The Mosque of Cordoba
Masjid-e-Qurtuba
Masjid-e-Qurtuba, 'The Mosque of Cordoba', is widely held to be the finest single poem Iqbal wrote in Urdu. He composed it after travelling to Spain in 1933 and standing inside the great mosque of Cordoba, a building raised at the height of Muslim Spain and later, after the Reconquista, consecrated as a cathedral. The poem grew directly out of that encounter with a structure that had outlived the civilisation that built it.
It opens not with the mosque but with time itself. Iqbal watches the unbroken chain of day and night and sees in it the workshop in which all life is shaped and then unmade. Everything caught in that chain is mortal: empires, peoples, the speaker himself. The poem's first movement is a clear-eyed acknowledgement of decay. Whatever exists in time will be undone by time, first and last, inner and outer, the old design and the new alike.
Then the poem asks its real question. If everything passes, is anything permanent? Iqbal's answer is the heart of the work. The one thing that escapes time's destruction is the deed of true love, ishq, the deed of a man of God poured out without calculation. The mosque is his proof. It was built not by mere skill but by devotion, by faith and blood of the heart pressed into stone, and so it still stands, luminous, centuries after its makers turned to dust.
From there the poem widens. Iqbal addresses the mosque directly, calls himself an Indian outside its creed who is still moved to tears by it, then turns to the believer, to the lost glory of Muslim Spain, and to his own restless age. Read it slowly, section by section. It thinks hard and it burns, and the two were never separate for Iqbal. The argument it builds is simple enough to carry out of any temple, church or mosque: what you make in cold calculation fades with you; what you make out of love has already stepped, a little, outside of time.
What follows is the whole poem, stanza by stanza — the verse in Roman and in Devanagari, a plain English translation, and a short note on each stanza. For the shorter overview of what the poem is and why it matters, read the decoded page.
Masjid-e-Qurtuba — in full
8 stanzas. Verse transcribed from the original.
Silsila-e-roz-o-shab asl-e-hayat-o-mamat
Silsila-e-roz-o-shab tar-e-harir-e-do-rang
Jis se banati hai zaat apni qaba-e-sifat
Silsila-e-roz-o-shab saaz-e-azal ki fughan
Jis se dikhati hai zaat zer-o-bam-e-mumkinat
Tujh ko parakhta hai ye mujh ko parakhta hai ye
Silsila-e-roz-o-shab sairafi-e-kainat
सिलसिला-ए-रोज़-ओ-शब अस्ल-ए-हयात-ओ-ममात
सिलसिला-ए-रोज़-ओ-शब तार-ए-हरीर-ए-दो-रंग
जिस से बनाती है ज़ात अपनी क़बा-ए-सिफ़ात
सिलसिला-ए-रोज़-ओ-शब साज़-ए-अज़ल की फ़ुग़ाँ
जिस से दिखाती है ज़ात ज़ेर-ओ-बम-ए-मुम्किनात
तुझ को परखता है ये मुझ को परखता है ये
सिलसिला-ए-रोज़-ओ-शब सैरफ़ी-ए-काएनात
The chain of day and night is the maker of all events; the chain of day and night is the root of life and of death. The chain of day and night is a two-coloured thread of silk, from which the Self weaves its own robe of attributes. The chain of day and night is the lament of time's first instrument, by which the Self reveals the high and low notes of all that is possible. It tests you and it tests me, this chain of day and night, the moneychanger of the universe, weighing every coin.
Iqbal begins not with the mosque but with time. Day and night are imagined as a workshop, a loom, a stringed instrument and finally an assayer of coins, all images of something that both creates and judges. The reader, the poet and the mosque itself are all coins being tested.
