Cordoba Mosque قرطبه
Arches in interior
From Allama Iqbal's poem "The Mosque of Cordova"
"Yet in this design of things, something unending endures,
Wrought by some man of God into perfection’s mould;
Some high mortal whose work shines with the light of love,
Love is the essence of life, death to which is forbidden.
Long current of Time, string and swift though it is,
Love itself is a tide, stemming all opposite waves;
In the almanac of Love, apart from the present time,
Other ages exist, ages which have no name.
Love is the breath of Gabriel, Love is the Prophet’s heart,
Love the envoy of God, Love the utterance of God;
Under the ecstasy of Love our moral clay is bright,
Love is an unripe wine, Love is a cup for the noble.
Love is the legist of Harem, Love is the commander of hosts,
Love is the son of travel, countless its habitations;
Love is the plectrum that plucks songs from the chords of life,
Love is the brightness of life, Love is the fire of life.
Oh shrine of Cordova, thou owes; existence to love.
Deathless in all its being, stranger to Past and Present.
Color or brick and stone, speech or music or song,
Only the heart’s warm blood feeds the craftsman/s design;
One drop of heart’s blood lends marble a heating heart,
Out of the heart’s blood flow out warmth, music and mirth.
Thine the soul-quickening air, mine the soul-quickening verse,
From thee the pervasion of men’s hearts, from me the opening of men’s hearts.
Inferior to the Heaven of Heavens, by no means the human breast is,
Handful of dust though it be, hemmed in the azure sky.
What if prostration be the lot of the heavenly host?
Warmth and depth of prostration they do not ever feel.
I’ a heathen of Ind, behold my fervour and my ardour,
Salat! And Durood fill my soul, Salat ad Darood are on my lips!
Fervently sounds my voice, ardently sounds my lute,
Allah Hu, like a song, thrilling through every vein!"
www.allamaiqbal.com/webcont/406/web_pages/cordova_mosque.htm
Cordoba Mosque قرطبه
Arches in interior
From Allama Iqbal's poem "The Mosque of Cordova"
"Yet in this design of things, something unending endures,
Wrought by some man of God into perfection’s mould;
Some high mortal whose work shines with the light of love,
Love is the essence of life, death to which is forbidden.
Long current of Time, string and swift though it is,
Love itself is a tide, stemming all opposite waves;
In the almanac of Love, apart from the present time,
Other ages exist, ages which have no name.
Love is the breath of Gabriel, Love is the Prophet’s heart,
Love the envoy of God, Love the utterance of God;
Under the ecstasy of Love our moral clay is bright,
Love is an unripe wine, Love is a cup for the noble.
Love is the legist of Harem, Love is the commander of hosts,
Love is the son of travel, countless its habitations;
Love is the plectrum that plucks songs from the chords of life,
Love is the brightness of life, Love is the fire of life.
Oh shrine of Cordova, thou owes; existence to love.
Deathless in all its being, stranger to Past and Present.
Color or brick and stone, speech or music or song,
Only the heart’s warm blood feeds the craftsman/s design;
One drop of heart’s blood lends marble a heating heart,
Out of the heart’s blood flow out warmth, music and mirth.
Thine the soul-quickening air, mine the soul-quickening verse,
From thee the pervasion of men’s hearts, from me the opening of men’s hearts.
Inferior to the Heaven of Heavens, by no means the human breast is,
Handful of dust though it be, hemmed in the azure sky.
What if prostration be the lot of the heavenly host?
Warmth and depth of prostration they do not ever feel.
I’ a heathen of Ind, behold my fervour and my ardour,
Salat! And Durood fill my soul, Salat ad Darood are on my lips!
Fervently sounds my voice, ardently sounds my lute,
Allah Hu, like a song, thrilling through every vein!"
www.allamaiqbal.com/webcont/406/web_pages/cordova_mosque.htm