Painting by Marc ChagallFrom Muhammad Iqbal ’s "Zabur-i ‘Aj am".
Who caused all the uproar in this ancient temple?
For, its chord-wearing devotees are full of lament like the flute.
In the huts of the poor and in the mansions of the rich,
There are sorrows that would arch one's back in youth.
Where is the cure —for the pain gets worse with the cure;
Knowledge is but pretense, illusion, and magic.
Without a ﬂux of water, Adam's boat will not row—
Every heart has a thousand fights to pick with the boatman
Do not ask me to recount the journey of my life;
I reconciled myself to pain and passed on, singing lyrics.
Mingling my breath with the breeze of dawn,
I toured this garden without stepping on the flowers.
Detached from town and street, yet spread out in town and street—
I watched this inn with the eyes of the moon.