Muhammad Iqbal escribe un poema sobre la Mezquita

Poema compuesto por en 1933 después de visitar el templo, y titulado:
Masjid-i-Qartaba (Mezquita de Córdoba)
“Mi visita a la Mezquita ha elevado a tal altura de sentir como nunca había alcanzado antes”
(Iqbal)


El filósofo, escritor y político indio Muhammad Iqbal (ver biografía aquí), visita la Mezquita de Córdoba en 1933. Tales el impacto que le crea, que escribe un largo poema sobre sus sentimientos durante la visita al templo. El vídeo, un tanto plomizo, tiene interesante fotos dónde se ve al autor rezando sobre una estera delante del Mihrab, un documento sin duda interesante en estos tiempos de intolerancia. En la información del vídeo podéis leer el poema completo (en inglés) que habla de la vida y la muerte, del círculo de los días y de lo eterno de la belleza y del amor, como único rival de la inaplazable muerte de las cosas.

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2 comments for “Muhammad Iqbal escribe un poema sobre la Mezquita

  1. casandra
    16/01/2009 at 15:06

    El Poema completo:

    THE MOSQUE OF CORDOBA

    The cycle of day and night [is] the engraver of events.
    The cycle of day and night [is] the essence of life and death.
    The cycle of day and night is a two-colored thread of silk
    with which the being weaves its attire of traits.
    The cycle of day and night [is] the lamentation of the musical-instrument of the origin
    through which the being shows the vicissitudes of possibilities.
    It tries you, it tries me;
    the cycle of day and night is the examiner of the cosmos.
    If you’re impure, if I’m impure
    [then] it leads to your funeral procession, it leads to my funeral procession.
    What else is the truth of your days and nights;
    a surge of the time sans day and night.
    All the marvels of the skills are transient;
    the existence of world is ephemeral! The existence of world is ephemeral!

    [The fate of] the beginning and the end is death, [the fate of] the unseen and apparent is death.
    Be it an antiquated imprint or the latest one, its last destination is death.
    Yet there exists a hue of eternity in this imprint;
    the one that has been completed by some man of God.
    The actions of the man of God get accelerated with [the help of] love.
    The essence of life is love; death is forbidden for it.
    hough the gush of the time is intense and fast
    love itself is a tempest that restrains [other] tempests.
    In the calendar of love, besides the contemporary age,
    |there’re other ages too that don’t have names.
    Love is the mainstay of Gabriel, love is the heart of Mustafa.
    Love is the Messenger of God, love is the message of God.
    The flower looks dazzling because of the intoxication of love.
    Love is the undiluted wine, love is the wine-cup of a munificent drinker.
    Love is the jurist of the Shariat, love is the commander of the army.
    Love is the traveler because of which it passes through thousands of stages.

    The lifeline streams out of the plectrum of love.
    The radiance of life is due to love; the fire of life is because of love.

    O Mosque of Cordoba! Your existence [too] is because of love.
    Love is infinite time that’s beyond the cycle of transient time.
    Be it painting, architecture, music poetry or calligraphy,
    all these arts thrive on the intensity of love!
    The intensity of love turns a stone into a heart
    [and] it’s love that bestows depth of feeling, exhilaration and melody to the voice.
    Your environ is charming, my songs are poignant;
    you make the hearts bow before God, I make the hearts capacious.
    The bosom of man isn’t inferior to the empyrean throne of God
    though his body is made of earth and is mortal.
    Though the angels [also] prostrate before God
    but their prostration lacks poignancy.
    [Though] I’m an infidel from India, behold my earnestness
    [that] my heart prays benison for the Prophet, my lips do the same.

    The zeal is in my tune, the zeal is in my flute;
    the hymn of God is in my essence.
    Your grandeur and beauty manifests the man of God;
    he too is eminent and handsome, you too are eminent and handsome.
    Your foundation is stable, you’ve countless pillars
    [which look like] the rows of palm trees in the oasis of Syria.
    The radiance of Sinai valley is spread over your nooks and corners;
    this tall minaret of yours is the place of manifestation for Gabriel.
    The pious Muslim can never be eliminated, for
    his calls for prayers reveal the mysteries of Moses and Abraham.
    His land is limitless, his sky is boundless;
    the surge of his sea is spread over Tigris, Danube and Nile.
    His reigns have been awe-inspiring, his tales have been extraordinary;
    it was he who commanded the antiquated epoch to perish.
    He’s the cupbearer to those who have taste, he’s the cavalier of the field of passion;
    his wine is pure, his sword is of high trait.

