Tulu-e-Islam, 'The Dawn of Islam' or 'The Rise of Islam', is one of Iqbal's great poems of hope, and it sits near the close of Bang-e-Dara. He wrote it in the years after the First World War, at a moment when the old imperial order lay in ruins and much of the Muslim world stood at its lowest political ebb. The Ottoman state was collapsing, the caliphate was about to be abolished, and observers everywhere read the scene as the final act of a long decline. Out of exactly that darkness, Iqbal chose to write about a sunrise.
The title carries the whole argument. Tulu means rising, the way the sun rises over the edge of the world. The poem opens on that image: the stars are growing pale, and their faintness, Iqbal says, is itself the proof that a bright morning is on its way. He looks at the same defeat everyone else is mourning and reads it the other way round. Night is not an ending. It is the condition out of which morning comes, and the very depth of the fall is the sign that the turn is near.
The poem is built as a sustained call to awakening. Its frame is explicitly Islamic: Iqbal is speaking to the Muslim community, to the millat, naming its history, its prophets, its caliphs, its sacred places, and its particular vocation in the world. The reader should take that honestly. This is a poem about an Islamic dawn, written by a poet who believed his community had a distinct destiny to recover. But Iqbal works the imagery on two levels at once. Beneath the named community runs a universal layer, the dawn after night, the self that wakes and refuses to mistake exhaustion for finality, a people that decides its decline was never written in the stars. That second layer is what lets a reader of any background walk straight into the poem.
Structurally it moves in confident, declarative stanzas, eight long lines each, and then opens out at the end into shorter chanting passages, some of them in Persian, that read almost like a rising drumbeat. It is less an argument than an exhortation. Its job is to lift, and its energy is built to be contagious. Iqbal wants the reader, whatever creed they hold, to finish the poem standing.
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.
Tulu-e-Islam — in full
18 stanzas. Verse transcribed from the original.
ufuq se aaftab ubhra gaya daur-e-giran-KHvabi
uruq-murda-e-mashriq men KHun-e-zindagi dauDa
samajh sakte nahin is raaz ko sina o farabi
musalman ko musalman kar diya tufan-e-maghrib ne
talatum-ha-e-dariya hi se hai gauhar ki sairabi
ata momin ko phir dargah-e-haq se hone vala hai
shikoh-e-turkamani zehn-e-hindi nutq-e-arabi
उफ़ुक़ से आफ़्ताब उभरा गया दौर-ए-गिराँ-ख़्वाबी
उरूक़-मुर्दा-ए-मशरिक़ में ख़ून-ए-ज़िंदगी दौड़ा
समझ सकते नहीं इस राज़ को सीना ओ फ़ाराबी
मुसलमाँ को मुसलमाँ कर दिया तूफ़ान-ए-मग़रिब ने
तलातुम-हा-ए-दरिया ही से है गौहर की सैराबी
अता मोमिन को फिर दरगाह-ए-हक़ से होने वाला है
शिकोह-ए-तुर्कमानी ज़ेहन हिन्दी नुत्क़ आराबी
The faintness of the stars is the proof of a bright dawn; the sun has risen over the horizon and the age of heavy sleep is gone. Through the dead veins of the East the blood of life is running again, and neither Avicenna nor Farabi can grasp this secret. It was the storm of the West that made the Muslim a Muslim once more, for it is only the heaving of the sea that gives the pearl its lustre. From the court of Truth the believer is about to be granted, once again, the grandeur of the Turk, the intellect of India, and the eloquence of the Arab.
The opening line is the whole poem in miniature: a thing that looks like loss, the dimming of the stars, is read as the herald of gain. Iqbal turns the West's victory itself into the believer's making, for hardship is the sea that polishes the pearl. The closing line gathers three peoples, Turk, Indian, Arab, into one inheritance, signalling early that this dawn is meant to dissolve narrow divisions.
