The days we have marked for celebrations,
The rest in forgetfulness, we don’t explore
The splendour of Universe as it bestowed
The famous gift of language and rhythm
The unfolding mysteries and the songs
The birth of this poet, the Sufi of the east
What happened to those thoughts?
What happened to the message?
As we only celebrate,
With 21 guns salute and flowers
An enigma to all, the Universe around him,
The history of Islam, and its effect
Unforgettable tunes of Man and its defects.
As he created these visions of purity
The moments of realisation and khudi
All it contained, all it remained,
The old words that echoed
In Allahabad and in Lahore,
From the streets of London to Heidelberg
The flowers of his toil,
The poetry of freedom and its exercise
It is the conscience that requires,
The inheritance from the past,
To own and to live, as we foil ourselves
The daily routines in futile ways.
There lived once Iqbal, and his dreams
Their lived once Iqbal with his pen and thoughts
And us, the forgetful nation only in celebration
The days of their births and days of their deaths…
As I rotate in its rhythm and its silence,
The impounding gravity and its velocity
The inheritance of the past, our future
The eagle on the distant peak and its flight…