Maut hai teri barat maut hai meri barat
Tere shab-o-roz ki aur haqiqat hai kya
Ek zamane ki rau jis mein na din hai na raat
Aani-o-fani tamam mojaza-ha-e-hunar
Kar-e-jahan be-sabat kar-e-jahan be-sabat
Avval-o-aakhir fana batin-o-zahir fana
Naqsh-e-kuhan ho ki nau manzil-e-aakhir fana
मौत है तेरी बरात मौत है मेरी बरात
तेरे शब-ओ-रोज़ की और हक़ीक़त है क्या
एक ज़माने की रौ जिस में न दिन है न रात
आनी-ओ-फ़ानी तमाम मोजज़ा-हा-ए-हुनर
कार-ए-जहाँ बे-सबात कार-ए-जहाँ बे-सबात
अव्वल-ओ-आख़िर फ़ना बातिन-ओ-ज़ाहिर फ़ना
नक़्श-ए-कुहन हो कि नौ मंज़िल-ए-आख़िर फ़ना
If you prove of poor metal, and I prove of poor metal, then death is the wedding-procession that waits for you and for me alike. And what, after all, is the real nature of your days and nights? A single current of time in which there is neither day nor night. Fleeting and perishable are all the marvels that skill can make. The work of this world has no permanence, no permanence at all. First and last, it passes away; inner and outer, it passes away. The old design or the new, the final destination of both is to be undone.
This is the bleakest movement of the poem. Iqbal presses the verdict to its limit: every made thing, every clever marvel, decays. By stating the worst case so plainly, he prepares the ground for the single exception he is about to name.
Jis ko kiya ho kisi mard-e-Khuda ne tamam
Mard-e-Khuda ka amal ishq se sahib-farogh
Ishq hai asl-e-hayat maut hai us par haram
Tund-o-subuk-sair hai garche zamane ki rau
Ishq Khud ek sail hai sail ko leta hai tham
Ishq ki taqwim mein asr-e-rawan ke siwa
Aur zamane bhi hain jin ka nahin koi naam
Ishq dam-e-Jibrail ishq dil-e-Mustafa
Ishq Khuda ka rasul ishq Khuda ka kalam
Ishq ki masti se hai paikar-e-gil tabnak
Ishq hai sahba-e-Kham ishq hai kaas-ul-kiram
Ishq faqih-e-haram ishq amir-e-junud
Ishq hai ibn-us-sabil is ke hazaron maqam
जिस को किया हो किसी मर्द-ए-ख़ुदा ने तमाम
मर्द-ए-ख़ुदा का अमल इश्क़ से साहिब-फ़रोग़
इश्क़ है अस्ल-ए-हयात मौत है उस पर हराम
तुंद-ओ-सुबुक-सैर है गरचे ज़माने की रौ
इश्क़ ख़ुद इक सैल है सैल को लेता है थाम
इश्क़ की तक़्वीम में अस्र-ए-रवाँ के सिवा
और ज़माने भी हैं जिन का नहीं कोई नाम
इश्क़ दम-ए-जिब्रईल इश्क़ दिल-ए-मुस्तफ़ा
इश्क़ ख़ुदा का रसूल इश्क़ ख़ुदा का कलाम
इश्क़ की मस्ती से है पैकर-ए-गिल ताबनाक
इश्क़ है सहबा-ए-ख़ाम इश्क़ है कास-उल-किराम
इश्क़ फ़क़ीह-ए-हरम इश्क़ अमीर-ए-जुनूद
इश्क़ है इब्न-उस-सबील इस के हज़ारों मक़ाम
And yet there is one design that holds the colour of lasting permanence: the design that some man of God has carried through to completion. The deed of the man of God is made radiant by love. Love is the root of life, and death is forbidden to touch it. Swift and light-footed though the current of time runs, love is itself a flood, and it takes that flood and holds it still. In love's own calendar there are, besides the present age, other ages too, that bear no name. Love is the breath of Gabriel, love the heart of the Chosen One; love is God's messenger, love is the very word of God. By the rapture of love the form of clay is set alight. Love is the unaged wine, love the cup held out to the noble. Love is the jurist of the sanctuary, love the commander of armies; love is the traveller of the road, with a thousand resting-places of its own.
Here the poem turns. The one exception to universal decay is the deed done in love by a person wholly given to God. Iqbal then pours out a long litany defining ishq, ranging from the angel Gabriel to wine to a wandering traveller. Love is the single force that can stand still inside the rushing river of time.
