of what you’ve not revealed. Your inner fire keeps this age alive; Your destiny is how the worlds will thrive. This is no time for rest, for work remains, The light of Oneness still must break its chains.

Like fragrance in a bud, you are confined; Become the breeze that roams the garden, unconfined. A speck of dust, so light upon the scale, Become a desert, vast and beyond the pale. A ripple’s song, now let your music grow Into a storm’s roar, where the great winds blow. With Passion’s power, raise the low to high, And with Muhammad’s name, light up the sky.

Without this flower, the nightingale is mute; In time’s vast garden, no bud would bear fruit Or smile. Without this Saki, there’s no wine, No flask, no cup. Without this sacred sign, No creed of Oneness, and no you, no me. The tent of heaven stands on this decree; The pulse of being, throbbing, hot, and fast, Draws all its life from this one name, to last.

It lives in deserts, on the mountain’s face, In fields, in oceans, in the wave’s embrace, And in the storm. It lives in China’s towns, And in Morocco’s wild and sandy downs. And it lies hidden in the Muslim’s soul, The faith that makes a broken spirit whole. Let all the nations watch eternally The glory of the words: “We raised your name up high.”

The pupil of earth’s eye, that dark-skinned world, The world that nursed your martyrs, flag unfurled. The world raised by the sun’s fierce, loving heat, The world that men of Passion call Bilal’s sweet And holy land. It trembles with this name, Like mercury, alive with sacred flame. It dives in light, a pupil in the eye, Reflecting glory from the endless sky.

Your shield is Reason, Passion is your sword; My humble dervish, yours is the world’s reward: A global caliphate. Your battle cry Is fire for all but God. If you but try To be a Muslim, true in heart and deed, Your fate is your own will, your own creed. Be true to Muhammad, and We are wholly thine; This world is nothing—Pen and Tablet of all Fate are thine.