حکمت فرنگ

شنیدم کہ در پارس مرد گزینادا فہم رمز آشنا نکتہ بین

The story goes that in Iran a worthy man, intelligent and wise;

بسی سختی از جان کنی دید و مردبر آشفت و جان شکوہ لبریز برد

Died, suffering great agonies, departing with a heart full of distress and smart;

بہ نالش در آمد بہ یزدان پاککہ دارم دلی از اجل چاک چاک

He went up to God’s throne and said: ‘God I am one grieved at the way that I was made to die.

کمالی ندارد بہ این یک فنینداند فن تازۂ جان کنی

Your angel of death is supposed to be a specialist, and yet he has no expertise, no knowledge of the new skills that exist in the fine art of killing.

برد جان و ناپختہ در کار مرگجہان نو شد و او ہمان کہنہ برگ

He kills, but does it so clumsily. The world is going rapidly ahead, but his growth has stopped dead.

فرنگ آفریند ہنرہا شگرفبر انگیزد از قطرہ ئی بحر ژرف

The West develops wonderful new skills in this as in so many other fields. Fine are the ways it kills, and great are its skill’s yields.

کشد گرد اندیشہ پرگار مرگہمہ حکمت او پرستار مرگ

It has encompassed even thought with death. Death is all its philosophies’ life-breath; it is what all its sciences devise.

رود چون نہنگ آبدوزش بہ یمز طیارۂ او ہوا خوردہ بم

Its submarines are crocodiles, with all their predatory wiles. Its bombers rain destruction from the skies.

نبینی کہ چشم جہان بین ہورہمی گردد از غاز او روز کور

Its gases so obscure the sky they blind the sun’s world-seeing eye. Its guns deal death so fast.

تفنگش بہ کشتن چنان تیز دستکہ افرشتۂ مرگ را دم گسست

The Angel of Death stands aghast, quite out of breath in coping with this rate of death.

فرست این کہن ابلہ را در فرنگکہ گیرد فن کشتن بی درنگ

Dispatch this old fool to the West to learn the art of killing fast – and best.’