Slay Thy Self
from The Secrets of the Self, by Iqbal (1873-1938)
Paradise is for the weak alone,
Strength is but a means of perdition.
It is wicked to seek greatness and glory,
Penury is sweeter than princedom.
Lightning does not threaten the corn-seed:
If the seed become a stack, it is unwise.
If you are sensible, you will be a mote of sand, not a Sahara,
So that you may enjoy the sunbeams.
O thou that delights in the slaughter of sheep,
Slay thy self, and thou wilt have honor!
Life is rendered unstable
By violence, oppression, revenge, and the exercise of power.
Though trodden underfoot, the grass grows up time after time
And washes the sleep of death from its eye again and again.
Forget thy self, if thou art wise!
If thou dost not forget thy self, thou art mad.
Close thine eyes, close thine ears, close thine lips,
That thy thought may reach the lofty sky!
The pasturage of the world is naught, naught:
O fool, do not torment thyself for a phantom!
Bookmarks