Ishq se nur-e-hayat ishq se nar-e-hayat
Ai haram-e-Qurtuba ishq se tera wajud
Ishq sarapa dawam jis mein nahin raft-o-bud
Rang ho ya Khisht-o-sang chang ho ya harf-o-saut
Mojaza-e-fan ki hai Khun-e-jigar se numud
Qatra-e-Khun-e-jigar sil ko banata hai dil
Khun-e-jigar se sada soz-o-surur-o-surud
Teri faza dil-faroz meri nawa sina-soz
Tujh se dilon ka huzur mujh se dilon ki kushud
Arsh-e-moalla se kam sina-e-Adam nahin
Garche kaf-e-Khak ki had hai sipihar-e-kabud
Paikar-e-nuri ko hai sajda mayassar to kya
Us ko mayassar nahin soz-o-gudaz-e-sajud
इश्क़ से नूर-ए-हयात इश्क़ से नार-ए-हयात
ऐ हरम-ए-क़ुर्तुबा इश्क़ से तेरा वजूद
इश्क़ सरापा दवाम जिस में नहीं रफ़्त-ओ-बूद
रंग हो या ख़िश्त-ओ-संग चंग हो या हर्फ़-ओ-सौत
मोजज़ा-ए-फ़न की है ख़ून-ए-जिगर से नुमूद
क़तरा-ए-ख़ून-ए-जिगर सिल को बनाता है दिल
ख़ून-ए-जिगर से सदा सोज़-ओ-सुरूर-ओ-सुरूद
तेरी फ़ज़ा दिल-फ़रोज़ मेरी नवा सीना-सोज़
तुझ से दिलों का हुज़ूर मुझ से दिलों की कुशूद
अर्श-ए-मोअल्ला से कम सीना-ए-आदम नहीं
गरचे कफ़-ए-ख़ाक की हद है सिपहर-ए-कबूद
पैकर-ए-नूरी को है सज्दा मयस्सर तो क्या
उस को मयस्सर नहीं सोज़-ओ-गुदाज़-ए-सजूद
From the plectrum of love comes the melody of life's own string; from love the light of life, from love the fire of life. O sanctuary of Cordoba, your very existence is owed to love. Love is permanence from head to foot, and in it there is no coming and going. Whether it be colour, or brick and stone, or the lute, or word and sound, every miracle of art comes into being from the blood of the heart. One drop of the heart's blood turns a slab of stone into a living heart; from the heart's blood come ardour and joy and song. Your air kindles hearts, my song burns the breast; through you hearts find their nearness to God, through me hearts are opened wide. The breast of Adam is no lesser than the highest heaven, though a handful of dust is bounded by the blue sky above. The angel of pure light may be granted prostration, but what of it? It is not granted the burning and melting of the act of prostration.
Iqbal makes the mosque his evidence. It endures because it was built from the heart's blood, his recurring image for sacrifice and feeling poured into a work. The closing couplet is a quiet boast for the human being: the angel can bow, but only a person of flesh can bow with the inner fire that gives the act its worth.
Dil mein salat-o-durud lab pe salat-o-durud
Shauq meri lai mein hai shauq meri nai mein hai
Naghma-e-Allah-hu mere rag-o-pai mein hai
Tera jalal-o-jamal mard-e-Khuda ki dalil
Wo bhi jalil-o-jamil tu bhi jalil-o-jamil
Teri bina paedar tere sutun be-shumar
Sham ke sahra mein ho jaise hujum-e-nuKhil
Tere dar-o-baam par wadi-e-Aiman ka nur
Tera minar-e-buland jalwa-gah-e-Jibrail
MiT nahin sakta kabhi mard-e-musalman ki hai
Us ki azanon se fash sirr-e-Kalim-o-Khalil
Us ki zamin be-hudud us ka ufuq be-saghur
Us ke samundar ki mauj Dajla-o-Danyub-o-Nil
दिल में सलात-ओ-दुरूद लब पे सलात-ओ-दुरूद
शौक़ मिरी लय में है शौक़ मिरी नय में है
नग़्मा-ए-अल्लाह-हू मेरे रग-ओ-पय में है
तेरा जलाल-ओ-जमाल मर्द-ए-ख़ुदा की दलील
वो भी जलील-ओ-जमील तू भी जलील-ओ-जमील
तेरी बिना पाएदार तेरे सुतूँ बे-शुमार
शाम के सहरा में हो जैसे हुजूम-ए-नुख़ील
तेरे दर-ओ-बाम पर वादी-ए-ऐमन का नूर
तेरा मिनार-ए-बुलंद जल्वा-गह-ए-जिब्रील
मिट नहीं सकता कभी मर्द-ए-मुसलमाँ कि है
उस की अज़ानों से फ़ाश सिर्र-ए-कलीम-ओ-ख़लील
उस की ज़मीं बे-हुदूद उस का उफ़ुक़ बे-सग़ूर
उस के समुंदर की मौज दजला-ओ-दनयूब-ओ-नील
I am an unbeliever from India; look at the ardour and longing in me. In my heart is the prayer of blessing, on my lips the prayer of blessing. Longing is in my melody, longing is in my reed; the song of God's name runs in my every vein and sinew. Your majesty and beauty are proof of the man of God: he too is majestic and lovely, and you too are majestic and lovely. Your foundation is enduring, your pillars beyond counting, like a dense grove of palm trees standing in the deserts of Syria. On your doors and rooftops lies the light of the blessed valley of Sinai; your soaring minaret is the place where Gabriel shows his glory. The Muslim man can never be erased, for through his calls to prayer the secret of Moses and of Abraham stands revealed. His land is without bounds, his horizon without limit; the waves of his ocean are the Tigris, the Danube and the Nile.