nava-ra talKH-tar mi-zan chu zauq-e-naghma kam-yabi
taDap sehn-e-chaman men aashiyan men shaKH-saron men
juda pare se ho sakti nahin taqdir-e-simabi
vo chashm-e-pak hai kyun zinat-e-bar-gustavan dekhe
nazar aati hai jis ko mard-e-ghazi ki jigar-tabi
zamir-e-lala men raushan charagh-e-arzu kar de
chaman ke zarre zarre ko shahid-e-justuju kar de
नवा-रा तल्ख़-तर मी-ज़न चू ज़ौक़-ए-नग़्मा कम-याबी
तड़प सेहन-ए-चमन में आशियाँ में शाख़-सारों में
जुदा पारे से हो सकती नहीं तक़दीर-ए-सीमाबी
वो चश्म-ए-पाक हैं क्यूँ ज़ीनत-ए-बर-गुस्तवाँ देखे
नज़र आती है जिस को मर्द-ए-ग़ाज़ी की जिगर-ताबी
ज़मीर-ए-लाला में रौशन चराग़-ए-आरज़ू कर दे
चमन के ज़र्रे ज़र्रे को शहीद-ए-जुस्तुजू कर दे
Some trace of sleep still clings to the buds, so you, O nightingale, sing your song more bitterly still, since the taste for music is so scarce. Be restless in the courtyard of the garden, in the nest, among the branches, for quicksilver can never separate its restless nature from itself. Why should that pure eye care to look upon the ornament of armour, when it can already see the burning heart of the holy warrior? Light up the lamp of longing in the very soul of the tulip, and make every grain of the garden a martyr to the quest.
Iqbal turns to the poet's own task. If the world is half asleep, the singer must sing harder and more sharply, not fall silent. Quicksilver is his image for a self that cannot rest, and restlessness here is a virtue. The closing couplet asks for the whole garden to be set alight with desire, for it is longing, not comfort, that wakes a people.
KHalilullah ke dariya men honge phir guhar paida
kitab-e-millat-e-baiza ki phir shiraza-bandi hai
ye shaKH-e-hashmi karne ko hai phir barg-o-bar paida
rabud aan turk-e-shirazi dil-e-tabrez-o-kabul ra
saba karti hai bu-e-gul se apna ham-safar paida
agar usmaniyon par koh-e-gham TuTa to kya gham hai
ki KHun-e-sad-hazar-anjum se hoti hai sahar paida
ख़लीलुल्लाह के दरिया में होंगे फिर गुहर पैदा
किताब-ए-मिल्लत-ए-बैज़ा की फिर शीराज़ा-बंदी है
ये शाख़-ए-हाशमी करने को है फिर बर्ग-ओ-बर पैदा
रबूद आँ तुर्क-ए-शीराज़ी दिल-ए-तबरेज़-ओ-काबुल रा
सबा करती है बू-ए-गुल से अपना हम-सफ़र पैदा
अगर उस्मानियों पर कोह-ए-ग़म टूटा तो क्या ग़म है
कि ख़ून-ए-सद-हज़ार-अंजुम से होती है सहर पैदा
In the tears of the Muslim's eye the freshness of spring rain is forming again; in the river of Abraham, the Friend of God, pearls will be born once more. The book of the radiant community is being bound together again; this Hashimite branch is about to put out fresh leaf and fruit. As that Turk of Shiraz once carried away the heart of Tabriz and Kabul, so the morning breeze makes a fellow traveller of the scent of the rose. If a mountain of grief has fallen upon the Ottomans, where is the cause for grief, for it is from the blood of a hundred thousand stars that the dawn is born?
The stanza answers a real and recent wound, the collapse of Ottoman power, with the poem's central consolation: dawn is paid for in the blood of the stars that fade for it. The line in Persian, echoing a famous couplet of Hafiz, widens the music across languages, the same gesture the whole poem keeps making, that this rising belongs to more than one tongue or land.
jigar KHun ho to chashm-e-dil men hoti hai nazar paida
hazaron sal nargis apni be-nuri pe roti hai
baDi mushkil se hota hai chaman men dida-var paida
nava-paira ho ai bulbul ki ho tere tarannum se
kabutar ke tan-e-nazuk men shahin ka jigar paida
tere sine men hai poshida raaz-e-zindagi kah de
musalman se hadis-e-soz-o-saz-e-zindagi kah de
जिगर ख़ूँ हो तो चश्म-ए-दिल में होती है नज़र पैदा
हज़ारों साल नर्गिस अपनी बे-नूरी पे रोती है
बड़ी मुश्किल से होता है चमन में दीदा-वर पैदा
नवा-पैरा हो ऐ बुलबुल कि हो तेरे तरन्नुम से
कबूतर के तन-ए-नाज़ुक में शाहीन का जिगर पैदा
तिरे सीने में है पोशीदा राज़-ए-ज़िंदगी कह दे
मुसलमाँ से हदीस-ए-सोज़-ओ-साज़-ए-ज़िंदगी कह दे
Harder than ruling the world is the work of truly seeing the world; only when the heart bleeds does sight come into the eye of the heart. For a thousand years the narcissus weeps over its own lack of light, for only with great difficulty is one who can truly see born into the garden. Take wing in song, O nightingale, so that through your melody the heart of a falcon may be born in the tender body of a dove. The secret of life lies hidden in your breast, so speak it; tell the Muslim the tale of the burning and the harmony of life.
