These songs of turtle doves and nightingales are merely ear’s illusion Behind this uproar the world of the garden is silent

O Western wine the effect of your goblets is only this That cup‐bearer is laughing and the entire assembly is unconscious

In the world’s sorrowful house you are not traceable Was creation also a crime so Your nature is concealed?

Ah! What the world considers heart is notheart In the human breast this is a silent tumult

Walk on the path of life but walk carefully Understand that some glass work is on your shoulders

Through whom Delhi and Lahore were drawn together Ah! Iqbal that nightingale is silent now.