Make not a face wry on the humble’s eye; hark! A rider comes from dust soaring high. Learn the ways to win His pleasure and grace; be truthful to Him and whole human race. Take me not poet in this or that sense; look my passions depth from the wisdom’s lens.

If a craze consumes the garden’s face; and saps its beauty and social grace. I poured a verve and roar, in this town* lanes; will leave a craze yet to sharpen their brains. * City of Lahore

The poppy of my dawn’s first vernal tide; is burning alone from a scar I hide. So under rate not my verve’s lone part; see caravans* budding from my heart. * Here caravan means a nation.

So scattered I’m like dust of the way; on the wings of storms I cannot stay. How august and happy would be that day; when a ride is born from my own clay.* * Here Iqbal forecasts that a superman will appear to guide the destiny of nation.)

How lucky a nation whom wheel of fate; had caused a wonder through a leader great. His birth a secret of a secret hand; who would change her fate in a manner grand.

In self’s own sea, I’m thus a restive’ wave; till my waves in tempest to Coast would lave. I found no better cast than my own face; with my own blood his picture I trace.

His glance* would fill up the empty bowl**; he runs the will’s wine in vine’s veins whole. His storms**** and gales are a God gift free; he made a small brook, ‘rival of sea. * His glance: Glance of super man. ** Empty bowls: From love of the Prophet and mankind. *** Will’s wine: New hopes. **** Storms verve and vigour of love and cravings. A brook; a small nation. Sea a big power.

The caravan’s reins he would take when; he gives vision taste to each hidden then. He makes so much bare the heavenly hosts; that all nine skies would be tinder his force.

To that holy mother I greet with pride; from whom will be born the caravan’s guide. On the lap of, ‘that’ fortunate dame’ the paradise nymphs would feel a shame.

The heart in my chest says that leader who cares and is an asset for the nation exists. I heard a voice at the time of my death: ‘When flowers are shed; the fruit comes out’.