|These songs of turtle doves and nightingales are merely ear’s illusion|
Behind this uproar the world of the garden is silent
|O Western wine the effect of your goblets is only this|
That cup-bearer is laughing and the entire assembly is unconscious
|In the world’s sorrowful house you are not traceable|
Was creation also a crime so Your nature is concealed?
|Ah! What the world considers heart is not heart|
In the human breast this is a silent tumult
|Walk on the path of life but walk carefully|
Understand that some glass work is on your shoulders
|Through whom Delhi and Lahore were drawn together|
Ah! Iqbal that nightingale is silent now.
Translated by: M.A.K. Khalil