Shall I hear the lament of the nightingale, submissively lending my ear? Am I the rose to suffer its cry in silence year after year? The fire of verse gives me courage and bids me no more to be faint. With dust in my mouth, I am abject: to God I make my complaint. Sometimes You favour our rivals then sometimes with us You are free, I am sorry to say it so boldly. You are no less fickle than we. - Iqbal: 'Complaint to God'
Shall I hear the lament of the nightingale, submissively lending my ear? Am I the rose to suffer its cry in silence year after year? The fire of verse gives me courage and bids me no more to be faint. With dust in my mouth, I am abject: to God I make my complaint. Sometimes You favour our rivals then sometimes with us You are free, I am sorry to say it so boldly. You are no less fickle than we.
- Iqbal: 'Complaint to God'
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