Iqbal places himself in the poem with striking honesty. He calls himself an outsider to the faith that built the mosque, an Indian unbeliever, and yet confesses he is moved to the depths by it. That admission is the cross-faith pulse of the poem: beauty made in love speaks across every border of creed.
Ahd-e-kuhan ko diya us ne payam-e-rahil
Saqi-e-rabab-e-zauq faras-e-maidan-e-shauq
Bada hai us ka rahiq tegh hai us ki asil
Mard-e-sipahi hai wo us ki zirah la-ilah
Saya-e-shamshir mein us ki panah la-ilah
Tujh se hua aashkar banda-e-momin ka raaz
Us ke dinon ki tapish us ki shabon ka gudaz
Us ka maqam-e-buland us ka Khayal-e-azim
Us ka surur us ka shauq us ka niyaz us ka naz
Hath hai Allah ka banda-e-momin ka hath
Ghalib-o-kar-afrin kar-kusha karsaz
Khaki-o-nuri-nihad banda-e-maula-sifat
Har do-jahan se ghani us ka dil-e-be-niyaz
Us ki umiden qalil us ke maqasid jalil
Us ki ada dil-fareb us ki nigah dil-nawaz
Narm dam-e-guftugu garm dam-e-justuju
Razm ho ya bazm ho pak-dil-o-pak-baz
Nuqta-e-parkar-e-haq mard-e-Khuda ka yaqin
Aur ye aalam tamam wahm-o-tilism-o-majaz
Aql ki manzil hai wo ishq ka hasil hai wo
Halqa-e-afaq mein garmi-e-mahfil hai wo
अहद-ए-कुहन को दिया उस ने पयाम-ए-रहील
साक़ी-ए-रबाब-ए-ज़ौक़ फ़ारस-ए-मैदान-ए-शौक़
बादा है उस का रहीक़ तेग़ है उस की असील
मर्द-ए-सिपाही है वो उस की ज़िरह ला-इलाह
साया-ए-शमशीर में उस की पनह ला-इलाह
तुझ से हुआ आश्कार बंदा-ए-मोमिन का राज़
उस के दिनों की तपिश उस की शबों का गुदाज़
उस का मक़ाम-ए-बुलंद उस का ख़याल-ए-अज़ीम
उस का सुरूर उस का शौक़ उस का नियाज़ उस का नाज़
हाथ है अल्लाह का बंदा-ए-मोमिन का हाथ
ग़ालिब-ओ-कार-आफ़रीं कार-कुशा कारसाज़
ख़ाकी-ओ-नूरी-निहाद बंदा-ए-मौला-सिफ़ात
हर दो-जहाँ से ग़नी उस का दिल-ए-बे-नियाज़
उस की उमीदें क़लील उस के मक़ासिद जलील
उस की अदा दिल-फ़रेब उस की निगह दिल-नवाज़
नर्म दम-ए-गुफ़्तुगू गर्म दम-ए-जुस्तुजू
रज़्म हो या बज़्म हो पाक-दिल-ओ-पाक-बाज़
नुक़्ता-ए-परकार-ए-हक़ मर्द-ए-ख़ुदा का यक़ीं
और ये आलम तमाम वहम-ओ-तिलिस्म-ओ-मजाज़
अक़्ल की मंज़िल है वो इश्क़ का हासिल है वो
हल्क़ा-ए-आफ़ाक़ में गर्मी-ए-महफ़िल है वो
His ages were wondrous, his tales remarkable; he gave to the old order its summons to depart. He is the cupbearer of feeling's lute, the horseman of longing's field; his wine is pure nectar and his sword is finely tempered. He is a soldier, and his armour is 'there is no god but God'; in the shade of the sword his refuge is 'there is no god but God'. Through you the secret of the faithful soul stood revealed: the heat of his days, the tenderness of his nights. His lofty station, his vast thought, his rapture, his longing, his humility, his pride. The hand of the faithful soul is the hand of God: victorious, creative, an