Poetry in Translation

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