One day Iqbal said to the Muslim: ‘Your existence is unique in the universe.

The tunes of your old songs are the basis of new knowledge; civilization is the dust of your old caravans.

Even the zephyr’s current is like stone to it; very delicate is the mirror of Man’s honour.

The men of action by discovering the causes of phenomena find the cure for the azure-colored sky’s cruelties.

Ask them who are the old secret keepers of the garden: How the autumn became engaged in fight with your garden.’

The Muslim became restless with my conversation; the sad sigh became betrayer of the inner sorrow.

He said ‘Just look at the autumn’s condition; the leaves of the tree of life have become pale.

Those garden’s secret keepers became silent; whose tune of pathos was the means of mellowness.

The garden’s inhabitants were still mourning Shibli when Hali also became a traveler towards Paradise.

‘Still he is a fool who is asking the gardener: What did nightingale say, what did rose hear, what did zephyr do?’