New worlds derive their pomp
From thoughts quite fresh and new
From stones and bricks a world
was neither built nor grew.

The firm resolve of those,
Who depths of Self explore,
Transforms this stream to sea
That has no marge or shore.

The follow same is lord
Of freaks of Fate and strife,
Who with e'ery breath he draws
Creates an eternal life.

The death of Self has made
The lands of East effete
Men who God's secrets share
In these realms are deplete.

The air of waste gives out
The smell of friendship deep
Perhaps there may be some
Who may my company keep.

Website Version 4.0 | Copyright © 2009-2016 International Iqbal Society (formerly DISNA). All rights reserved.