Lament On The Differences Among Indians

O Himalayas! O Attock! O River Ganges! —

How long shall we go on living sordidly like this?

Old men are devoid of insight —

Young ones are deprived of love.

East and West are free, but we are slaves of others —

Our bricks go to the building of others’ mansions.

To live according to the wish of others —

Is not deep slumber, it is eternal death.

This is not a death that comes from the sky —

Its seed grows out of the depths of one’s soul.

Its prey seeks neither washer of the dead nor grave —

Nor friends arriving for condolence from near or far.

No garment is torn in grief for such a death —

His hell is not beyond the skies, it is here.

Do not seek him in the crowd of the Day of Reckoning —

His tomorrow already dwells inside his today.

Whoever sows here and reaps here as well —

What use to bring that man before God?

A nation that never tasted the prodding of desire —

Is wiped off the face of the earth by Nature.

By sorcery, the throne and crown acquire authority —

By sorcery, glass appears as hard as stone.

Under the influence of this clear enchantment —

Muslims abjured their faith, unbelievers their unbelief.

The Indians quarrel with one another —

Having revived their old differences.

Until a Frankish nation from the land of the West —

Assumed the role of a mediator between Islam and kufr.

Nobody knows water from mirage —

Revolution, O revolution, O revolution!

O you who are always anxious for material sustenance —

Ask God a living heart.

Though its nest is in water and clay —

Yet the nine heavens circle this single living heart.

Do not think the living heart belongs to the earth —

It really comes from the highest heavens.

For it, the world is the sanctuary of the Divine Friend —

From the tulip's robe, it gathers the Friend's fragrance.

The living heart is constantly at war with the world —

The stones on the path are broken to pieces by its strokes.

It is familiar with the pulpit and the gibbet —

And keeps a strict watch over its own fire.

It is a stream, yet it carries seas in its embrace —

Its wave brings news of storms to come.

Alive and everlasting, needing no baked bread —

It dies the moment when Divine Presence fades away.

Like a bright lamp within the body's dark alcove —

It lends its light to both the gathering and solitude.

Such a heart, ever watchful of itself and God-intoxicated —

Is not achieved except through Faqr.

O youth! grasp firmly the skirt of one who bears such a heart —

And though born in servitude, depart as one who is free.