On the Banks of the Rāvi
by Muhammad Iqbal (1877-1938)
I am standing on the banks
but I have no idea where I am.
The sun — old man of sky —
a goblet in his trembling hands
spills wine, dipping the hem
of evening in red. The day
drinks itself into oblivion,
raining rose petals on a grave at dusk.
Rāvī’s low and high rhythm urge me
to bow in silent prayer. Do not ask
how my heart feels. My world
is a precinct of the Ka’ba.
Far off, amplifying the solitude,
are minarets of Jahangir’s tomb —
history book about cruelty, still place
like silent music only trees hear?
A boat swiftly rides Rāvī’s breast,
the boatman struggles with waves,
and swift as a glance moves quickly
far away from the orb of sight; so
does the ship of man’s life born into
a sea of eternity never recognizing
defeat — out of sight
yet at no time shipwrecked.
***
Translated from the original Urdu by Rafiq Kathwari