Thou, in beauty and dignity, man of

God�s witness,
He is the beautiful and dignified,
thou art beautiful and dignified.

Firm are thy foundations,

numberless are thy pillars,
Soaring like ranks of palms over the
Syrian desert.

Light of the Valley of Peace gleams

on thy walls and roof,
On thy minaret�s height Gabriel
stands in glory.

The Muslim shall not perish for by

his Azan,
The secret of Moses and Abraham is
revealed.

Limitless in his world, boundless his

long horizon,
Tigris and Danube and Nile but a
wave in his sea.

His times are wondrous, his legends

are strange,
To the ages outworn he gave the
command to depart.

Saqi of men of taste, horseman of

the realm of desire,
Pure and unmixed his wine,
tempered and glittering his steel.

Warrior armed in the mail of La

Ilah,
Under the shadow of swords
succored by La Ilah.

The poet, again, says to the Mosque that �you are the interpretation of
the Momin�s dreams in the world, the exposition his high-mindedness
and the exemplification of his soul in brick and mortar.
�The hand of Momin, in power and dominance, in the dispersal of
difficulties and the fulfillment of needs, is the Hand of God and an
instrument of Providence. Apparently, he is born of clay but in reality, he
has the nature of Light. There is the reflection of Divine Attributes in his
being. He is indifferent to the allurements of the world. His desires are few
but his aims are high. He is the embodiment of grace and strength, love
and sternness. He is gentle of speech but warmth in quest. In peace he is
soft like silk but in war he is hard as steel.
�The faith of the Believer is the pivot on which the world turns. His
existence is the essence of creation and all the rest an illusion. In him
thought and intellect and faith and love find their highest expression.
Strength and felicity in life and beauty and elegance in the world owe their
presence to him. He is the end and object of the pilgrimage of love and
heart and soul of the universe.�
Behold is thy stones are all the
Believer�s secrets,
Fire of passionate days, rapture of
melting nights.

High is his station and great his

thoughts are,
Ecstasy, burning desire, self-
abasement and pride.

The hand of the Momin is the Hand of

Allah-
Dominant, resourceful, creative,
ensuring success.

Fashioned of dust and light, slave

with the Master�s attribute.
His heart is indifferent to the riches of
the worlds.

His earthly hopes are few, his aims

are high.
Courtesy in his men, gaining all
hearts with his glance;

He is soft of speech but fierce in the

hour of pursuit,
In war and in peace, pure in thoughts
and in art.

The point of God�s great compass

the Believer�s firm faith,
 All this universe else-shadow, illusion,
deceit.

He is the goal of love, he is the end of

Love,
He, in the circle of the firmament,
sets all spirits aglow.
Iqbal proceeds to pay a tribute of never-fading charm to the Mosque.
�Thou art the Mecca of the seekers of the Art.�, he says, �the place
of pilgrimage for the devotees of love and the symbol of the glory of Islam.
Thanks to thee, the soul of Cordova is vying for sacredness and elevation
with the heavens. If anything can compare with thee it is the heart of the
true Believer.� Here Iqbal loses control of his feelings. He looks in the
distant past and centuries roll back in his imagination. He begins to live in
the Muslim ascendancy in Spain. Combining romanticism with classicism he
asks, �Where are the Moorish horsemen, the men of virtue, the
embodiments of faith and the champions of truth? Where has their
unrelenting caravan stopped? Where have the Arab rulers, the precursors
of European Renaissance, gone whose government was another name for
social justice and public welfare?�
Iqbal feels that Spain still bears the floral imprint of Arab blood. Oriental
charm, hospitality and sincerity can even now be seen among its people.
Its air is filled with the scent of Najd and Yemen and the the music of Iraq
and Arabia reverberates in the atmosphere.
Shrine of the seekers art! Glory of
the manifest Faith!
Thou Andalusia�s soil sacred as
Mecca hast made,

If there is underneath the sky

beauty equal to thine,
Nowhere shall it be found but in the
Muslim�s heart.

