|Weep to thy heart’s content, O blood-weeping eye!|
Yonder is visible the tomb of Muslim culture.
Once this place was alive with those dwellers of the desert,
For whose ships the ocean was a playground;
Who raised earthquakes in the palaces of the kings of kings,
In whose swords were the nests of many lightning.
Whose birth was death for the old world,
Whose fear caused the palaces of error to tremble;
Whose cry of arise gave life to a lifeless world
And freedom to men from the chains of superstition.
Is that cry of God is great silent for ever,
Whose reverberations delight the ear to this day?
|Oh Sicily! The sea is honoured by you,|
You are a guide in the desert of these waters.
May the cheek of the ocean remain adorned by your beauty spot;
May the lamps comfort those who measure the seas;
May your view be ever light on the eyes of the traveller,
May waves ever dance on your rocks!
Once you were the cradle of civilization of the people,
The fire of whose glance was world-burning beauty.
|The nightingale of Shiraz wailed over Baghdad,|
And Dagh wept tears of blood over Delhi.
When the heavens scattered the wealth of Granada to the winds,
The sorrowful heart of Ibn Badrun cried out.
The dirge of your ruin fell to the lot of the grieving Iqbal:
Destiny picked up the heart that was privy to your secrets.
|Whose story is hidden in your ruins?|
The silence of your footfall has a mode of expression.
Tell me of your sorrow—I too am full of pain;
I am the dust of that caravan whose goal you were.
Paint over this picture once more and show it to me;
Make me suffer by telling the story of ancient days.
I shall carry your gift to India;
I shall make others weep as I weep here.
Translated by: Umrao Singh Sher Gil