In fane and shrine the self in slumber deep is sunk, it seems that soul of East an opiate strong has drunk.

If freaks of fate with smile on lips you can not face, the secrets hid in firmament n're claim to trace.

Your anguish sharp for Death you can not keep at bay, because you deem that Self is merely made of clay.

Time can conceal mishaps at all from you, Alas! Your heart and soul are foul and are not true.

The straws and thorns of East to me have been assigned, for flame that burns in me is rash and unconfined.

Iqbal, you sin because the throngs you tingle though keep aloof and seldom with them mingle.

Men wont to qaff extract from poppies drawn, have courage gained for deeds requiring brawn.

The birds, who spite of pinions rent were glad, in nests, for azure sky now feel so sad.

You ought to be deprived of songs of morn, deserve to miss delight and feel forlorn.