Translations
This page shows only poems with translations by A. J. Arberry.
Zabur-e ʿAjam by Allama Iqbal, in translations by A. J. Arberry
Tumultuous Love where’er it rove unto Thy street is brought; what boasteth he who findeth Thee that for himself he sought?
O bring me back the singing, the airs of long ago; bring back the sweet, sad music to set cold hearts aglow.
Thou who didst make more ardent my sighing and my tears, O let my anthem quicken dust of a thousand years.
Though dust, and dark as dust, am I, I have a little heart, whereby with vision open as a star I gaze on beauty from afar.
With a song of agony, with a sweet, soft melody, to a dying world athirst Lo: life’s flagon I have burst.
On faith and infidelity O scatter wide Thy Clemency; at last the veil of darkness raise from the full splendour of Thy Face.
A flame is in my minstrelsy, a fearlessness, a tragedy; a spark is smouldering in my corn, and sprightly blows the breath of morn.
Though the falcon of the brain yearneth on the wing to be, archers in this desert plain wait upon him secretly!
What is the world? The temple of my thought, the seen projection of my wakeful eye;
It is the season of the spring and nightingales are carolling; O smile on me, and chant a song, and freely pass the wine along.
From life and being’s twisted skein let me be free; in resignation is to gain true liberty.
Rise! And upon the thirsty land sprinkle life’s wine with lavish hand; kindle anew the spirit’s fire, and bid the flame in us expire.
Thinkest Thou that to the threshold I have made this pilgrimage? With the master of the household I have business to engage.
With a glance at us who sit by the way He goes riding by: Conceive, if Thou canst, my soul’s dismay sore distraught am I.
Better is the robbers’ train than the heaven-pacing brain, better one distress of heart than all Plato’s learned art.
Intellect is passion too, and it knows the joy to view, but the poor unfortunate dares not as the inebriate.
All that in life I love the best is the sweet fever of Thy quest; the way is like an adder’s sting, be not to thee my wayfaring.
The night grows late, the route is up, no need for saki now or cup; pass me Thy goblet, friend of mine, I’ll pour thee the remaining wine.
Saki, on my heart bestow liquid flame with living glow; let the resurrection day dawn tremendous on my clay.
The juice that maketh tulips spring within the heart – a bumper bring, Saki! And let the April gust scatter at will my body’s dust.
Of every image that the heart takes from the eye – I have no part; perception weigheth not with me, I beg for pure reality.
Against the light, an infidel, my heart, unfettered, doth rebel; it bows before God’s sanctuary and idols serves, indifferently.
Why in the concourse dost Thou seek the poet’s wild, ecstatic shriek, or lookest for another’s riot, whose heart is troubled and unquiet?
Faith and infidelity fight not for the mind of me; no delights of Paradise do my stricken soul entice.
Thine is the hawk upon the wing and thine the thrush sweet-carolling, thine is the light and joy of life and thine its fire and baneful strife.
One step on friendship’s road fairer I see than the moat pressing load of piety.
In my heart’s empire, see how He rides spitefully, rides with imperious will to ravage, and to kill!
Upon the road of high desire my load yet lieth in the mire, because my heart would still engage with trappings, caravan, and stage.
The days are ended of winter long; the branches quiver with living song.
At home to loiter never did me please, A rover I, stranger in every land.
By the Saki’s eye heart-enflamed I lie; drunk without wine – O delight divine!
Thou didst turn my night to dawning; O Thou sun of presence bright, like the sun Thou art in brightness, light unveiled, most worthy light!
None other in this tavern is, Saki, to share my mysteries; am I the first (O who can tell) conceived in heaven, on earth to dwell?
Tell me this: what is Thy share in this world of pain and care? Knowest Thou the spirit’s smart? Hast Thou an uneaseful heart?
Thy light defineth all things one by one: black, white, sea, mountain, valley, moon and sun;
Give me the heart whose rapture fine flames from a draught of its own wine, and take the heart that, self-effaced, by alien fancy is embraced.
A hand of dust is all I own; I scatter it upon the way, because I hope that on a day it shall ascend to heaven’s throne.
Let this heart Thou gavest me overflow with certainty, and my world-beholding glass all its radiance surpass.
To passion’s slaves let no man e’er the mystery of Thy love declare: It is not meet for straws to hear talk of the blazing brazier.
Ah, the wine, the lute, the piping, the dear memories of old, when I held the brimming beaker and my friend a bowl of gold.
Stars on my bosom shine wept from these eyes of mine: Lo, beyond heaven’s height; cast me the joy of sight;
The East, that holds the heavens fast within the noose its fancy cast, its spirit’s bonds are all united, the flames of its desire have died.
Leave no quarter to resist to this restless heart of mine give Thy curls another twist, let Thy tresses intertwine.
My soul, embattled with fortune ever, weeps like a river among the mountains.
In Thy hands I now deliver once again my restless heart; it will never cease from labour for the ease.
A single word sufficeth well the passion of a world to tell: The joy to view thee night to me moved me to this long history.
How long the veil of eve and dawn about Thy beauty shall be drawn? Thy cheek display: make whole to me this incomplete epiphany.
One by one we count our breath on the narrow road to death; like a raging sea we roar as we walk along the shore.
No lament, no sigh I uttered; naught avail laments and sighs; best unspoken, the heart’s sorrow; there be few to sympathize.