Iqbal draws a sharp line between governing the world and seeing it truly, and ranks vision above power. The image of the weeping narcissus, blind for a thousand years, says how rare clear sight is. The aim of the poet's song is stated plainly: to grow a falcon's courage inside a dove, to make the gentle fierce enough to live.
yaqin paida kar ai ghafil ki maghlub-e-guman tu hai
pare hai charKH-e-nili-faam se manzil musalman ki
sitare jis ki gard-e-rah hon vo karvan tu hai
makan fani makin aani azal tera abad tera
KHuda ka aaKHiri paigham hai tu javedan tu hai
hina-band-e-urus-e-lala hai KHun-e-jigar tera
teri nisbat barahimi hai memar-e-jahan tu hai
यक़ीं पैदा कर ऐ ग़ाफ़िल कि मग़लूब-ए-गुमाँ तू है
परे है चर्ख़-ए-नीली-फ़ाम से मंज़िल मुसलमाँ की
सितारे जिस की गर्द-ए-राह हों वो कारवाँ तो है
मकाँ फ़ानी मकीं आनी अज़ल तेरा अबद तेरा
ख़ुदा का आख़िरी पैग़ाम है तू जावेदाँ तू है
हिना-बंद-ए-उरूस-ए-लाला है ख़ून-ए-जिगर तेरा
तिरी निस्बत बराहीमी है मेमार-ए-जहाँ तू है
You are the hand of power of the everlasting God, you are His tongue; produce conviction within yourself, O heedless one, for it is doubt alone that has defeated you. Beyond the blue revolving heaven lies the destination of the Muslim; the caravan whose road-dust is the stars, that caravan is you. Place is mortal, the dweller in place is passing, yet eternity past is yours and eternity to come is yours; you are God's final message, you are the everlasting one. It is your heart's blood that paints the henna on the tulip-bride; your lineage runs to Abraham, you are the builder of the world.
The poem now addresses the believer directly and lifts the language to its boldest pitch. The diagnosis is single and clear: it is not the West that defeated you, it is your own doubt. Iqbal sets a destination beyond the visible sky and names the believer the heir of Abraham and a builder, not a guest, of the world.
jahan ke jauhar-e-muzmar ka goya imtihan tu hai
jahan-e-aab-o-gil se aalam-e-javed ki KHatir
nabuvvat saath jis ko le gai vo armughan tu hai
ye nukta sarguzisht-e-millat-e-baiza se hai paida
ki aqvam-e-zamin-e-asia ka pasban tu hai
sabaq phir paDh sadaqat ka adalat ka shujaat ka
liya jaega tujh se kaam duniya ki imamat ka
जहाँ के जौहर-ए-मुज़्मर का गोया इम्तिहाँ तू है
जहान-ए-आब-ओ-गिल से आलम-ए-जावेद की ख़ातिर
नबुव्वत साथ जिस को ले गई वो अरमुग़ाँ तू है
ये नुक्ता सरगुज़िश्त-ए-मिल्लत-ए-बैज़ा से है पैदा
कि अक़्वाम-ए-ज़मीन-ए-एशिया का पासबाँ तू है
सबक़ फिर पढ़ सदाक़त का अदालत का शुजाअ'त का
लिया जाएगा तुझ से काम दुनिया की इमामत का
Your nature is the trustee of all that life can become; you are, as it were, the test of the world's hidden essence. From this world of water and clay, for the sake of the everlasting world, you are the gift that prophethood carried away with it. This truth springs from the whole history of the radiant community: that you are the guardian of the peoples of the land of Asia. Learn again the lesson of truthfulness, of justice, of courage, for the work of leading the world will be required of you.
The stanza turns vocation into responsibility. To be the heir of a great tradition is also to be held accountable for it. The closing line is the poem's most demanding moment: leadership is not promised as a reward but set as a task, and the qualifications named are moral ones, truth, justice and courage.
