If the object of poetry is, to make men, then poetry is the heir

Host: The night stretched over the city like an unwritten poem, the kind that hung in the air between meaning and silence. The moon, pale and deliberate, hovered above the rooftops, spilling its quiet silver light across the terrace of an old building, where two figures sat — a man with grey eyes, and a woman with hair black as the sky itself.

There was a small fire between them, the flames dancing as if trying to speak in their own language. The wind carried the faint smell of jasmine and ink.

Jack leaned back against the brick wall, a notebook open on his knee, his fingers stained with words. Jeeny sat cross-legged, her eyes reflecting the fire, her voice soft but burning. Between them lay a single page, on which she had written:

“If the object of poetry is, to make men, then poetry is the heir of prophecy.” — Muhammad Iqbal

Jack: (reading aloud) “To make men...” (pauses) “He makes it sound like poetry is a forging, not a feeling. Like the poet’s a blacksmith, not a dreamer.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what he meant, Jack. Iqbal believed poetry was creation, not ornament. Not something to admire, but something to become.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “And yet, every poet I’ve met hides behind their own fragility. They don’t make men — they unmake themselves. Poetry isn’t a hammer, Jeeny. It’s a mirror.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s both. The mirror shows what must be forged. The prophet speaks because he can’t stay silent, and the poet writes because the world has forgotten how to listen. That’s what makes them kin.”

Host: The fire crackled, throwing sparks into the wind. For a moment, the flames seemed to hesitate, as though even they were caught between creation and destruction.

Jack stared into the embers, his face half-lit, half-lost.

Jack: “So you think poets are some kind of moral architects? That every line they write is meant to rebuild the soul of mankind?”

Jeeny: “Not rebuild — awaken. Iqbal didn’t see poetry as escape; he saw it as revelation. Prophets speak of God; poets speak of Man. But both point to what we’ve forgotten — that there’s something divine in being human.”

Jack: (sighs) “And yet, look around. The poets today write for likes, not for light. They’ve traded prophecy for performance. Tell me, Jeeny — when was the last time a poem changed a life?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it changes lives quietly, Jack. Not in the streets, but in the soul. A poem doesn’t have to shout to shape. Sometimes it just has to remind someone they’re still alive.”

Host: The wind shifted, lifting the pages of Jack’s notebook, fluttering them like the wings of something trying to rise. The sound of distant traffic mixed with the fire’s hiss, a modern symphony beneath ancient stars.

Jack: “You sound like you think poetry is a kind of religion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Every prophet came to translate silence into meaning. Every poet tries to do the same — just with smaller miracles.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “But prophets believed they spoke truth. Poets — they doubt even their own lines. That’s not faith, that’s artifice.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s humility. The prophet speaks for God, the poet speaks for Man, and both tremble under the weight of the voice they carry.”

Host: The fire burned lower now, its light gentler, deeper. The terrace air grew colder, and somewhere below, the city murmured in its sleep. Jack’s voice softened too, losing its edge, turning almost melancholic.

Jack: “You talk as if poetry still matters — as if a line can still save someone. But the world doesn’t read anymore, Jeeny. They consume. The poet’s words are drowned beneath the noise of a thousand hollow voices.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s exactly why poets still matter — because the world is louder than it is wise. Prophets didn’t wait for the world to listen; they spoke anyway. That’s what makes poetry divine. It defies despair by still trying to speak.”

Jack: (after a pause) “So you think it’s an act of faith.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s an act of creation. When a poet writes, they’re not describing the world — they’re remaking it.”

Host: The firelight flickered across their faces — his doubt, her conviction, both luminous in their own ways. A single moth circled the flame, drawn to it despite the danger, a small and perfect metaphor neither of them dared to speak aloud.

Jack: (quietly) “Prophecy ends in scripture. Poetry ends in interpretation. One demands belief, the other invites doubt. You can’t call them the same.”

Jeeny: “No — but they share a burden. Both speak into the unknown, both risk being misunderstood, both remind the world of its own possibility. Iqbal wasn’t saying poetry replaces prophecy — he was saying it continues it.”

Jack: “Continues it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. When prophets fall silent, it’s the poets who keep the flame alive. The divine voice becomes human, the eternal becomes art, and the word becomes flesh — again and again.”

Host: The wind rose, lifting the smoke toward the stars. It carried the faint smell of burnt paper, of creation and decay inseparable.

Jack closed his notebook, his expression unreadable, but his eyes quieter now, as if something in her words had unlocked an old memory — perhaps of the first time he’d ever written a line that had moved him.

Jack: “So if poetry is prophecy, what does that make the poet?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “A servant of vision. A witness of the invisible.”

Jack: “And the reader?”

Jeeny: “The listener. The one who decides whether the voice was divine — or just desperate.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “Maybe both.”

Host: The fire finally dimmed into embers, but the sky above was still alive — the stars like words scattered across a vast page, unfinished, eternal.

Jeeny leaned back, her eyes lifting to the sky, her voice barely a whisper now.

Jeeny: “Iqbal once said poetry should make men — not entertain them. Maybe that’s the problem today. We’ve turned the sacred act of shaping souls into a spectacle.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe the sacred is still there — buried beneath the noise, waiting for someone brave enough to listen.”

Host: The night deepened. The city lights dimmed. The flames had died, but their heat lingered in the air, in their voices, in the silence between them.

And for a long moment, neither spoke — because both understood that poetry, like prophecy, does not end with speech. It begins in the listening.

The wind whispered through the terrace, carrying the ashes of their conversation into the dark,
where they rose — like words — toward the stars that had always been there,
waiting to be read.

Host: And in that quiet, the truth of Iqbal’s vision glowed like a fading ember:

That if the object of poetry is indeed to make men,
then every poem is an act of prophecy,
and every poet — knowingly or not — is still calling the human spirit back to itself.

The flame died, but the light remained,
soft, stubborn, and infinite.