Once more I feel the urge to wail and weep at dead of night: O traveller, stop a bit, perchance I face some awful site.

Awhile in dark abyss of Fate dive and see beneath: Out of this battlefield I come like sword out of the sheath.

This verse some man with witty mind on niche of mosque did write: ‘These fools fell prostrate on the earth, when it was time to fight’.

O man, who at my misery scoff, follow the road you tread: When the cup to me was passed, the gathering all had fled.

Iqbal his glow to Muslims lent, who in India dwell: An easy-going man he was and served the sluggards well.

To find Iqbal for years on end I did chafe and fret: By effort great that kingly hawk has come within my net.