uKHuvvat ki jahangiri mohabbat ki faravani
butan-e-rang-o-KHun ko toD kar millat men gum ho ja
na turani rahe baqi na irani na afghani
miyan-e-shaKH-saran sohbat-e-murgh-e-chaman kab tak
tere bazu men hai parvaz-e-shahin-e-qahastani
guman-abaad-e-hasti men yaqin mard-e-musalman ka
bayaban ki shab-e-tarik men qindil-e-rohbani
उख़ुव्वत की जहाँगीरी मोहब्बत की फ़रावानी
बुतान-ए-रंग-ओ-ख़ूँ को तोड़ कर मिल्लत में गुम हो जा
न तूरानी रहे बाक़ी न ईरानी न अफ़्ग़ानी
मियान-ए-शाख़-साराँ सोहबत-ए-मुर्ग़-ए-चमन कब तक
तिरे बाज़ू में है परवाज़-ए-शाहीन-ए-क़हस्तानी
गुमाँ-आबाद-ए-हस्ती में यक़ीं मर्द-ए-मुसलमाँ का
बयाबाँ की शब-ए-तारीक में क़िंदील-ए-रुहबानी
This is the very purpose of nature, this is the secret of being a Muslim: a brotherhood that spans the world, an abundance of love. Break the idols of colour and blood and lose yourself in the community, so that no Turanian remains, no Iranian, no Afghan. How long this fellowship of garden birds, content among the branches? In your own arm lies the flight of the falcon of the mountains. In this dwelling of doubt that is existence, the conviction of the Muslim is like a hermit's lantern in the dark night of the wilderness.
Here the poem reaches its social heart. Iqbal calls the divisions of race and nation idols, and asks for them to be broken so the community can be whole. The line refusing the labels Turanian, Iranian and Afghan is the poem's clearest universal note, an argument against tribe in any form, and a vision of belonging that crosses every border.
vo kya tha zor-e-haidar faqr-e-bu-zar sidq-e-salmani
hue ahrar-e-millat jada-paima kis tajammul se
tamashai shigaf-e-dar se hai sadiyon ke zindani
sabaat-e-zindagi iman-e-mohkam se hai duniya men
ki almani se bhi paenda-tar nikla hai turani
jab is angara-e-KHaki men hota hai yaqin paida
to kar leta hai ye baal-o-par-e-ruh-ul-amin paida
वो क्या था ज़ोर-ए-हैदर फ़क़्र-ए-बू-ज़र सिद्क़-ए-सलमानी
हुए अहरार-ए-मिल्लत जादा-पैमा किस तजम्मुल से
तमाशाई शिगाफ़-ए-दर से हैं सदियों के ज़िंदानी
सबात-ए-ज़िंदगी ईमान-ए-मोहकम से है दुनिया में
कि अल्मानी से भी पाएँदा-तर निकला है तूरानी
जब इस अँगारा-ए-ख़ाकी में होता है यक़ीं पैदा
तो कर लेता है ये बाल-ओ-पर-ए-रूह-उल-अमीं पैदा
What was it that wiped out the tyranny of Caesar and Khusrau? It was the strength of Ali, the holy poverty of Abu Dharr, the truthfulness of Salman. With what splendour the free of the community once strode the open road, while the prisoners of the centuries watch them through the crack of the door. The permanence of life in this world rests on a firm faith, for the Turanian has proved more enduring than the German. When conviction is born in this ember of dust that is man, it grows for itself the very wings of the Trustworthy Spirit.
Iqbal grounds the abstract argument in named history: empires fell not to bigger armies but to character. The contrast between the free who walked the road and the prisoners watching through a crack is the whole poem's diagnosis of decline. The closing image, dust growing the wings of an angel, says that conviction can lift even the humblest material.
jo ho zauq-e-yaqin paida to kaT jaati hai zanjiren
koi andaza kar sakta hai us ke zor-e-bazu ka
nigah-e-mard-e-momin se badal jaati hai taqdiren
vilayat padshahi ilm-e-ashiya ki jahangiri
ye sab kya hai faqat ek nukta-e-iman ki tafsiren
barahimi nazar paida magar mushkil se hoti hai
havas chhup chhup ke sinon men bana leti hai tasviren
जो हो ज़ौक़-ए-यक़ीं पैदा तो कट जाती हैं ज़ंजीरें
कोई अंदाज़ा कर सकता है उस के ज़ोर-ए-बाज़ू का
निगाह-ए-मर्द-ए-मोमिन से बदल जाती हैं तक़दीरें
विलायत पादशाही इल्म-ए-अशिया की जहाँगीरी
ये सब क्या हैं फ़क़त इक नुक्ता-ए-ईमाँ की तफ़्सीरें
बराहीमी नज़र पैदा मगर मुश्किल से होती है
हवस छुप छुप के सीनों में बना लेती है तस्वीरें
In slavery neither swords nor stratagems are of any use; but once the taste for conviction is born, the chains are cut through. Can anyone measure the strength of his arm? By the gaze of a true believer, destinies are changed. Sainthood, kingship, the mastery of the knowledge of things, the conquest of the world: what are all of these but commentaries on a single point of faith? Yet the eye of Abraham comes only with difficulty, while greed quietly forms its own images in the breast.
