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Dedication to the Muslim Community
You, who were made by God to be the Seal 
Of all the peoples dwelling upon earth,
That all beginnings might in you find end;
Whose saints were prophetlike, whose wounded hearts
Wove into unity the souls of men;
Why are you fallen now so far astray
From Mecca’s holy Kaaba, all bemused
By the strange beauty of the Christian’s way?
The very skies are but a gathering
Of your street’s dust, yourselves the cynosure
Of all men’s eyes; whither in restless hate
Do you now hurry like a storm-tossed wave,
What new diversion seeking? No, but learn
The mystery of ardour from the moth
And make your lodgement in the burning flame;
Lay Love’s foundation-stone in your own soul,
And to the Prophet pledge anew your troth.
My mind was weary of Christian company,
When suddenly your beauty stoop unveiled.
My fellow-minstrel sang the epiphany 
Of alien loveliness, the lovelorn theme
Of tresses and soft cheeks, and rubbed his brow
Against the saki’s door, rehearsed the chant
Of Magian wenches. I would martyr be
To your brow’s scimitar, am fain to rest
Like dust upon your street. Too proud am I
To mouth base panegyrics, or to bow
My stubborn head to every tyrant’s court.
Trained up to fashion mirrors out of words,
I need not Alexander’s magic glass. 
My neck endures not men’s munificence;
Where roses bloom, I gather close the skirt
Of my soul’s bud. Hard as the dagger’s steel
I labour in this life, my lustre win
From the tough granite. Though I am a sea,
Not restless is my billow; in my hand
I hold no whirlpool bowl. A painted veil
Am I, no blossom’s perfume-scattering,
No prey to every billowing breeze that blows.
I am a glowing coal within Life’s fire,
And wrap me in my embers for a cloak.
And now my soul comes suppliant to your door
Bringing a gift of ardour passionate.
A mighty water out of heaven’s deep
Momently trickles o’er my burning breast,
The which I channel narrower than a brook
That I may fling it in your garden’s dish.
Because you are beloved by him I love
I fold you to me closely as my heart.
Since Love first made the breast an instrument
Of fierce lamenting, by its flame my heart
Was molten to a mirror; like a rose
I pluck my breast apart, that I may hang
This mirror in your sight. Gaze you therein
On your own beauty, and you shall become
A captive fettered in your tresses’ chain.
I chant again the tale of long ago,
To bid your bosom’s old wounds bleed anew.
So for a people no more intimate
With its own soul I supplicated God,
That He might grant to them a firm-knit life.
In the mid watch of night, when all the world
Was hushed in slumber, I made loud lament;
My spirit robbed of patience and repose,
Unto the Living and Omnipotent God
I made my litany; my yearning heart
Surged, till its blood streamed from my weeping eyes.
“How long, O Lord, how long the tulip-glow,
The begging of cool dewdrops from the dawn?
Lo, like a candle wrestling with the night
O’er my own self I pour my flooding tears.”
I spent my self, that there might be more light,
More loveliness, more joy for other men.
Not for one moment takes my ardent breast
Repose from burning; Friday does not shame 
My restless week of unremitting toil.
Wasted is now my spirit’s envelope;
My glowing sigh is sullied all with dust.
When God created me at Time’s first dawn
A lamentation quivered on the strings
Of my melodious lute, and in that note
Love’s secrets stood revealed, the ransom-price
Of the long sadness of the tale of Love;
Which music even to sapless straw imparts
The ardency of fire, and on dull clay
Bestows the daring of the reckless moth.
Love, like the tulip, has one brand at heart,
And on its bosom wears a single rose;
And so my solitary rose I pin
Upon your turban, and cry havoc loud
Against your drunken slumber, hoping yet
Tulips may blossom from your earth anew
Breathing the fragrance of the breeze of Spring.
Of the Bond between Individual and Community
THE link that binds the Individual
To the Society a Mercy is;
His truest Self in the Community
Alone achieves fulfilment. Wherefore be
So far as in thee lies in close rapport
With thy Society, and lustre bring
To the wide intercourse of free-born men.
Keep for thy talisman these words he spoke
That was the best of mortals: “Satan holds 
His furthest distance where men congregate.”
The Individual a Mirror holds
To the Community, and they to him;
He is a jewel threaded on their cord,
A star that in their constellation shines;
He wins respect as being one of them,
And the Society is organized
As by comprising many such as he.
When in the Congregation he is lost
‘Tis like a drop which, seeking to expand,
Becomes an ocean. It is strong and rich
In ancient ways, a mirror to the Past
As to the Future, and the link between
What is to come, and what has gone before,
So that its moments are as infinite
As is Eternity. The joy of growth
Swells in his heart from the Community,
That watches and controls his every deed;
To them he owes his body and his soul,
Alike his outward and his hidden parts.
His thoughts are vocal on the People’s tongue,
And on the pathway that his forebears laid
He learns to run. His immaturity
Is warmed to ripeness by their friendship’s flame,
Till he becomes one with the Commonwealth.
His singleness in multiplicity
Is firm and stable, and itself supplies
A unity to their innumerate swarm.
