These songs of turtle doves and nightingales are merely ear’s illusion

These songs of turtle doves  and nightingales are merely ear's illusion
Behind this  uproar the world of the garden is silent

O Western wine the effect of your goblets is only this 
That cup-bearer is laughing and the entire assembly is unconscious

In the world's sorrowful house you are not traceable
Was creation also a crime so Your nature is concealed?

Ah! What the world considers heart is not heart
In the human breast this is a silent tumult

Walk on the path of life but walk carefully
Understand that some glass work is on your shoulders 

Through whom Delhi and Lahore were drawn together
Ah! Iqbal that nightingale is silent now