Iss Shair Se Hoti Nahin Shamsheer-e-Khudi Taiz
The Persian Muse is mirthsome and heart‐easing,
No whetstone for the sword‐edge of the self.
Behtar Hai Ke Khamosh Rahe Murgh-e-Sehar Khaiz
Better the song‐bird of the dawn be still,
Than by her notes lull flower-land into languor.
Woh Zarb Agar Koh Shikan Bhi Ho To Kya Hai
Jis Se Mutazalzal Na Huwi Doulat-e-Parviaz
What use the patient axe that hews through mountains
Yet leaves Parvez and his proud throne unscathed?
‘Az Har Che Ba-Aaeena Nama-Yand Ba Parhaiz’
This is an age, Iqbal, for craving flint:
From all glass‐wares they show you, turn away.