والدہ مرحومہ کي ياد ميں
English title: IN MEMORY OF MOTHER OF BLESSED MEMORY
Every particle of the universe is a prisoner of destiny; prudence is a cover for helplessness and compulsion.
The sky, the sun and the moon all are helpless; the fast moving stars are compelled to moving.
Breaking is the end of flower bud’s pitcher in the garden; the garden’s verdure and flowers are also compelled to grow.
It may be nightingale’s song or conscience’ silent call; everything is chained in the same universal chain!
When this secret of helplessness becomes evident to the eye; the turbulent flood of tears in the heart dries up.
The dance of pleasure and grief does not remain in the human heart; the song remains but the pleasure of treble and bass does not remain.
Knowledge and wisdom are robbers of tears and sighs’ wealth that is the intelligent heart is a piece of diamond!
Though the dew’s freshness does not exist in my garden; my eye is not enriched with the red tears.
Ah! I am aware of the secret of human afflictions, but my nature’s orchestra is unaware of complaint’s song.
The story of vicissitudes of time does not come on my lips; my heart is not astonished, not laughing, not crying.
But, O messenger, your picture is one of constant wailing. Ah! This is the contradiction of my firm wisdom!
Life’s foundation becomes lasting with overflowing wailing; the hard hearted Intellect is embarrassed with the knowledge of pathos.
My mirror is bright with the wave of sighs’ smoke; my skirt is full with the treasure of tears.
The miracle of your picture has surprised me, which has completely changed the flight of time.
As if it brought the past and present together; it acquainted me again with the age of infancy.
When that feeble soul was being nurtured by your side, whose tongue was not adequately familiar with talking.
And whose linguistic spice is now the subject of conversation; the pearls of whose jewel-shedding eyes are priceless.
The learning’s serious discourses, the shrewdness of old age; the dignity of worldly honours, the pride of young age:
We descend from the positions of dignity in life; we descend as a simple child in the lap of the mother.
We are laughing informally, we are free from care; we are once more living in the same lost paradise.
Ah! Who will now be waiting for me in the homeland? Who will become restless by not getting my letter?
I will come to your grave carrying this lament! To whose thoughts will I come in the midnight prayers?
With your up-bringing I became fortunate like stars; the house of my ancestors became a source of pride.
Your life was written in gold letters in the existence’ book; your life was a full lesson of secular and religious education.
Your love remained in my service for your whole life; when I was able to serve you, you did not survive.
That youth who equals the slender cypress in stature, * who became more fortunate in serving you than me.
That constant companion of mine in the business of life; that picture of yours in love that source of my strength.
He is crying like a helpless infant for you; he is crying with impatience from morning till evening.
The love whose seed you planted in our life’s field; by the grief of separation that love became more firm.
Ah! This world, this mourning place for the young and old! In what a strange ever-changing prison man is imprisoned!
How difficult it is to live! How easy it is to die! In the existence’ garden death is cheap as breeze!
There are earthquakes, thunderbolts, famines, afflictions: How diverse the daughters of the mother of time are!
In poor man’s hovel, in rich man’s mansion is death. In forest, house, city, garden, wilderness is death.
Death is tumultuous in the silent ocean; boats are drowned in the lap of death.
Neither there is ability to complain, nor power of speech; life is nothing but a yoke choking the throat.
In the caravan nothing but bell’s wailing exists; nothing except the valuable weeping eye exists!
However, this period of trial will also come to its end; behind the sky’s nine orbits there are other orbits also.
What if the tulips and roses in this garden are afflicted? What if nightingales are compelled to wail and complain?
The bushes, which are burnt by the sighs of the autumn, will green up when the breezes of the invigorating spring flow.
What if our spark is asleep in the dust of the shield? What if this handful of dust is our temporary abode?
The end of the fire of life is not in the ashes! This is not the jewel whose destiny is breaking!
Life is such a beloved in the eye of Nature; life’s preservation is in everything’s nature.
If the death’s hand could efface life’s picture; the system of the universe would not have made it so common.
If it is cheap then think that death is nothing; just as there is no break in living by sleeping.
Ah! O imprudent one! Death’s hidden secret is something different! The instability of the picture exhibits something different!
The picture of wind over water is sight’s paradise; by break in the restless wave it makes the bubbles.
It conceals it again in the skirt of the wave! How mercilessly it demolishes its own picture.
