شاعری کا تجزیہ

Why should I become a source of light and forgetful of profit? I should not worry about tomorrow, lost in the grief of yesterday.

I hear the lament of the nightingale and listen with my whole being. I too am a flower that is silent in my companionship.

My courage is the source of my eloquence. I have complaints to God; I am covered in dust.

We are indeed famous for our submission. We tell the tale of pain because we are helpless.

Our instrument is silent; we are busy with our cries. If a wail comes to my lips, then I am excused.

O God, listen to the complaints of the faithful. Also listen to a little grievance from the one who praises you.

Your ancient essence has existed since eternity. The flower was adorned in the garden, and the fragrance was not disturbed.

Justice is a condition, O Lord of great kindness. How can the scent of the rose spread if the breeze does not blow?

This concern was for the sake of unity. Otherwise, the community of your beloved was mad.

Before us, the scene of your world was strange. Somewhere stones were worshipped, and somewhere trees were adored.

The human eye was aware of the tangible form. Then how could anyone believe in an unseen God?

You know who took your name. The strength of the Muslim's arm accomplished your work.

Here lived both the Seljuks and the Turks. People from China, Iran, and the Sassanids.

In this abode lived the Greeks. In this world, there were Jews and Christians too.

But who raised the sword in your name? Who caused the disturbance that occurred?

We were indeed in your battles. Sometimes fighting in the deserts, sometimes in the rivers.

Sometimes we called the azan in European churches. Sometimes in the scorching deserts of Africa.

The dignity in our eyes was not diminished by the worldly rulers. We recited the Kalima in the shade of swords.

When we lived, it was for the calamities of wars. And we died for the greatness of your name.

There was no sharpness in our governance. We wandered bareheaded; what for wealth in this world?

The nation that dies for wealth and possessions. Why does it engage in idol worship instead of idol breaking?

We could not be defeated if we fell in battle. Even the feet of lions would be uprooted from the battlefield.

If someone became rebellious towards you, they would be spoiled. What is a sword? We would fight with cannons.

We placed the imprint of monotheism on every heart. Even under the dagger, we conveyed this message.

You tell me who uprooted the door of Khaybar? Who beheaded the one who was the king of Caesar?

Who broke the creation of the God-worshippers? Who cut down the armies of the disbelievers?

Who cooled the fire-temple of Iran? Who then revived the memory of the Yazdanians?

Which nation only sought you? And for you, became the laborers of battle?

Whose sword made the world wakeful? Whose declaration made the world aware?

Whose awe made the idols tremble? They would fall on their faces and say, 'He is One.'

If the time of prayer came in the battle. The community of Hijaz would bow down to the ground.

In one row stood Mahmood and Ayaz. There was neither a servant nor a benefactor.

The servant, the master, the needy, and the rich became one. When they reached your court, they all became one.

In the gathering of existence, morning and evening circulate. They bring the wine of monotheism with the quality of the cup.

They take your message to the mountains and deserts. And you know that they never return empty-handed.

The desert is a desert, and they did not leave the sea. In the ocean of darkness, we made our horses run.

We erased falsehood from the page of existence. We freed humanity from slavery.

We filled your Kaaba with our foreheads. We embraced your Quran with our hearts.

Yet we have this complaint that we are not loyal. We are not loyal; nor are you a beloved.

There are other communities; some are sinful. There are also the humble and those intoxicated with wine.

Among them are the lazy, the heedless, and the alert. There are hundreds who are disgusted by your name.

Your mercy is upon the houses of the humble. When lightning strikes, it falls upon the poor Muslims.

In the idol-temples, they say the Muslims have gone. They are happy that the guardians of the Kaaba have gone.

From the destination of existence, the high ones have gone. They have hidden the Quran in their bosoms.

The disbelief is evident; do you not feel it? Do you not care for your monotheism?

This is not a complaint against their filled treasures. They are not in the gathering who have the awareness to speak.

The wrath is that the disbeliever receives rewards and palaces. And the poor Muslims only receive promises of hurs.

Now those favors are not upon us, nor the blessings. What is the matter that there is no kindness as before?