The word that sits outside its proper verse 
Shatters the jewel of the thought concealed
Within its pocket; when the verdant leaf
Falls from the stem, its thread of hope for Spring
Is snapped asunder. He who has not drunk
The water of the People’s sacred well, 
The flames of minstrelsy within his lute
Grow cold, and die. The Individual,
Alone, is heedless of high purposes;
His strenght is apt to dissipate itself;
The People only make him intimate
With discipline, teach him to be as soft
And tractable as is the gentle breeze,
Set him in earth like a well-rooted oak,
Close-fetter him, to make him truly free.
When he is prisoner to the chain of Law
His deer, by nature wild and uncontrolled, 
Yields in captivity the precious musk.
Thou, who hast not known Self from Selflessness,
Therefore hast lost thyself in vain surmise.
Within thy dust there is an element
Of Light, whose single shaft illuminates
Thy whole perception; all thy joy derives
From its enjoyment, all thy sorrow springs
From its distress; its constant change and turn
Keep thee in vital being. It is one
And, being one, brooks no duality;
Grace to its glow I am myself, thou thou.
Preserving self, staking and making self,
Nourishing pride in meek humility,
It is a flame that sets a fire alight,
A spark that overshoots the blazing torch.
Its nature is to be both free and bond;
Itself a part, it has the potency
To seize the whole. I have beheld its wont
Is strife incessant, and have called its name
Selfhood, and Life. Whenever it comes forth
From its seclusion, and discreetly steps
Into the riot of phenomena
Its heart is impressed with the stamp of “he”,
“I” is dissolved, converting into “thou”.
Compusion cuts the freedom of its choice,
Making it rich in love. While pride of self
Pulls its own way, humility is not born;
Pull pride together, and humility
Comes into being. Self negates itself
In the Community, that it may be
No more a petal, but a rosary.
“These subtleties are like a steely sword: 
If they defeat thy wit, quick, flee away!”
 Muhammad ﷺ este numit Pecetea Profeților întrucât, prin el, Allah a încheiat șirul revelațiilor Sale pogorâte omenirii; Iqbal întrebuințează sintagma ilustrând Comunitatea Islamică precum Pecetea Popoarelor.
 mențiunea se referă la uzuanțele poeților, în urdu, de a imita stilul regăsit în Persia al poeziei de dragoste. Țara Persiei este conceptualizată în versul de față, și în alte versuri, ca simbol al îndepărtării, în religie, de strictele rigori și acceptarea influențelor străine pe care Iqbal le percepe cauze de căpătâi ale degenerării islamului.
 Alexandru cel Mare, se povestește într-o legendă persană, deținea o magică oglindă în care întrezărea lumea întreagă.
 vinerea este, desigur, Sabatul musulman.
 „Cel mai bun dintre muritori” este Muhammad ﷺ; Iqbal parafrazează o relatare atribuită lui.
 un vers, în teoria poeziei persane, trebuie să fie de la sine-înțeles, și este considerat cu greșeli dacă necesită completări prin cuvinte, propoziții sau fraze în versuri anterioare sau ulterioare.
 „fântâna sacră” se referă la Zemzem, fântâna Meccăi de la care pelerinii musulmani iau apă și beau.
 moscul cerbului, mult prețuit de către persani, poate fi colectat doar de la un cerb viu.
 acest vers și următorul citează din marele mistic-poet Rumi (1207-1273).
Art is a sacred lie.
Our soul discovers itself when we come into contact with a great mind. It is not until I had realised the infinitude of Goethe’s imagination that I discovered the narrow breadth of my own.
Human intellects is nature’s attempts at self-criticism.
THE ECONOMICS OF CHARITY
The charitable man really helps the non-charitable, not the indigent. For what is given to the poor is virtually given away to those who do not give anything to the poor. The non-charitable, therefore, are kept in their state of non-benevolence, and the benevolent man pays for them. This is the economics of charity.
THE EXISTENCE OF GOD
My friends often ask me, “Do you believe in the existence of God?” I think I am entitled to know the meanings of the terms used in this question before I answer it. My friends ought to explain to me what they mean by “believe”, “existence” and “God”, especially by the last two, if they want an answer to their question. I confess I do not understand these terms; and whenever I cross-examine them I find that they do not understand them either.
Heart: – “It is absolutely certain that God does exist.”
Head: – “But, my dear boy! existence is one of my categories, and you have no right to use it.”
Heart: – “So much the better, my Aristotle!”
THE SATISFACTION OF VANITY
The satisfaction of vanity has an economic value with us. Call me Sub-Assistant Surgeon instead of Hospital Assistant and I am quite contented even if you do not increase my salary.
Excuse me a bit of cruel psychology. You fail in your enterprise, and now you wish to leave your home and try your luck in other climes. It is not because your ambition has received a fresh spur from your failure; but chiefly because you wish to hide your face from those who have witnessed your failure.
THE POWER OF BELIEF
Belief is a great power. When I see that a proposition of mine is believed by another mind, my own conviction of its truth is thereby immensely increased.
THE GOD OF ISLAM
Christianity describes God as love; Islam as power. How shall we decide between the two conceptions? I think the history of mankind and of the universe as a whole must tell us as to which of the two conceptions is truer. I find that God reveals Himself in history more as power than love. I do not deny the love of God; I mean that, on the basis of our historical experience, God is better described as power.