If the wind could not create its bubble again; the wind would not have broken it so carelessly.
What is the effect of this custom on the form of creation? This is the proof of the power of wind over creation.
If the existence’ nature be not in search of longing it would never be in search of the better form!
Ah! The restless mercury, the sky brightening stars; the heat of these sparks is obligated to the night.
Their antiquity is bewildering to the Intellect; the history of the human race is a mere moment for them.
Then this Man whose vision is directed to the celestial world; who is more immaculate in his goals than qudsis.*
Who is lighted up like a candle in the assembly of Nature, in the expanse of whose nature celestial world is a mere dot.
Whose ignorance is restless to know the Truth, whose nail is the plectrum to the harp of existence.
Is this flame inferior than the sky’s sparks even? Is our sun less precious than the stars even?
The eye of flower’s seed is awake even under the soil: How restless for growth and development the seed is!
The flame of life which is concealed in this grain is under compulsion for self-assertion and growth.
Even with the grave’s cold it cannot become dispirited; even by being buried under soil it cannot become cold!
Becoming a flower, it comes out of its grave that is it gets the robe of life from its death.
Grave is the organizer of its scattered powers, which is throwing its rope-ladder round sky’s neck.
Death is the name of the renewal of life’s taste; behind the veil of sleep it is a message of awakening.
The one accustomed to flight is not afraid of flight! Death in this garden is nothing but readying for flight!
People say that the pain of death is incurable; separation’s wound is cured with time’s salve.
But the heart where the grief of the dead ones is living is free from the loop of the chain of morning and evening.
Mourning’s wailing does not stop with the spell of time; time is no salve for the wound of separation’s sword.
When some sudden calamity befalls us; tears come out of the eyes constantly.
The heart becomes accustomed to wailing and complaint; the heart’s blood drips from the tearful eyes.
Though Man is deprived of the power of patience; this sub-conscious feeling always exists in his nature.
The essence of Man does not become annihilated; he disappears from sight but is not annihilated.
The baggage of life is dust with the flame of grief; this fire is cooled with this subtle feeling’s water.
Ah! This control of wailing is not negligence’ silence; this consolation is awareness, it is not forgetfulness!
When the dawn manifests itself from the east it washes away the night’s stain from the world’s skirt.
It clothes the melancholy tulip in red garb. It makes the silent bird intoxicated with music.
The song is freed from the nightingale’s breast. The morning breeze is so full of hundreds of tunes.
Those who in rose beds, mountains and brooks were sleeping; at long last in the morning the bride of life are embracing.
If the law of life is that every night dawn be! Why the end of Man’s grave should not his dawn be!
The net of my silvery imagination is universal in which I have imprisoned your remembrance!
The affliction stricken heart is filled with your memory as in the Ka’bah the expanse is filled with supplications!
The sequence of Divine commands which is called life; its manifestations are covering myriad of unstable worlds.
The ways of every stage of life are different. Hereafter also is a marshaling place of life!
Nothing is available there to the death’s field, but the climate is favorable for action’s seed.
The light of nature is not imprisoned in body’s darkness; the expanse of the human thought is not so narrow.
Your life was brighter than even the moon. Your journey was better than even that of the morning star.
May your grave be bright like the dawn’s mansion! May this dusty bed-chamber of yours be light-filled!
May the sky be spraying dew on your grave! May the freshly grown grass be guarding this house!
Sources and translator credits
- Original text transcription: Bang-e-Dara — والدہ مرحومہ کي ياد ميں — Digital transcription file at commit 39d44fc0c2b8ca25769c4b36e6eac4d90cb42b35; the source dataset does not identify the underlying print edition.Verified against this pinned digital transcription file; not checked against a print edition.Source
- Iqbal Demystified source list: Bang-e-Dara — Pinned digital dataset commit 39d44fc0c2b8ca25769c4b36e6eac4d90cb42b35; the underlying print edition is not identified by the dataset.Community dataset list; not reconciled against a print edition.Source
- Bang-e-Dara English translation at allama-iqbal.com — In Memory Of Late Mother — Public digital poem page, retrieved 2026-10-05; pinned to allama-iqbal.com commit 82547635bb6b758c45082084b2f152fc453a8056.Translation by Dr M.A.K. Khalil; English Translation by: Dr M.A.K. KhalilSource