I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky, And the blood

Muhammad Iqbal, poet of the East and awakener of nations, once wrote with visionary fire: “I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky, and the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.” These words are not of a mere dreamer, but of a seer whose gaze pierced beyond the surface of creation. He beheld not the heavens as cold and distant, but as living, breathing, and filled with divine vitality. To speak of the sinews of the sky and the blood of the moon is to proclaim that the cosmos itself is alive, that the universe is not dead matter but a body woven with spirit.

O listener, feel the weight of this vision. In the movement of the heavens, Iqbal saw not mechanical order, but strength, like the muscles of a great living being. The sky was not an empty void, but a body of power, pulsing with eternal rhythm. And the moon, pale guardian of the night, was not a cold stone in the heavens, but a living vessel, its light flowing like blood in veins. This is the poet’s triumph: to make us see the world not as dull fact, but as miracle, alive with meaning and with force.

The origin of these words lies in Iqbal’s lifelong quest to reconcile the spiritual with the scientific, the eternal with the temporal. He lived in an age when the world was increasingly described in the language of mechanism—stars as burning gas, the moon as a lifeless rock, the universe as indifferent emptiness. But Iqbal, inspired by both Islamic mysticism and modern philosophy, refused to see creation as barren. To him, the universe was an unfolding drama of life, each part alive with divine presence. His poetry sought to reawaken the human spirit, to make us look at the heavens and see vitality, not vacancy.

Consider the lives of those who gazed at the heavens before him. When Galileo looked through his telescope and saw the rugged surface of the moon, he shattered the illusion of a perfect celestial sphere. The world gasped, for the heavens were not what they had been imagined to be. But Iqbal went further—not only did he see mountains and craters, he saw veins, he saw blood, he saw the pulse of life in the heavens themselves. Where science measured, he exalted; where reason analyzed, he infused spirit. Thus, his vision joined knowledge with wonder, showing that truth is both fact and meaning.

There is also within his words a call to humanity. If the sky has sinews and the moon has veins, then how much more alive is man, the one who beholds them? If the cosmos itself is full of strength and vitality, how much more must we awaken to our own powers, our own divine calling? Iqbal used the heavens as mirrors, reflecting back to mankind the message that we too are alive with the same force, the same blood, the same eternal energy that moves the stars.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not look upon the universe as dead stone and blind chance. Look upon it as alive, as meaningful, as charged with divine power. See in the rising of the sun, the flowing of rivers, the silent march of stars—the pulse of life that binds all things. Let your vision be not shallow but deep, not indifferent but reverent. For when you see the world as living, you too will live more fully.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, train your eyes to see beyond appearances. See the movement in stillness, the blood in silence, the life in what seems lifeless. In doing so, you will walk the path of Iqbal, who taught that the universe itself is a companion in our journey, not a stranger. And when you recognize the living veins of the moon and the sinews of the sky, you will awaken to your own strength, your own divine purpose, and rise with courage to shape the destiny of your people.

For in the end, Iqbal’s vision is not only of the heavens, but of the soul. The cosmos lives, and so must we. The sky moves with strength, and so must our spirits. The moon pulses with light, and so must our hearts. To see this truth is to awaken—and to awaken is to live as more than dust, to live as eternal beings in a living universe.