Shikwa

The Complaint

Why should I choose the path of loss, let all my profit go? And not for my own future care, but dwell on yesterday’s woe? Why must I hear the nightingale, and feel its sorrow flow, When I, a fellow singer, have my own lament to show? My very power of speech now teaches me to dare; Forgive my tongue, but God, I have a grievance to declare.

Yes, we are known for our acceptance of Your will, We tell this tale of pain because our hearts cannot be still. A silent instrument, with cries our silence fill; If a lament escapes our lips, we have no power to still The urge. O God, now hear Your faithful servants’ plea; From lips so used to praise, hear this complaint from me.

From time’s first dawn, Your timeless Self has always been, The rose adorned the garden, but its scent remained unseen. By fairness’ law, O Master of all grace, what does it mean? How could the rose’s scent have spread without the breeze so keen? This restlessness was for Your sake, to bring You peace of mind; Else was the Prophet’s nation of a wild, ungrateful kind?

Before us, the condition of Your world was strange to see: Some bowed to stones, while others worshipped at a sacred tree. The human eye was trained on forms that it could feel and be; How then could anyone believe in a God they could not see? You know it well Yourself: did anyone speak Your Name? The strength of Muslim arms achieved Your glory and Your fame.

The Seljuks and Turanians were living in this place, The Chinese in their China, Sassanids of Persian race. The Greeks were settled here within this populated space, And in this world were Jews as well, and Christians of Your grace. But who was it that drew the sword for nothing but Your Name? And who was it that set to right the world’s distorted frame?

It was we, and we alone, who were Your champions in the fight, Who battled on the arid lands and on the oceans’ might. We called the prayer in Europe’s churches, burning with Your light, And in the scorching African deserts, blacker than the night. We were not awed by worldly kings, nor dazzled by their shine; We spoke Your sacred Word beneath the sword’s descending line.

We lived our lives for battle, for the trials of the fray, And for the glory of Your Name, we died along the way. We did not draw our swords to build our own imperial sway; Did we roam the world with death-in-hand for riches to display? If our own nation had been slaves to worldly gold and land, Why would we shatter idols, not sell them with our hand?

Once in the fight, we could not be turned back, but held our ground; The paws of lions, too, were torn from their own battleground. If any rebelled against You, they would feel our fury’s sound; What is a sword? We fought against the cannon’s roar profound. We etched the Creed of One upon the hearts of all mankind, And even 'neath the dagger's edge, proclaimed it to the blind.

You tell us then, who was it that tore out Khyber’s mighty door? Who was it that laid Caesar’s city flat upon the floor? Who smashed the man-made idols of the gods that men adore? And who was it that cut to shreds the armies of the war? Who was it that extinguished Zoroaster’s sacred fire? And who revived the memory of God, our one desire?

Which nation was it that alone went searching just for You? And for Your sake, endured the toil of battle, fresh and new? Whose world-embracing sword became the world’s protector, too? Whose call to prayer awakened all Your world, both false and true? Whose awesome dread kept all the idols trembling in their place, So they would fall face-down and say, “He is the One, by grace”?

And if the time for prayer arrived amid the battle’s heat, The people of Hijaz would turn and bow down at Your feet. The king and slave stood as one, their single purpose sweet, No servant and no master there, in unity complete. The slave and master, rich and poor, all became as one; When they arrived within Your court, all difference was undone.

We roamed the world from dawn till dusk, through all its space and time, Like moving cups, we carried forth the wine of truth sublime. Through mountain, plain, and desert waste we brought Your word and rhyme, And do You know, did we return defeated in our prime? The deserts are but deserts; we did not spare the sea, And in the Sea of Darkness, rode our horses, wild and free.

We wiped the page of history clean of all that was untrue, We freed the human race from chains of slavery, old and new. We filled Your Kaaba’s sacred space with foreheads bowed for You, We held Your Holy Qur’an to our hearts, forever true. And yet You claim that we have failed the test of loyalty; If we are not the faithful, then no true Beloved can You be!

There are other nations, and among them sinners you can find, There are the humble, and the ones drunk with their pride of mind. There are the lazy, heedless, and the clever of their kind, And hundreds more who from Your very name are disinclined. But all Your blessings fall upon the houses of the foe, While on the wretched Muslims falls the lightning’s fiery blow.

The idols in the temples say, “The Muslims now are gone!” They celebrate that guardians of the Kaaba have withdrawn. The camel-drivers from their worldly stage have moved along, The Qur’an clutched beneath their arms, they’ve vanished with the dawn. The unbelievers mock us now—do You feel this or not? The Creed of Your own Oneness—have You utterly forgot?

This is no claim their treasuries are full; we do not care, They who don’t even know the art of speaking at affair. The outrage is that infidels get nymphs and mansions there, While for the wretched Muslim, just the promise of a prayer. Those old affections are now gone, Your favors are not here; What is this, that our former welcome is no longer clear?