Ah those champions of Right, those

fearless horsemen of Arabia,
Bearers of high morality, knights of
the truth and faith!

By their rule this strange secret to

all was revealed,
Men of pure hearts hold away, not to
enslave but to serve.

East and West by their eyes gained

instructions,
In the darkness of Europe their
minds showed the path.

Even today Andalusia, rich with their

blood, is seen,
Gay and friendly of heart, simple
and bright of face;

Even today in this land, eyes like the

soft gazelle�s,
Dart their glances, giving pleasure to
the hearts;
Even today in its breeze fragrance of
Yemen endures,
Even today in its song echoes
subsist of Hejaz.

In the midst of these sorrowful recollections Iqbal�s imagination is fired

with the desire for change. He says that through the land of Andalusia
enjoys the high position of the heaven it has not heard the Azan for ages
and in spite of the fact that winds of revolution are blowing in the world
there is no evidence of a ripple in its stagnant waters. Martin Luther�s
movement of Protestant Reformation in Germany not only led to the
decline of Papal authority and the extinction of the hegemony of the
Church but it also made its impact on language, literature and civilizations
and paved the way for the cultural revival of Europe.
The philosophy of Rousseau and Voltaire brought about the Revolution of
France and set the stage for the emergence of the industrial era.
Conservative Italy, too is showing signs of regeneration. Against his
background Iqbal yearns for an Islamic revolution. He believes that the
revolutionary spirit of Muslims is also uneasy but one does not know when
it is going to assert itself. To Vadi-El-Kabir (Guadalquiver) he says: �On
your bank a stranger is seeing the image of the future in the mirror of the
past. Fascinating though the dream is, it is so intolerable to Europe that it
cannot listen calmly to my plain-speaking.�
The destination of nations is forged in strife and revolt. Those who watch
their steps carefully and analyze their feelings and keep an eye on their
mental process are successful in life and make their mark in history. About
art and thought, poetry and literature, Iqbal once again emphasizes that a
philosophy which is not written with the blood of the heart is no more than
a mental exercise. The vital flame, the breath of life, is missing from it.
Likewise, the greatest works of art fade into oblivion if the blood of the
artist does not flow into them and music that does not spring from the
depths of the soul is transient and superficial. This is Iqbal�s concept of
art as well as of life.
Thy land is like the heavens in the
sight of the stars �
For ages, alas, thy atmosphere has
remained bereft of the Azan.

In what dale and glen, in what stage

of the journey,
Love�s undaunted caravan now
happens to be?

Germany saw, long ago, Change

and Revolution-
Obliterating the old ways, sweeping
away every
trace;

Holiness of the Pope fast became an

erroneous word,
Thought in its fragile boat launched
on its dangerous course;

The eye of France, also, has seen

Revolution rage,
That overturned the world, the
Westerners had known;

The Roman nation, old and tired

with ancient traditions,
With the joy of Rejuvenation
discovered again her youth

Now that tempest has seized even

the soul of Islam,
A Divine secret it is whose meaning
cannot be told by the tongue.
 Watch! from the surface of this
ocean what portents finally emerge,
What new turn the blue revolving
dome takes!

Drowned in the twilight is the cloud

in the mountain gorge;
The sun has left behind heaps of
the rubies of Badakhshan,

Running water of Guadalquiver! on

your bank is a stranger,
Lost in his thoughts, dreams of
another age,

Behind the Destiny�s curtain the

new world is yet concealed,
But to mine eyes its dawn already
stands unveiled.

Were, I to lift the veil from the face

of my thoughts,
Europe could not endure the
burning heat of my songs.

Death, not life, is the life in which

no revolution takes place,
Strife and revolt are the sustenance
of nation�s souls.

Keen as a sword that nation is in

the hand of Fate,
Which at every moment takes
account of its works and deeds.

Works of creation are incomplete

without the heart�s warm blood,
Music, an immature frenzy, without
the heart�s warm blood.