Why is there a lack of worldly wealth among Muslims? Your power is that which has no limit or account.

If you wish, you can bring forth the winds from the desert. Let the traveler of the desert be like the wave of mirage.

The body of the humble is disgraceful; it is poverty. Is it worth dying in your name?

The world of the humble has now become a fantasy. It has become a world of imagination for itself.

We have departed; others have taken care of the world. Then do not say that the world is empty of monotheism.

We live so that your name remains in the world. Somewhere it is possible that the cupbearer does not remain, but the cup remains.

Your gathering has also gone; the lovers have also gone. The sighs of the night have also gone; the cries of the morning have also gone.

The heart gives you; it also takes its reward. They came and left, and they were also taken out.

Come, the lovers have gone, bringing the promise of tomorrow. Now they seek the lamp of the beautiful face.

The pain of Laila is there; Qais is there too. In the deserts and mountains of Najd, the deer is there too.

The heart of love is there; the magic of beauty is there. The community of Ahmad the Messenger is there; you are there too.

Then what is the reason for this azure state? What does this angry eye mean for your lovers?

You left the Messenger of Arabia. You left idol worship for idol breaking.

You left love for the madness of love. You left the customs of Salman and Uwais Qarani.

We keep the fire of Takbeer in our hearts. We live like Bilal the Abyssinian.

The goodness of love is not the same as before. The acceptance of submission and consent is not the same as before.

The heart is troubled; the quality of the Qibla is not the same. And the adherence to the principles of loyalty is not the same.

Sometimes we are known by ourselves, sometimes by others. There is no point in speaking; you are also a stranger.

You have perfected the religion on the forehead of the Farans. With a single gesture, you have given hearts to thousands.

You have ignited the fire of love. You have blown warmth into the gathering with your cheeks.

Why is it today that our chest is not adorned? We are the same burnt goods; do you not remember?

In the valley of Najd, the noise of chains is no longer there. Qais, the madman, is no longer there to see the veil.

Those spirits are no longer there; we are no longer there. This home is desolate because you are not the splendor of the gathering.

O joyous arrival of the day, come with pride. Come without a veil towards the gathering of the beloved.

The cupbearer is a stranger in the garden, sitting by the stream. They listen to the cup in hand, singing the song of the cuckoo.

The time of the garden is filled with joy. Your lovers are also waiting for you.

Give your lovers the taste of self-illumination again. Give the lightning of the heart's command.

The wandering nation is now heading towards Hijaz. Take the carefree nightingale to the mockery of flight.

In every bud of the garden, there is the fragrance of desire. If you stir, then the thirsty musician will play.

The songs are restless to come out of the stars. The mountain is restless to burn in that fire.

Ease the difficulties of the unfortunate community. Make the worthless peacock the companion of Solomon.

Revive the rare essence of love. Make the residents of Hind Muslims.

In the river of blood, there is a flood of longing for the temple. In the temple of our chest, the lamentation is sharp.

The fragrance of the rose has gone beyond the secrets of the garden. What a day of judgment it is that the flower itself is a betrayer of the garden.

The era of roses has ended; the melody of the garden has broken. The melodies have flown away from the branches of the trees.

There is a nightingale that is still lost in melody. In its heart, the waves of songs still surge.

The moonbeams have also strayed from the branches of the cedar. The petals of the flower have also become disturbed.

Those old lights of the garden have also become desolate. The branches have also become naked from the dress of leaves.

The condition of the seasons remained free from captivity. If only someone understood its lament in the garden.

The pleasure in dying remains; there is no joy in living. If there is any pleasure, it is in drinking the blood of the liver.

How restless are the jewels in my mirror. How many wonders tremble in my heart.

But in this garden, there are no observers. The wounds that you hold in your heart are not just roses.

Tear the heart of this lonely nightingale with its song. Let the wakeful be stirred by this call.

That is, do not live again with the new covenant of loyalty. Then let this old wine be the thirsty heart.

If I am a non-Arab, what does it matter? I am Hijazi. If the song is Hindi, what does it matter? I am Hijazi.