“Invictus” is a short poem by the English poet William Ernest Henley (1849–1903). Written in 1875 and first published in 1888 in Henley’s Book of Verses, where it was the fourth in a series of poems entitled Life and Death (Echoes).
The poem originally bore no title and its early printings contained only the dedication To R. T. H. B.— a reference to a Scottish literary patron. The familiar title “Invictus” (Latin for “unconquered” for all of you not versed in any classical language) was bestowed by Arthur Quiller-Couch when he included the poem in The Oxford Book Of English Verse (1900).
The poem is on the pattern of stoic verse such as “Agar” … I mean “If” by Rudyard Kipling but is not that well known despite its the grandeur expressed in a sense of quiet dignity and the rather impressive imagery.
That is the background of this poem with the immortal final lines but you have to read it fully to find them and you might find they strike some kind of a chord. However, before that, you might need to go through a free-wheeling Urdu translation I thought I would try out. Do bear with me
Ubharte huye us raat se jo mujhe dhakhi hui hai
Siyah jaisi ek jaanib se doosre jaanib tak
Main shukr-guzar hoon jo bhi khuda hain
Apne na-qaabil-e-haar ruh ke liye
Halaat ke badtar girift mein bhi hokar
Main na pareshan paikar hua na roya
Bad-qismat ke zulmi aaghat se bhi
Sar mera khoon se ranga hua, lekin jhuka nahi
Is jahan-e-ghusse aur rone se door
Mandra raha hai wohi khauf-e- saaya
Lekin tab bhi umron ka dhamki
Mujhe na dara hua hargiz dhoondegi
Koi faraq nahi kitna mushqil ho raah
Kitna sazaaon se bhara hua ho firmaan
Main apni qismat ka maalik hoon
Main apne ruh ka nakhuda hoon
And for those interested, the original
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbow’d.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
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