Iqbal makes a strikingly modern point: against true bondage, weapons and clever plans fail, and only inner conviction frees a person. The line about the believer's gaze changing destiny is among the most quoted in all of Iqbal. The closing warning is honest, for the vision of Abraham, the man who smashed idols, is rare, and greed is always at work.
hazar ai chira-dastan saKHt hai fitrat ki taziren
haqiqat ek hai har shai ki KHaki ho ki nuri ho
lahu KHurshid ka Tapke agar zarre ka dil chiren
yaqin mohkam amal paiham mohabbat fatah-e-aalam
jihad-e-zindagani men hai ye mardon ki shamshiren
che bayad mard ra tab-e-buland mashrab-e-nabe
dil-e-garme nigah-e-pak-bine jaan-e-betabe
हज़र ऐ चीरा-दस्ताँ सख़्त हैं फ़ितरत की ताज़ीरें
हक़ीक़त एक है हर शय की ख़ाकी हो कि नूरी हो
लहू ख़ुर्शीद का टपके अगर ज़र्रे का दिल चीरें
यक़ीं मोहकम अमल पैहम मोहब्बत फ़ातेह-ए-आलम
जिहाद-ए-ज़िंदगानी में हैं ये मर्दों की शमशीरें
चे बायद मर्द रा तब-ए-बुलंद मशरब-ए-नाबे
दिल-ए-गरमे निगाह-ए-पाक-बीने जान-ए-बेताबे
To divide men into servant and master is the ruin of humanity itself; beware, O tyrants, for the penalties of nature are severe. The reality of every thing is one, whether it be made of dust or of light; pierce the heart of a single atom and the blood of the sun will drip from it. Firm conviction, ceaseless action, and a love that conquers the world: in the holy struggle of life, these are the swords of true men. What does a man need? A lofty spirit, a pure way of living, a warm heart, an eye that sees clearly, a restless soul.
This passage carries the poem's strongest universal claim. To split humanity into master and servant, Iqbal says, is to corrupt humanity itself, and the unity of all things is so deep that one atom holds the whole sun. The short final couplet, in Persian, lists what a full human life requires, and not one item on the list belongs to any single creed.
sitare shaam ke KHun-e-shafaq men Dub kar nikle
hue madfun-e-dariya zer-e-dariya tairne vale
tamanche mauj ke khate the jo ban kar guhar nikle
ghubar-e-rahguzar hai kimiya par naaz tha jin ko
jabinen KHak par rakhte the jo iksir-gar nikle
hamara narm-rau qasid payam-e-zindagi laya
KHabar deti thi jin ko bijliyan vo be-KHabar nikle
सितारे शाम के ख़ून-ए-शफ़क़ में डूब कर निकले
हुए मदफ़ून-ए-दरिया ज़ेर-ए-दरिया तैरने वाले
तमांचे मौज के खाते थे जो बन कर गुहर निकले
ग़ुबार-ए-रहगुज़र हैं कीमिया पर नाज़ था जिन को
जबीनें ख़ाक पर रखते थे जो इक्सीर-गर निकले
हमारा नर्म-रौ क़ासिद पयाम-ए-ज़िंदगी लाया
ख़बर देती थीं जिन को बिजलियाँ वो बे-ख़बर निकले
Those who swooped down with the splendour of eagles turned out to be without wing or feather; the stars of evening, after sinking in the blood of the sunset, rose again. Those who swam beneath the river were buried by the river, while those who took the slap of the wave became pearls and emerged. Those who prided themselves on alchemy turned out to be mere dust of the roadway, while those who laid their brows upon the dust turned out to be the makers of the elixir. Our slow and gentle messenger has carried the message of life, while those whom the lightning bolts forewarned have proved heedless after all.
The stanza is built on a chain of reversals: the proud are emptied, the humble are crowned. The wave that strikes the diver is the same wave that makes the pearl, the poem's recurring lesson that hardship and reward are one thing. Iqbal is reassuring a beaten people that the table of fortune has not stopped turning.
javanan-e-tatari kis qadar sahib-nazar nikle
zamin se nuryan-e-asman-parvaz kahte the
ye KHaki zinda-tar paenda-tar tabinda-tar nikle
jahan men ahl-e-iman surat-e-KHurshid jite hai
idhar Dube udhar nikle udhar Dube idhar nikle
yaqin afrad ka sarmaya-e-tamir-e-millat hai
yahi quvvat hai jo surat-gar-e-taqdir-e-millat hai
जवानान-ए-ततारी किस क़दर साहब-नज़र निकले
ज़मीं से नूरयान-ए-आसमाँ-परवाज़ कहते थे
ये ख़ाकी ज़िंदा-तर पाएँदा-तर ताबिंदा-तर निकले
जहाँ में अहल-ए-ईमाँ सूरत-ए-ख़ुर्शीद जीते हैं
इधर डूबे उधर निकले उधर डूबे इधर निकले
यक़ीन अफ़राद का सरमाया-ए-तामीर-ए-मिल्लत है
यही क़ुव्वत है जो सूरत-गर-ए-तक़दीर-ए-मिल्लत है
The sanctuary was disgraced by the short sight of the sanctuary's elders; how clear of vision the young men of the Tatars turned out to be. From the earth, the angels who fly the heavens were saying: these creatures of dust have proved more alive, more enduring, more radiant than we. In this world the people of faith live in the manner of the sun: it sets here and rises there, sets there and rises here. The conviction of individuals is the capital that builds a people; it is this very force that shapes a people's destiny.