opener of difficulties, a doer of work. Made of dust and yet of light, a servant who bears the Master's traits, his contented heart is richer than both the worlds. His hopes are few, his aims are exalted; his manner wins the heart, his gaze caresses it. Gentle in conversation, ardent in the quest; in battle or in gathering alike, pure of heart and pure of conduct. The fixed point of truth's compass is the certainty of the man of God, while all this world is mere fancy, enchantment and illusion. He is the goal that reason seeks, he is the harvest love brings in; within the ring of the horizons, he is the warmth of the gathering.
This is the portrait at the centre of the poem: not the mosque but the kind of person who could raise it. The man of true faith is soldier and lover at once, gentle and ardent, and the building outside is simply the visible record of what such a person carries within.
Tujh se haram-martabat Undulusiyon ki zamin
Hai tah-e-gardun agar husn mein teri nazir
Qalb-e-musalman mein hai aur nahin hai kahin
Aah wo mardan-e-haq wo arabi shahsawar
Hamil-e-khalq-e-azim sahib-e-sidq-o-yaqin
Jin ki hukumat se hai fash ye ramz-e-gharib
Saltanat-e-ahl-e-dil faqr hai shahi nahin
Jin ki nigahon ne ki tarbiyat-e-sharq-o-gharb
Zulmat-e-Europe mein thi jin ki Khirad rah-bin
Jin ke lahu ke tufail aaj bhi hain Undulusi
Khush-dil-o-garm-iKhtilat sada-o-raushan-jabin
Aaj bhi is des mein aam hai chashm-e-ghazal
Aur nigahon ke tir aaj bhi hain dil-nashin
Bu-e-Yaman aaj bhi us ki hawaon mein hai
Rang-e-Hijaz aaj bhi us ki nawaon mein hai
Dida-e-anjum mein hai teri zamin aasman
Aah ki sadiyon se hai teri faza be-azan
Kaun si wadi mein hai kaun si manzil mein hai
Ishq-e-bala-Khez ka qafla-e-saKht-jaan
Dekh chuka Almani shorish-e-islah-e-din
Jis ne na chhoDe kahin naqsh-e-kuhan ke nishan
Harf-e-ghalat ban gai ismat-e-pir-e-kunisht
Aur hui fikr ki kashti-e-nazuk rawan
Chashm-e-Faransis bhi dekh chuki inqalab
Jis se digar-gun hua maghrabiyon ka jahan
Millat-e-Rumi-nizhad kohna-parasti se pir
Lazzat-e-tajdida se wo bhi hui phir jawan
Ruh-e-musalman mein hai aaj wahi iztirab
Raaz-e-Khudai hai ye kah nahin sakti zaban
तुझ से हरम-मर्तबत उंदुलुसियों की ज़मीं
है तह-ए-गर्दूं अगर हुस्न में तेरी नज़ीर
क़ल्ब-ए-मुसलमाँ में है और नहीं है कहीं
आह वो मरदान-ए-हक़ वो अरबी शहसवार
हामिल-ए-ख़ल्क़-ए-अज़ीम साहब-ए-सिद्क़-ओ-यक़ीं
जिन की हुकूमत से है फ़ाश ये रम्ज़-ए-ग़रीब
सल्तनत-ए-अहल-ए-दिल फ़क़्र है शाही नहीं
जिन की निगाहों ने की तर्बियत-ए-शर्क़-ओ-ग़र्ब
ज़ुल्मत-ए-यूरोप में थी जिन की ख़िरद राह-बीं
जिन के लहू के तुफ़ैल आज भी हैं उंदुलुसी
ख़ुश-दिल-ओ-गर्म-इख़्तिलात सादा-ओ-रौशन-जबीं
आज भी इस देस में आम है चश्म-ए-ग़ज़ाल
