A poem

The world is under His proud power’s sway;
Whom all things were created to obey.
The sun itself is nothing but a mark;
Of long prostration on the brow of day.

My heart is lit up by an inner flame;
Tears of blood lend my eyes a cosmic frame.
May he stray farther from life’s mystery;
Who thinks that madness is Love’s other name.

This world is mere dust and the heart its fruit;
A drop of blood at all its troubles’ root!
If we had not a double vision, we;
Would find our world within our heart’s retreat.

O morning star, you came and swiftly fled,
Schocked, I suspect, to find us still in bed.
You keep to your course, always wide awake:
Of ours we, sleeping too long, lose the thread.

I cannot say what is foul and what fair:
The riddle is too hard for me to dare.
Outside the stem you see both rose and thorn;
Inside it neither rose nor thorn is there.

by Allama Iqbal