Iqbal points to the Tatars, once destroyers of Muslim cities, who later carried the faith forward, as proof that renewal can come from an unexpected quarter while the old guardians grow blind. The sun that always rises somewhere is his image for a faith that cannot be extinguished. The closing couplet, often quoted alone, names the poem's thesis: a people is built from the conviction of single individuals.
KHudi ka raaz-dan ho ja KHuda ka tarjuman ho ja
havas ne kar diya hai TukDe TukDe nau-e-insan ko
uKHuvvat ka bayan ho ja mohabbat ki zaban ho ja
ye hindi vo KHurasani ye afghani vo turani
tu ai sharminda-e-sahil uchhal kar be-karan ho ja
ghubar-aaluda-e-rang-o-nasab hai baal-o-par tere
tu ai murgh-e-haram uDne se pahle par-fishan ho ja
ख़ुदी का राज़-दाँ हो जा ख़ुदा का तर्जुमाँ हो जा
हवस ने कर दिया है टुकड़े टुकड़े नौ-ए-इंसाँ को
उख़ुव्वत का बयाँ हो जा मोहब्बत की ज़बाँ हो जा
ये हिन्दी वो ख़ुरासानी ये अफ़्ग़ानी वो तूरानी
तू ऐ शर्मिंदा-ए-साहिल उछल कर बे-कराँ हो जा
ग़ुबार-आलूदा-ए-रंग-ओ-नसब हैं बाल-ओ-पर तेरे
तू ऐ मुर्ग़-ए-हरम उड़ने से पहले पर-फ़िशाँ हो जा
You are the secret of Be, and it was; become plain to your own eyes. Become the keeper of selfhood's secret, become the spokesman of God. Greed has cut the human race into fragments; become the voice of brotherhood, become the tongue of love. This one is an Indian, that one a Khurasani, this one an Afghan, that one a Turanian; you, O shame of the shoreline, leap up and become the shoreless sea. Your wings and feathers are soiled with the dust of colour and lineage; you, O bird of the sanctuary, shake off your feathers before you take flight.
This is the poem's most famous appeal and its plainest universal statement. Iqbal names greed as the force that cuts humanity into pieces, and asks the believer to become the opposite, the tongue of love and brotherhood. The image of the shore ashamed of its own narrowness, told to become the boundless sea, captures the whole movement of the poem from tribe to humanity.
nikal kar halqa-e-shaam-o-sahar se javedan ho ja
masaf-e-zindagi men sirat-e-faulad paida kar
shabistan-e-mohabbat men harir-o-parniyan ho ja
guzar ja ban ke sail-e-tund-rau koh-o-bayaban se
gulistan rah men aae to ju-e-naghma-KHvan ho ja
tere ilm-o-mohabbat ki nahin hai intiha koi
nahin hai tujh se baDh kar saz-e-fitrat men nava koi
निकल कर हल्क़ा-ए-शाम-ओ-सहर से जावेदाँ हो जा
मसाफ़-ए-ज़िंदगी में सीरत-ए-फ़ौलाद पैदा कर
शबिस्तान-ए-मोहब्बत में हरीर ओ पर्नियाँ हो जा
गुज़र जा बन के सैल-ए-तुंद-रौ कोह ओ बयाबाँ से
गुलिस्ताँ राह में आए तो जू-ए-नग़्मा-ख़्वाँ हो जा
तिरे इल्म ओ मोहब्बत की नहीं है इंतिहा कोई
नहीं है तुझ से बढ़ कर साज़-ए-फ़ितरत में नवा कोई
Drown yourself in selfhood, O heedless one, for this is the secret of life; step out of the circle of evening and morning and become eternal. On the battlefield of life, grow within yourself the temper of steel; in the bedchamber of love, become soft as silk and fine brocade. Pass like a swift torrent over mountain and wilderness; but if a garden comes upon your road, become a stream that sings. There is no end to your knowledge and your love; in the whole orchestra of nature there is no melody greater than you.
