شبلي وحالي

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?’

اب یہ جرات کس میں ہے کہ باغباں سے استفسار کرے کہ بلبل نے کیا کہا، گل نے کیا سنا اور صبا نے کیا عمل کیا۔