Muhammad Iqbal Quotes

Even Castles made of sand, fall into the sea, eventually.

By Fate full many a heart has been undone, And many a sprightly rose made woe-begone; Plume thee not on thy lusty youth and strength: Full many a bud is blasted ere its bloom.

What ever truth drops on it eventually grinds to a powder.

Nature is one great big wood-chipper. Sooner or later, everything shoots out the other end in a spray of blood, bones and hair.

Flowers are without hope. Because hope is tomorrow and flowers have no tomorrow.

Life is anything that dies when you stomp on it.

What is a ruin but time easing itself of endurance?

The only safety for the conquered is to expect no safety.

It is possible to provide security against other ills, but as far as death is concerned, we men live in a city without walls.

We are like boxers, one never knows how much longer one has.

Being dead is being weak and walled off.

In his state of complete powerlessness the individual perceives the time he has left to live as a brief reprieve.

Come, for the House of Hope is built on sand: bring wine, for the fabric of life is as weak as the wind.

The vulnerability of precious things is beautiful because vulnerability is a mark of existence. The destruction of Troy. The fall of the petals from fruit trees in blossom. To know that what is most precious is not rooted in existence - that is beautiful.

This life of ours...human life is like a flower gloriously blooming in a meadow: along comes a goat, eats it up---no more flower.

The sparrow still falls.

A man, when he burns, leaves only a handful of ashes. No woman can hold him. The wind must blow him away.

I'm a fart in a gale of wind, a humble violet under a cow pat.

These flowers will be rotten in a couple hours. Birds will crap on them. The smoke here will make them stink, and tomorrow a bulldozer will probably run over them, but for right now they are so beautiful.

Everything had shattered. The fact that it was all still there — the walls and the chairs and the children’s pictures on the walls — meant nothing. Every atom of it had been blasted apart and reconstituted in an instant, and its appearance of permanence and solidity was laughable; it would dissolve at a touch, for everything was suddenly tissue-thin and friable.

Yossarian was cold, too, and shivering uncontrollably. He felt goose pimples clacking all over him as he gazed down despondently at the grim secret Snowden had spilled all over the messy floor. It was easy to read the message in his entrails. Man was matter, that was Snowden's secret. Drop him out a window and he'll fall. Set fire to him and he'll burn. Bury him and he'll rot, like other kinds of garbage. The spirit gone, man is garbage. That was Snowden's secret. Ripeness was all. I'm cold,' Snowden said. 'I'm cold.

White means the strength of fragility and the fragility of the passage of time.

Life will take its toll on all of us. We get injured, we get old. It's really sad to try to run away from these harsh realities of life. Looks are not everything. I am not going to look beautiful all the time.

He's an innocent in a lot of ways. He's a very simple person who really doesn't have the resources or the strength, ultimately, to handle the situation.

A lot of people have great hope, and a lot of people who have great hope live. And, some of them who have great hope die. So it's not that hope is going to save you.