The stanza teaches a balance rather than a single virtue. The believer must be steel in struggle and silk in love, a flood against obstacles and a singing stream where there is beauty to honour. This refusal of a one-note self is part of why the poem reads as a guide for any life, not only for a soldier or a saint.
qayamat hai ki insan nau-e-insan ka shikari hai
nazar ko KHira karti hai chamak tahzib-e-hazir ki
ye sannai magar jhuTe nigon ki reza-kari hai
vo hikmat naaz tha jis par KHirad-mandan-e-maghrib ko
havas ke panja-e-KHunin men tegh-e-kar-zari hai
tadabbur ki fusun-kari se mohkam ho nahin sakta
jahan men jis tamaddun ki bina sarmaya-dari hai
क़यामत है कि इंसाँ नौ-ए-इंसाँ का शिकारी है
नज़र को ख़ीरा करती है चमक तहज़ीब-ए-हाज़िर की
ये सन्नाई मगर झूटे निगूँ की रेज़ा-कारी है
वो हिकमत नाज़ था जिस पर ख़िरद-मंदान-ए-मग़रिब को
हवस के पंजा-ए-ख़ूनीं में तेग़-ए-कार-ज़ारी है
तदब्बुर की फ़ुसूँ-कारी से मोहकम हो नहीं सकता
जहाँ में जिस तमद्दुन की बिना सरमाया-दारी है
Even now man is the wretched prey of kingly rule; it is a calamity that the human being should be a hunter of his own kind. The glitter of the present civilisation dazzles the eye, but this artistry is only the inlaid work of false jewels. That science the wise men of the West took such pride in is a battle-sword in the bloody grip of greed. By the sorcery of mere calculation it can never be made firm: any civilisation in this world whose foundation is capital.
Here Iqbal turns a hard eye on the modern West. He concedes that its civilisation dazzles, then calls the dazzle false jewellery and its science a sword in the hand of greed. The final, almost prophetic claim, that any order built on capital alone cannot stand, is the poem's sharpest social warning and reads as freshly now as in 1923.
ye KHaki apni fitrat men na nuri hai na nari hai
KHarosh-amoz-e-bulbul ho girah ghunche ki va kar de
ki tu is gulsitan ke vaste baad-e-bahari hai
phir uThi asia ke dil se chingari mohabbat ki
zamin jaulan-gah-e-atlas-qabayan-e-tatari hai
biya paida KHaridare hai jaan-e-natavan-e-ra
pas az muddat guzar uftad bar ma karvane-ra
ये ख़ाकी अपनी फ़ितरत में न नूरी है न नारी है
ख़रोश-आमोज़-ए-बुलबुल हो गिरह ग़ुंचे की वा कर दे
कि तू इस गुल्सिताँ के वास्ते बाद-ए-बहारी है
फिर उट्ठी एशिया के दिल से चिंगारी मोहब्बत की
ज़मीं जौलाँ-गह-ए-अतलस-क़बायान-ए-तातारी है
बया पैदा ख़रीदारे है जान-ए-ना-तवाँ-ए-रा
पस अज़ मुद्दत गुज़ार उफ़्ताद बर्मा कारवाने रा
By action life makes itself into a heaven or into a hell; this creature of dust is, in its own nature, neither of light nor of fire. Teach the nightingale its clamour, untie the knot of the closed bud, for you are the spring breeze for this garden. Once again the spark of love has risen from the heart of Asia; the earth is the parade ground of the silk-clad riders of the Tatars. Come, for one has appeared who buys the weary soul; after a long while a caravan has come our way at last.
Iqbal lays down his firmest moral claim: man is born neither saved nor damned, and it is action alone that decides. The believer is told he is the season itself, the spring breeze that wakes a garden. The closing lines, slipping into Persian, announce that the long-awaited caravan has arrived, and the poem begins its rising final chant.
