Sicily
By Mohammad Iqbal
Ah! Cradle of a civilization
tomb of Muslim culture —
mole on the cheek of the sea
guide in a desert of water,
tell me your story, your sorrow —
show me the glory of ancient days.
I weep tears of blood at the distant din
of Bedouins for whom the sea was a playground,
in whose fervent swords lightning flashed—
they freed mankind from fantasy
shook the earth
beneath the throne of pashas,
chanting, “God is Great.”
Is that chanting forever silent
though its echo still delights?
Just as Saadi,
the nightingale of Shiraz,
wailed when Baghdad was sacked
and just as Ibn-e-Badrun’s heart was broken
when the heavens scattered the wealth
of Granada to the winds
and just as Daag sobbed tears of blood
when Delhi, his beloved
Shahjahanabad, was razed —‑
now destiny has directed Iqbal,
a speck of dust in the wake of lost caravans,
to repaint your canvas with sighs,
carry your gift to India and make her sigh too
at waves sobbing forever on your rocky shores
relating the story of ruins.
Translated, from the original Urdu, by Rafiq Kathwari / @brownpundit