حکمت فرعونی

I have unfolded the wisdom of the people of faith —

Now learn the wisdom of the people of malice.

The wisdom of the people of malice is deceit and artifice —

What are deceit and artifice? Decay of soul and nourishment of body.

This is wisdom that has freed itself from faith’s bonds —

And has strayed far away from the station of Love.

The school follows in his (Pharaoh’s) ways so that —

The servant learns to think in line with the master’s desires.

The religious leader of the Millat, in a charming way—

Reinterprets religion to his (Pharaoh’s) liking.

The unity of the people is sundered through his machinations —

Nothing can withstand him except Moses’ Staff.

Woe to a people that, prey to others’ stratagems —

Destroy themselves and build up others.

They gain knowledge of science and art —

But remain unaware of their own self-identity.

They erase the Lord’s impress from their signet —

Aspirations arise in their heart only to die away.

They are not blessed with a progeny imbued with a sense of honour —

Their children have souls in their bodies like corpses in graves.

Of modesty, the elders are devoid —

And the youth, like women, in self-adornment employed.

The desires that spring from their hearts are unstable —

They are born dead from the wombs of their mothers.

The daughters of this nation are captives of their own tresses —

Bold-eyed, fond of display and carping;

Well-dressed, with exquisite make-up, coquettish —

Their eyebrows, like two unsheathed swords.

Their white silvery forearms pleasing to the eyes —

Their bosoms showing like fish in water.

A nation whose ashes are devoid of any live spark —

Whose morning is darker than its evening.

It is always in search of material goods —

Its only preoccupation is anxiety for livelihood and fear of death.

Its rich are miserly, pleasure-loving —

Heedless of the essence, trapped in the shell.

The ruler’s might becomes his only creed —

His gain is built on faith’s and religion’s bleed.

He never stepped beyond the bounds of today —

His life held no design for a tomorrow’s way.

With the chronicles of ancestors tucked under the arm —

I seek refuge from words devoid of action.

It’s faith is to pledge the loyalty to foes —

As if from the Kaaba’s stones, an idol-house it sows.

Alas! For a nation which has cut itself adrift from God —

Which is dead, but does not know that it is dead.