bahaar aamad nigaar aamad nigaar aamad qaraar aamad
kashid abr-e-bahaari KHema andar vaadi-o-sahra
sada-e-aabsharan az faraz-e-koh-sar aamad
sarat gardam to ham qanun-e-peshin saaz deh saqi
ki KHail-e-naghma-pardazan qatar andar qatar aamad
kanar az zahidan bar-gir o bebakana saghar-kash
pas az muddat azin shaKH-e-kuhan baang-e-hazaar aamad
बहार आमद निगार आमद निगार आमद क़रार आमद
कशीद अब्र-ए-बहारी ख़ेमा अंदर वादी ओ सहरा
सदा-ए-आबशाराँ अज़ फ़राज़-ए-कोह-सार आमद
सरत गर्दम तो हम क़ानून-ए-पेशीं साज़ देह साक़ी
कि ख़ैल-ए-नग़्मा-पर्दाज़ाँ क़तार अंदर क़तार आमद
कनार अज़ ज़ाहिदाँ बर-गीर ओ बेबाकाना साग़र-कश
पस अज़ मुद्दत अज़ीं शाख़-ए-कुहन बाँग-ए-हज़ार आमद
Come, cup-bearer, for the song of the meadow bird has come from the branches; spring has come, the beloved has come, the beloved has come, and peace has come. The cloud of spring has pitched its tent over valley and desert; the sound of waterfalls has come down from the heights of the mountains. I will give my life for you, so strike up the old tune once more, cup-bearer, for the company of singers has come in row upon row. Turn away from the ascetics and drink the cup fearlessly, for after a long age the song of the nightingale has come again from this ancient branch.
The poem now moves fully into Persian and into the language of wine, garden and music, an old Sufi register for spiritual joy rather than literal drinking. The repeated arrivals, spring, the beloved, peace, beat like a refrain. After so many stanzas of diagnosis and command, Iqbal lets the poem simply celebrate that the season of renewal has come.
tasarruf-ha-e-pinhanash ba-chashm-e-ashkar aamad
digar shaKH-e-KHalil az KHun-e-ma namnak mi-gardad
ba-bazar-e-mohabbat naqd-e-ma kaamil-ayar aamad
sar-e-KHak-e-shahide barg-ha-e-laala mi-pasham
ki KHunash ba-nihal-e-millat-e-ma sazgar aamad
biya ta-gul bi-afshanim o mai dar saghar andazem
falak ra saqf bi-shigafem o tarh-e-digar andazem
तसर्रुफ़-हा-ए-पिन्हानश ब-चश्म-ए-आश्कार आमद
दिगर शाख़-ए-ख़लील अज़ ख़ून-ए-मा नमनाक मी गर्दद
ब-बाज़ार-ए-मोहब्बत नक़्द-ए-मा कामिल अय्यार आमद
सर-ए-ख़ाक-ए-शाहीरे बर्ग-हा-ए-लाला मी पाशम
कि ख़ूनश बा-निहाल-ए-मिल्लत-ए-मा साज़गार आमद
बया ता-गुल बा-अफ़्शानीम ओ मय दर साग़र अंदाज़ेम
फ़लक रा सक़्फ़ ब-शागाफ़ेम ओ तरह-ए-दीगर अंदाज़ेम
Bring to those who long for it the tale of the Master of Badr and Hunain, for his hidden workings have now come plainly into view. Once again the branch of Abraham grows moist with our blood; in the marketplace of love our coin has proved of full and sterling worth. Over the dust of a martyr I scatter petals of the tulip, for his blood has proved fitting nourishment for the sapling of our community. Come, let us scatter roses and pour wine into the cup; let us split open the roof of the sky and cast it in a wholly new design.
The poem ends on its highest note. It recalls the early victories of the Prophet, names sacrifice as the coin that proves true in love's marketplace, and honours the martyr whose blood feeds the new sapling. The closing couplet is among the most famous Iqbal ever wrote: the ambition to split the old sky and cast the world in a new design, an image of renewal so large it carries past any single creed.
Tulu-e-Islam ends not with an argument but with a chant, and that is the right shape for what it is. The poem set out to lift a defeated people, and by its final Persian lines it has stopped explaining and simply sings: spring has come, the caravan has arrived, scatter the roses, pour the wine. The last image, splitting open the roof of the sky to cast the world in a new design, is one of the boldest in all of Iqbal. It is the sound of a man who has decided that the world as given is not the world as it must remain.
The poem is honest about its own setting. It is addressed to the Muslim community, it names that community's history and its sacred ground, and it calls that community to a destiny it believes is real and recoverable. A reader should not pretend otherwise. But the same poem keeps reaching past its frame, and it does so deliberately. It calls colour and blood and nation idols and asks for them to be broken. It says the division of humanity into master and servant is the ruin of humanity itself. It tells the shore, ashamed of its narrowness, to become the boundless sea. These are not the lines of a poet building a higher wall; they are the lines of a poet trying to take walls down.
What finally speaks past any one creed is the poem's reading of decline and dawn. Iqbal's deepest claim is that no people's fall is written in the stars, that conviction can change destiny, that the lowest point of any night is also its turning. Anyone sitting in the rubble of a hard ending, of a career, a country, a faith, a life, can read Tulu-e-Islam and hear it speaking directly to them. Do not mistake the night you are in for the end of the story. Dawn is not a prize handed to the deserving. It is what follows night, for anyone awake enough to rise and meet it.