Become dust - and they will throw thee in the air; Become stone - and they will throw thee on glass.
Muhammad Iqbal
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Since love first made the breast an instrument Of fierce lamenting, by its flame my heart Was molten to a mirror, like a rose I pluck my breast apart, that I may hang This mirror in your sight.
- Muhammad Iqbal -
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Why hast thou made me born in this country, The inhabitant of which is satisfied with being a slave?
- Muhammad Iqbal -