Remembering Allama Iqbal- Storm from the East


In weltering moment of olden times, devoid of fortune and direction
Cometh forward this man, we all know of him and his mind
This man Iqbal, the old Sufi from mystifying corners of Kashmir
The old hands that chalked, the old mind that walked in places different
Remembers him the old philosophers and their works, in the old city
See you him at Cordova, the old eyes of submission and grandeur
Hands that deployed wizardry of nature’s gaze and its remains
Not with us, gone now, words still remain in essence of mind and its fury
Words still remain of “khudi”, and the remembrance of our past
Remember this man, and the Old Persian literature, in Heidelberg
In Six months of trance, cometh forward the finest piece
The old literature and its art, the old hands that carved its landscape
The old questions, the old search, answered those questions I had
No longer I feel the need to write, No longer the need to stitch
Nay, my friend, the old teacher says, “write- pay heed to the needs of time”
Long time awaited they have, for this light to take effect,
Be the light for them all, suffered they have enough as the pain grows
Cometh forward, the old plains of Kashmir to the land of the old civilisations

Law is my career; but I will not entertain, only from the need to learn
The old potions of reason and logic, deployed in your presence
The old conversations with all, the architects of Pakistan and the sacrifice
Come you will one day, to rescue, the nation from its birth
In rhymes we will remember, in portraits we will sketch
Our existence and yours, as the hands that flowed like the artist’s brush
From Rumi to Goethe, the old combination of East and West as it surrounds
Where the river Rhine flows all in its might through climbs of the forest,
Here is where the old plaque rests; here is where you find Ufer Iqbal
The homage from the strangest of lands, the homes where Goethe grew

As the sketches of his mind travel from one place to another
In your reach, says Arnold, the e toils of human mind
In your reach, the intricacies of Universe, so find it
In your grasp, the languages of the old silk route and its people
In your hands, the language of the heart and mind
Travel you far; travel you deep, the old romance of philosophy
As they watched in silence, the man and his submission
In the old halls of grand mosque, lost in distant times,
Watched they him in awe, his words and the concepts of mind
As the old gypsies danced in its strange flutes where once grew
The old civilisation and its marks, the old recipients of change
As the years grew, as the moments unfolded in its discreet
In language of the East, and in words, the very creation of being
Rises in its fumes, the words of this man, the old concepts
Still in its place, intact, the fury of the mind and its effects

The old star signs guided you where you rest now, in your heart
As the road to discovery of you and your words still paves its way
Write you do the old affairs and transactions of politics and its art
Write you do, on the old structures of history and religion
The old stones that led to discover, the old hands that made you write
As the old revival of civilisation, created from the need to share and transfer
The old civilisation, where horses rode in farthest corners in their flight
Where scholars gathered to cast a spell, the world never seen it before
Gathers a crowd to see him and his mind, like an old tale and legend
Amazed in their presence, the old teacher reminds them of this Iqbal
Know me of you, in few thousands or perhaps, but this man
Know him the whole world one day, so here is where I sit in his presence

The old Sufi, THE poet of the East, as the words begin to form
The old canvas of human mind and the connection with the heart
The old birth of this star and its light, where moments are explored
Where minds are drawn towards its discovery, with us this man Iqbal
Gather in its paces still as the world gaze, as his mind set ablaze
The old fury in its pace and might, travel you will far to farthest corners
The old traveller and the nomad, as the words begin to migrate
As faces begin to form the old patterns, as memory begins to arrive
As the eagles begin to fly unaided in their flight, through piercing sky
Sweeps away in silence his words, as they watch the old dervish
Storm from the East, as it travels to farthest corners of thy existence!

KASHKIN

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