    He’s the soldier whose armor is [the belief in] one God;
    under the shadow of swords his refuge is [the belief in] one God.

    Through you the mysteries of the pious Muslim,
    the warmth of his days, the poignancy of his nights,
    his lofty position, his exalted thoughts,
    his exhilaration, his passion, his humility, his dalliance, have been revealed.
    The hand of God is the hand of the pious Muslim,
    which is triumphant, effectual, resourceful [and] skillful.
    [He possesses] the traits of both man and angel and the attributes of the Lord;
    his heart, though carefree, is richer than the two worlds.
    His expectations are few, his objectives are sublime;
    his style is irresistible, his sight is captivating.
    [He’s] soft while conversing, passionate while in action;
    be it the battlefield or a social gathering [he’s always] pious and orderly.
    His faith is the focal point of Truth
    and the rest of the cosmos is illusion, sorcery and unreal.

    He’s the destination of reason, he is the output of love;
    he’s is the warmth of the assemblage in the circuit of cosmos.
    You’re the Mecca of the designers, the apostle of the grandeur of Islam;
    by virtue of you, the land of Spain has become as hallowed as that of Mecca.
    If any other model, as exquisite as you, exists in this world
    it is in the heart of a Muslim and nowhere else.
    Alas! Those men of Truth! Those Arab cavaliers!
    The possessors of ‘inspiring character’, the followers of truth and faith;
    their rule has revealed this simple mystery
    that the State ruled by the faithful is pro-poor, not monarchical;
    their insights have trained the East and the West;
    their reasoning was the guiding force in the darkness of Europe.
    It is because of their blood that, even today, the Spanish people
    are friendly, hospitable, simple and handsome.
    In this country, even now, [people’s eyes] look like those of gazelle
    and, even today, the arrows of their sights are enchanting.
    The aroma of Yemen, even today, is mixed in its winds;
    the tunes of Hejaz, even now, are fused in its songs.
    In the eyes of the faithful your land’s estimation is equal to that of sky.
    Alas! Your environ has not heard the call for prayer for centuries.
    In which vale, at what destination,
    the strong caravan of the zealous lovers [of God] got stuck up.
    Germany has witnessed the Reformation
    that has erased all the imprints of antiquated faith;
    because of which the piety of the Pope has become an erroneous term
    and the subtle ferry of reason sailed on its course.
    France too has experienced the Revolution
    that has changed the world of the Westerners.
    The Roman nation that has been submerged in retrogressive culture
    has, once again, become powerful because of the new ideas.
    The soul of the Muslim nation too is experiencing similar unrest;
    what lies ahead is a mystery of God that I can’t reveal.
    Wait and see what spurts out of the seabed;
    the blue dome [of sky] changes to what colour.
    In the vale, surrounded by the mountain range, the cloud is swallowed up by the redness;
    the sun has set leaving behind the mounds of rubies from Badakhshan.
    The song of the farmer’s daughter is simple and poignant;
    youth is like a tempest to the vessel of heart.
    O stream of Kabeer! On your bank
    someone is perceiving the dream of some other age.
    [Though] the coming world is still covered with the curtain of destiny,
    before my eyes its beginning is uncovered.
    If I remove the curtains from the face of the [future] thoughts
    the Western people won’t face up to my songs.
    The life that has no place for revolution is death
    [for] the spirit of the nation lies in struggle and revolution.
    The nation, which takes stock of its actions in each age,
    develops into a sword in the hand of death.
    All the imprints are incomplete in the absence of love and endeavor;
    melody is like a crude insanity in the absence of love and endeavor

  2. cristina
    02/03/2011 at 17:17

    tia,casandra te as pasado un pelin de largo co el poema

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