پنچاب کے پيرزادوں سے

I stood by the Reformer's tomb: that dust whence here below an orient splendour breaks;

Dust before whose least speck stars hang their heads, | Dust shrouding that high knower of things unknown

Who to Jehangir would not bend his neck, | Whose ardent breath fans every free heartʹs ardour,

Whom Allah sent in season to keep watch | In India on the treasure‐house of Islam.

I craved the saintsʹ gift, other‐worldliness | For my eyes saw, yet dimly. Answer came:

“Closed is the long roll of the saints; this Land | Of the Five Rivers stinks in good menʹs nostrils.

Godʹs people have no portion in that country | Where lordly tassel sprouts from monkish cap;

That cap bred passionate faith, this tassel breeds | Passion for playing pander to Government.”