Majlis-e-millat

*

al Doilea sfetnic al lui

Iblis spune:

Is this uproar of ‘rule of the masses’

(democracy) good, or is it bad?

You are unaware of the novel mischiefs

of this world!

comentariu:

[al doilea sfetnic crede că primul sfetnic nu este suficient de înțelept încât să observe situația corect; el îi spune că nu a luat în considerare apariția democrației, care este adevărata provocare pentru Imperiul lui Iblis]

Primul sfetnic al lui

Iblis spune:

Indeed, I am aware, but I am guided

by my experience of this world,

There is no danger at all in that which

is a mere cloak of monarchy.

comentariu:

[primul sfetnic îl asigură pe al doilea spunându-i că democrația, în esență, nu diferă de imperialism. Nu are nici un motiv să privească democrația ca fiind o amenințare; până la urmă, nu este decât același imperialism înfășurat într-o altă haină atrăgătoare]

When Man grew up to some extent,

began to be aware of himself,

No one else but we disguised monarchy

in the garb of democracy.

The essence of imperialism is quite unique,

It does not depend upon the existence

of any leader or monarch.

Whether it is the peoples council or

the court of Parvez (the ruler of Persia),

He who covets the garden of the other,

is indeed the king.

Have you seen the

democratic system of the West?

Its face looks bright, but internally it is

darker than the rule of Chengez (Genghis Khan).

comentariu:

[în aparență, democrația occidentală se arată ca fiind deosebit de benefică și în interesul maselor; dar, la o cercetare atentă, este mai opresivă decât conducerea brutală a lui Genghis Khan, căpetenia mongolă din secolul al XIII-lea care a masacrat milioane de oameni]

*

Jawab-e-Shikwa

Allah’s Answer

A cry from the heart

is always redressed.

It may have no wings,

but still, it can fly.

The plaint genuine

looks up to the sky,

rises from the earth,

seeks fulfilment.

I am all impertinence,

my love, bent upon trouble:

my imprudent song

cleaves an azure sky.

The keeper of the firmaments said:

Someone is somewhere.

The planets looked to

the celestial throne.

The galaxy sensed

some hidden presence.

The moon differed: someone

from the earth, perhaps.

Only Rizwan, at Heavens’ Gate,

could appreciate my grouse.

He saw me for what I am –

son of Adam, ousted from paradise.

Angels too were astounded

by this terrestrial voice,

heavenly beings confounded

by its mysterious lilt.

Could a mere human

aspire to the sky?

An earthman,

who lacks all graces,

how could this

insolent dweller of the dirt,

this speck of dust,

grow wings?

What kind of pride

that he rants against Allah thus?

Is this the same Adam?

before whom angels genuflected?

Knowing this

and that and the other,

yet showing not

the slightest humility.

There is a conceit it men,

in their facility to speak,

yet these boorish ones

know not how to.

The Voice rang out:

Your story is filled with grief,

like a goblet brimming

with unspilled tears.

Your passionate lament

has rent the sky. How silken

is the voice of your besotted heart,

its wily ways

make gripes sound like praise.

Your eloquence

gives supplicants sanction

to speak with their Maker as equals.

Our bounties are abundant,

yet who craves for Us?

To whom

do We show the way?

There are no seekers,

no one is worthy

of this Jeweller’s keen gaze.

This is not the clay

with which We built Adam.

For the deserving,

We have Kai’s splendours

for the righteous, brave new worlds.

Your flesh is weak,

your heart devoid of Us,

the flock is a disgrace

to Our messenger.

Iconoclasts are gone,

makers of idols remain.

Father Abraham is gone,

Azar’s kin sustain.

You have new allies;

it is a new wine you brew.

In your new Ka’aba,

your idols are new, as are you.

Those were the days,

when Our love was to you

sublime. The flower of faith

unfolded in seasons of bloom, a time

when every Muslim

kept his faith in Allah.

He who once loved you

is the One you now call untrue.

Go now; find some deity,

and be enthralled.

Let the community of Muhammad

dwindle to just one place.

How heavy lies the burden

of dawn upon you. When

did you ever love Us?

It is your slumber you pursue.

Even Ramzan is as a penitentiary

for your casual ways.

You tell Us now, is this the mirror

of your constancy?

Only religion can keep you one,

without it you are as nothing.

With neither sentiment nor conviction,

there is no garden, there is no mehfil.

You are layabouts

with no skills useful to this world.

Snuffed out haystacks,

your hearts could never spark.

You couldn’t be bothered

about your homes or abodes,

your livelihood rests

on selling your fathers’ graves.

With fame and wealth

that comes from the trade of tombs,

what can prevent you cashing in

on gods made of stone?

Who erased falsehood

from the pages of time?

Who freed the race of men

from bondage?

Who restored My Ka’aba

with the sweat of their brow?

Who held My Qur’an

dearest to their hearts? Those

were your very forefathers,

but what are you?

Hand-wringers

wasting for a new dawn.

And your lament?

That is the lot of the Muslim

to remain content

with only promises of houris?

Complain if you must,

but at least show restraint.

It has always been Our way

to be just – for if the unbelievers

conduct themselves as good Muslims,

unto them are Our just fruits.

None among you aspire

for the houris of paradise.

Tor’s fire burns brightly,

but where is Moses?

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