Why is the wealth of this world now so scarce for Muslim hands? Your power is the one that has no limits, no demands. If You but wished it, bubbles would arise from desert sands, And mirages would slap the face of travelers in these lands. We face the taunts of strangers, disgrace, and poverty; Is this the prize for those who gave their very lives for Thee?

The world has now become the friend of those who are not ours, And for ourselves, a world of dreams is all that now empowers. We have departed from the stage; others possess its towers. Don’t say again the world is empty of Your guiding powers. We only live so that Your name may yet on earth remain; Is it possible the cup-bearer is gone, but cups remain?

Your gathering is gone, and those who loved You have gone too, The sighs at night, the morning cries, have all departed you. They gave their hearts to You, and took their promised wage, it’s true, They had not even settled in before they were pushed through. The lovers came, and with a promise of tomorrow, went; Now search for them with Your bright face as the sole lamp You’ve sent.

The pain of Layla is the same, and Qais is still her love, In Najd’s high plains and mountains, the gazelle still swiftly move. The heart of love is still the same, the spell of beauty wove, The Prophet’s nation is the same, and You are still above. So why this strange displeasure, with no reason we can see? Why do You cast this angry gaze upon Your devotees?

Did we abandon You, or leave the Arab Prophet’s side? Did we take up idol-making, casting truth aside? Did we abandon love, and love’s own wild, impassioned ride? Did we forsake the ways of Salman, or Owais, our guide? The fire of “God is Great” we keep suppressed within our soul, And live our lives like Bilal, who made Your message whole.

Perhaps our love lacks that same grace it showed in former days, Perhaps we do not walk the path of pure submissive ways. Perhaps our restless heart no longer like a compass sways, Perhaps we are not bound by all the laws of loyal praise. But still, with us one day, with strangers on the next, You turn Your gaze; Forgive the words, but You are fickle in Your worldly ways!

On Faran’s peak, You perfected the faith for all to see, And with a single sign, You won the hearts of thousands free. You kindled fire in our souls, love’s final destiny, And with Your burning radiance, You set the gathering aflame for me. Why are our chests today not filled with sparks of that same fire? We are the same burnt offerings; have You forgot desire?

In Najd’s deep valley, there’s no sound of chains, no lover’s cry, No Qais, insane to glimpse the camel-litter passing by. That spirit is no more, not we, not our hearts that fly; This house is desolate because its light is no longer nigh. Oh, happy was that day You came, with such a proud display, And came unveiled into our midst, and would not go away.

Now strangers drink beside the stream, within the garden’s shade, They sit with glasses in their hands, by cuckoo songs are swayed. Far from the garden’s noisy crowd, alone and unafraid, Your madmen also wait, for Your command to be obeyed. Now grant Your moths again the taste of self-consuming light, And give Your ancient lightning a command to burn us bright.

The wandering nation’s reins are turned toward Hijaz once more, The wingless nightingale is seized by the desire to soar. A scent of longing stirs the bud in every garden’s core; Just strike the string, the instrument is thirsty for the score. The melodies are restless to escape the binding wire; Mount Sinai is trembling, to be burned in that same fire.

Make easy now the troubles of this nation in its grief, Make the poor ant the equal of a Solomon, in brief. Make love, that rare and precious thing, a common, cheap relief, And make the temple-dwellers of Hind accept the true belief. A stream of blood flows from the longing of our ancient pain, A cry of torment throbs within the wound-filled chest’s domain.

The rose’s scent has carried out the garden’s secret far; What tragedy, the flowers themselves the garden’s traitors are! The age of roses ends, and broken is the sweet guitar; The songbirds have all flown away from branches near and far. But one lone nightingale remains, still lost within its song; Within its breast, a tempest of sweet melodies still throng.

The turtledoves have fled the cypress branches in their fright, The petals of the flowers have all scattered, pale and white. The garden’s old familiar paths are desolate tonight, The branches stand there naked, stripped of leafy robes of light. But this one bird’s own nature has remained from seasons free; If only someone in the grove could hear its mournful plea!

There is no joy in dying, nor a pleasure left in life; The only pleasure left is drinking one’s own blood in strife. How many restless jewels lie within my mirror, rife, How many visions writhe and twist within my breast, a knife. But in this garden, there are none with vision left to see; The tulips that bear scars upon their hearts have ceased to be.

May hearts be torn apart by this lone nightingale’s lament, May sleeping hearts awaken by this caravan bell sent. May hearts be brought to life again by a new covenant, And thirst again for that old wine on which they once were bent. Though the flask is Persian, still the wine I serve is from Hijaz; Though the song is Indian, still my melody is from Hijaz!