और निगाहों के तीर आज भी हैं दिल-नशीं
बू-ए-यमन आज भी उस की हवाओं में है
रंग-ए-हिजाज़ आज भी उस की नवाओं में है
दीदा-ए-अंजुम में है तेरी ज़मीं आसमाँ
आह कि सदियों से है तेरी फ़ज़ा बे-अज़ाँ
कौन सी वादी में है कौन सी मंज़िल में है
इश्क़-ए-बाला-ख़ेज़ का क़ाफ़िला-ए-सख़्त-जाँ
देख चुका अल्मनी शोरिश-ए-इस्लाह-ए-दीं
जिस ने न छोड़े कहीं नक़्श-ए-कुहन के निशाँ
हर्फ़-ए-ग़लत बन गई इस्मत-ए-पीर-ए-कुनिश्त
और हुई फ़िक्र की कश्ती-ए-नाज़ुक रवाँ
चश्म-ए-फ़िराँसिस भी देख चुकी इंक़लाब
जिस से दिगर-गूँ हुआ मग़रबियों का जहाँ
मिल्लत-ए-रूमी-निज़ाद कोहना-परस्ती से पीर
लज़्ज़त-ए-तज्दीदा से वो भी हुई फिर जवाँ
रूह-ए-मुसलमाँ में है आज वही इज़्तिराब
राज़-ए-ख़ुदाई है ये कह नहीं सकती ज़बाँ
Kaba of the masters of art, splendour of the clear faith, through you the land of the Andalusians has the rank of a sanctuary. If anywhere beneath the turning sky there is a match for your beauty, it is in the heart of the Muslim, and nowhere else. Ah, those men of truth, those Arab horsemen, bearers of a noble character, possessors of sincerity and certainty, by whose rule this rare secret stood revealed: the kingdom of the people of the heart is poverty, not sovereignty. Whose vision schooled both East and West, whose wisdom showed the path through the darkness of Europe. Through whose blood the Andalusians, even today, are warm-hearted and welcoming, open and bright of brow. Even today in this country the gazelle-soft eye is common, and the arrows of those glances still pierce the heart. The scent of Yemen is in its breezes still; the colour of Hijaz is in its songs still. Your soil is a sky in the eye of the stars. Ah, that for centuries your courtyard has been without the call to prayer. In what valley, at what stage of the road, is the hardy caravan of soul-stirring love? Germany has already seen the upheaval of the reform of religion, which left nowhere a trace of the old design standing. The infallibility of the elder of the synagogue was proved a false word, and the fragile boat of thought was set moving. The eye of France too has seen a revolution, by which the world of the Westerners was wholly transformed. The Roman-descended nation, grown old in the worship of the old, was made young once more by the relish of renewal. In the soul of the Muslim is, today, that very same unrest; it is a secret of God, and the tongue cannot tell it.
The poem widens into history and elegy. Iqbal mourns the centuries the mosque has stood silent, then surveys Europe's great upheavals, the Reformation and the French Revolution, and senses the same stirring now rising in the Muslim soul. The elegy and the prophecy are held in the same breath.
