*
al Treilea sfetnic al lui
Iblis spune:
We have no reason to panic as long as
the spirit of imperialism is intact,
But, does anything match the mischief
of that shrewd Jew?
comentariu:
[referindu-se la Karl Marx, al treilea sfetnic se bucură că democrația nu este o amenințare pentru Imperiul lui Iblis; dar, este îngrijorat de ridicarea marxismului]
He is Moses (a) without the miracles and
Jesus (a) without the cross,
Though not a prophet,
he carries a book under his arm.
comentariu:
[aduce în discuție lucrarea Das Kapital a lui Karl Marx]
How can I explain the power of the
piercing vision of that infidel!
It is doomsday for the nations
of both the East and the West.
What will better manifest the
devastation of human nature?
The slaves have severed the ropes
of their masters’ tents.
comentariu:
[influențat de Karl Marx și filosofia lui, clasele muncitoare s-au revoltat împotriva stăpânilor tradiționali; al treilea sfetnic argumentează astfel că marxismul este cea mai mare provocare pentru Regimul Satanic]
al Patrulea sfetnic al lui
Iblis spune:
Look for its antidote in the palaces
of the great Roman empire.
We have revived the Caesar’s dream
in the progeny of Caesar.
comentariu:
[se referă la Benito Mussolini al Italiei și ideologia fascistă]
Who remains engulfed in the waves
of the Mediterranean?
‘At one moment, it grows like a giant pine and
at the next, it meekly wails like a rebab’.
comentariu:
[Rebab este un instrument asemănător cobzei]
al Treilea sfetnic al lui
Iblis spune:
I’m not satisfied with his farsightedness.
Who has so effectively exposed
the politics of Europe.
comentariu:
[al treilea sfetnic recunoaște puterea fascismului; această mișcare a dezvăluit antisemitismul ascuns în inimile și mințile așa-ziselor națiuni liberale europene. Ascensiunea rapidă a fascismului și vărsarea de sânge ce a urmat în Europa au demonstrat vulnerabilitatea tradițiilor liberale ale Occidentului; totuși, în același timp, el afirmă că nu este convins de capacitatea ideologiei lui Mussolini de a învinge marxismul pe termen lung]
*
Jawab-e-Shikwa
Allah’s Answer
Your prosperity
is as a community,
as is your decline,
your Prophet is one,
as is your religion and your faith.
The Ka’aba is one,
as is Allah and the Qur’an,
is it too much to ask
that the Muslims be one?
Here, you see factions
and there, you see castes.
In times like these,
is this the way of progress?
Who has abandoned
Our Prophet’s message?
The keeping of time
is the sum total of your days.
Whose eyes are filled
with foreign mores? Whose gaze
has turned away
from their forefathers’ ways?
Your hearts have lost passion;
your souls have no feeling.
What is left in you
of Muhammad’s teachings?
It is the poor
who make up the ranks at Our mosques.
It is the poor
who graciously bear the burden of fasts.
Only the poor
still praise Our Name.
It is they who stand
between Us and your shame.
Inebriated by your wealth,
you snub Us, but know this –
only the faith of the poor
keeps your fraternity breathing.
Your sermonizers
can no longer think clearly,
no more are minds ignited,
words no longer sear.
You only philosophize,
Ghazali stays unread.
The azan is called by rote,
without Bilal’s fervour.
Woe, the silent mosques,
devoid of the devout,
no longer filled with ranks
of the men of Hijaz.
The word is out –
the Muslims have all but gone.
We ask –
were they even there?
Your lifestyle ape the Nazarenes, your ways
are the ways of the Hindus,
Muslims like you
would put to shame the Jews.
You call yourselves
Sayyads and Mirzas and Afghans,
you call yourselves everything,
dare you call yourselves Musalman?
A Muslim’s speech
had forthrightness and truth,
his sense of justice
both unbiased and pure,
brave in adversity,
in personality, a colossus,
yet modest by nature.
Clear as tree sap.
self-effacement was his essence,
like the cup that empties
so that others may be filled.
With duty and submission,
twin jewels in his mirror,
like a razor slicing
through the veins of falsehood,
every Muslim relied
on the strength of his own arms.
While you fear death,
he only feared God, but
if a son learns nothing
from his father’s wisdom,
how can he stake a claim
to his father’s legacy?
Everyone is punch-drunk
with the wine of indulgence.
You call yourselves Muslim?
Are these your sacred ways?
You have not Ali’s spartan ideals,
nor Usman’s wealth. What then
is common between
your forebears and you? They,
who commanded respect
just for being Muslim; you,
who are spurned, have turned
away from the Qur’an?
They were kindness itself;
you squabble among yourselves;
they were all-forgiving; you,
no saints, find fault everywhere.
Everyone dreams extravagantly –
so you wish to scale the Pleiades,
but is there even one
born of you who can achieve this?
They sat on China’s throne,
all of Persia was theirs;
do you have that much in you,
or are you only so much hot air?
They lived with self-respect,
you have an appetite for destruction;
they would die for their brothers,
you would kill your own kin;
they lived by their deeds,
you blabber endlessly;
they had gardens to themselves,
while you scrounge for buds.
To this day the world
remembers their glory,
their deeds written deep
in the annals of time.
Your burst out the firmament
like shooting stars,
abandoned your nests,
took to the skies,
unscrupulous youth
you set your faith aside,
and like Brahmins
indulged in a passion for idols.
New times, new ways
freed you from every restraint,
out of the Ka’aba and into houses
of idolatry you went.
Quais may disdain
the desert’s solitude,
lose his taste for valley wine,
soak in city airs.
Crazy Quais, in and out
of passion’s embrace; why then
should Laila not lift her veil,
and show her face?
If there is no one to complain
against brutality, no one to take issue
against repression, and love is set free,
why then should modesty be restrained?
These are the days of lightning,
every haystack set aflame –
nothing, desert or garden,
is free from its bloom.
The old ways are only fuel
to this new fire, even
the Prophet’s all-embracing cloak
could be consumed.
Yet, if today
Abraham’s faith were to be reborn,
this very fire
could nourish a new garden.
O Gardener!
Do not be concerned
about its barrenness, its branches
will soon glisten with galaxies of buds.
The garden will soon
be rid of weeds, and blossom
with flowers hued
in martyrs’ blood.
Look! The eastern skies
are all singed with red,
isn’t this a presentiment
of the rising sun?
There are some in the garden
who reap what they sow,
others weep, for the harvest
has left nothing to show.
So many remain evergreen,
many are left threadbare,
so many wait beneath the earth
for their turn to grow.
Islam’s tree is one such,
tended with care,
its flourishing
the yield of years of nurture.
Islamica Republică 