Gumbad-e-nilofari rang badalta hai kya
Wadi-e-koh-sar mein gharq-e-shafaq hai sahab
Lal-e-BadaKhshan ke Dher chhoD gaya aaftab
Sada-o-pur-soz hai duKhtar-e-dahqan ka git
Kashti-e-dil ke liye sail hai ahd-e-shabab
Aab-e-rawan-e-kabir tere kinare koi
Dekh raha hai kisi aur zamane ka Khwab
Aalam-e-nau hai abhi parda-e-taqdir mein
Meri nigahon mein hai us ki sahar be-hijab
Parda uTha dun agar chehra-e-afkar se
La na sakega Farang meri nawaon ki tab
Jis mein na ho inqalab maut hai wo zindagi
Ruh-e-umam ki hayat kashmakash-e-inqilab
Surat-e-shamshir hai dast-e-qaza mein wo qaum
Karti hai jo har zaman apne amal ka hisab
Naqsh hain sab na-tamam Khun-e-jigar ke baghair
Naghma hai sauda-e-Kham Khun-e-jigar ke baghair
गुम्बद-ए-नीलोफ़री रंग बदलता है क्या
वादी-ए-कोह-सार में ग़र्क़-ए-शफ़क़ है सहाब
लाल-ए-बदख़्शाँ के ढेर छोड़ गया आफ़्ताब
सादा-ओ-पुर-सोज़ है दुख़्तर-ए-दहक़ाँ का गीत
कश्ती-ए-दिल के लिए सैल है अहद-ए-शबाब
आब-ए-रवान-ए-कबीर तेरे किनारे कोई
देख रहा है किसी और ज़माने का ख़्वाब
आलम-ए-नौ है अभी पर्दा-ए-तक़्दीर में
मेरी निगाहों में है उस की सहर बे-हिजाब
पर्दा उठा दूँ अगर चेहरा-ए-अफ़्कार से
ला न सकेगा फ़रंग मेरी नवाओं की ताब
जिस में न हो इंक़लाब मौत है वो ज़िंदगी
रूह-ए-उमम की हयात कश्मकश-ए-इंक़िलाब
सूरत-ए-शमशीर है दस्त-ए-क़ज़ा में वो क़ौम
करती है जो हर ज़माँ अपने अमल का हिसाब
नक़्श हैं सब ना-तमाम ख़ून-ए-जिगर के बग़ैर
नग़्मा है सौदा-ए-ख़ाम ख़ून-ए-जिगर के बग़ैर
Let us watch what leaps up from the depths of this ocean; let us see how the lotus-blue dome of the sky changes colour. In the valley of the hills the clouds are drowned in the red of dusk; the sun, departing, has left behind heaps of the rubies of Badakhshan. Simple and full of fire is the song of the farmer's daughter; for the boat of the heart, the season of youth is a flood. By your banks, great flowing river, someone is gazing on the dream of another age. The new world is still behind the veil of destiny, yet to my eyes its dawn stands unveiled. If I were to lift the veil from the face of my thoughts, Europe would not be able to bear the brilliance of my songs. The life that holds no revolution within it is death; the life of the soul of nations is the struggle of revolution. That nation is like a sword in the hand of fate which renders, in every age, the account of its own deeds. All designs are incomplete without the blood of the heart; song, without the blood of the heart, is an unripe bargain.
The poem closes by the river Guadalquivir, the great water that still runs past the mosque. Iqbal turns from elegy to prophecy: a new age is coming, and a living people is one that keeps remaking itself. The final line returns to where the third section began. Nothing made without the heart's blood is ever finished, and the mosque is finished, which is why it has lasted.
The argument of Masjid-e-Qurtuba is, in the end, a single sentence repeated until it cannot be doubted. Time destroys everything it makes, with one exception: the deed done in love. Iqbal calls that love ishq, and he refuses to keep it small. It is the breath of Gabriel and the heart of the Prophet; it is also the heart's blood of a builder, the certainty of an ordinary believer, the unrest of a whole people straining toward a new age. The mosque is simply the proof that stands up in stone. Its makers died, their empire died, even the call to prayer fell silent in its courtyard, and still the building gives light, because what raised it was love and love does not decay.
It matters that Iqbal placed himself in the poem as an outsider. He calls himself an Indian unbeliever standing in a Muslim sanctuary, and then admits, without embarrassment, that it moves him to the core. That is the poem quietly telling the reader how to read it. The mosque speaks across the line of creed. A Hindu, a Christian, a person of no faith at all can stand inside it and feel the same pull, because beauty made out of genuine devotion is legible to anyone. The poem belongs to no single religion for the same reason the building does: love is the common language, and the building was an act of love before it was an act of any one faith.
This is why the poem has outlived its own occasion and its own arguments. Every person eventually asks what will survive them. Iqbal's answer needs no particular belief to land. Whatever you make in cold calculation will fade when you fade. Whatever you make out of real love, a building, a kindness, a child raised well, a true sentence, has already stepped a little outside of time. The Mosque of Cordoba is Iqbal's evidence, and it is still standing, which is the only proof such a claim could ever have.
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