by Farid ud-Din Attar

The Conference of the Birds — Mantiq al-Tayr in Persian — is the masterwork of Farid ud-Din Attar of Nishapur (~1145–1221 CE), one of the great Sufi poets of the classical age. Written in the masnavi form of paired rhyming couplets, it follows all the birds of the world as they gather under the hoopoe's leadership to journey across seven valleys in search of their king, the mythical Simorgh. Only thirty birds survive the crossing — and when they arrive, they discover that si-morgh, "thirty birds" in Persian, is the very name of the one they sought. They are what they were looking for.

The poem opens with three devotional sections: a hymn to God's unity, a praise of the Prophet, and a treatment of caliphal succession and the danger of sectarian fanaticism. Then the allegory begins proper: the Hoopoe greets the assembled birds and calls them to the road, the individual birds step forward with their excuses, and the Hoopoe answers each. The Seven Valleys follow, and finally the thirty survivors arrive before the Simorgh.

The only freely available English translation of this poem is C.S. Nott's 1954 rendering — itself translated not from Attar's Persian but from Garcin de Tassy's 19th-century French. The scholarly modern translations from the Persian — Afkham Darbandi and Dick Davis (Penguin Classics, 1984) and Sholeh Wolpé (W.W. Norton, 2017) — are both paywalled. This is the first complete English translation made directly from the Persian text to be freely available. The source text is from Ganjoor.net, the principal digital archive of classical Persian poetry.

I. On Divine Unity

Praise upon the pure Giver of souls —
who breathed soul into the earth and gave it faith.

He set the Throne upon the water,
and gave dust-dwellers lives that blow away like wind.

He held the sky in its high lordliness,
and set the earth down in its uttermost lowness.

To one He gave perpetual motion,
to the other He gave everlasting rest.

He raised the sky like a tent —
set it without a pillar, and made the earth its floor.

In six days He brought the seven stars to light,
and from two letters raised nine vaults of heaven.

The beads of the stars He fashioned from a golden casket —
each night He plays the beads against the wheel of heaven.

He wove the body's trap of shifting states,
and set dust chasing after the bird of the soul.

He left the sea surrendered to Himself,
and froze the mountains cold with awe of Him.

He dried the lips of the sea with thirst,
and turned stone to ruby, blood to musk.

He showed the spirit shining through pure form —
all this He made from a handful of dust.

He cast rebellious reason down into the Law,
and made body live through soul, and soul through faith.

He gave the mountain both sword and sash,
and raised its head in service to His command.

Sometimes He laid a bouquet of roses across the face of fire —
sometimes He built a bridge across the sea.

Half a gnat He set against an enemy's head,
and kept it there four hundred years.

He gave a spider its web by His wisdom,
and rested the lord of all creation within it.

He buckled an ant with a belt thin as a strand of hair
and made it stand at Solomon's side.

He gave the sons of Abbas their robe of honor
and granted them their portion without labor.

The leaders who could see the road —
in season and out of season came seeking this.

They found their own souls were pure bewilderment,
and found the road of the soul was helplessness and longing.

Look first at what He did with Adam —
how many ages of grief He opened at his door.

Then see Noah, drowned in his labor —
enduring the unbelievers for a thousand years.

Then see Abraham, his heart set aflame —
the catapult and the furnace become his dwelling.

Then see Ishmael in grief —
the ram his sacrifice in the Beloved's lane.

Then see Jacob spinning with sorrow,
his eyes spent on the fate of his son.

Then see Joseph through his ordeal —
slavery, the well, and prison above his head.

Then see Job, worn down by suffering,
left at his threshold through long years of trial.

Then see Jonah, who lost his road —
descending from the moon into the belly of the fish.

Then see Moses from the start of his covenant —
Pharaoh's court his nurse, a chest in the river his cradle.

Then see David the armor-smith,
who softened iron with the burning of his heart.

Then see Solomon the sovereign —
how the demon seized his kingdom and scattered it to the wind.

Then see the one whose heart was full of fire —
the saw at his head, and still he breathed not a word.

Then see John the Baptist before the crowd —
his severed head weeping in the basin like a candle.

Then see Jesus, who fled again and again
from those who were enemies of God.

Then look at what the chief of all prophets suffered —
what cruelty and pain he endured from the unbelievers.

Do you think this was easy?
Truly, giving up one's life is the least of it.

How much can I say — I have gathered all I can.
It is as though no roses remain on the branch.

I am slain by bewilderment all at once.
I know no remedy except helplessness.

O God — reason is a child on Your road.
Old wisdom is lost in searching for You.

To such an Essence, when will I arrive?
Through my own presumption, how shall I reach the Pure?

You do not enter knowledge or vision.
Gain and loss bring You neither gain nor loss.

Moses brings You no benefit.
Pharaoh brings You no harm.

O God without limit — who is there but You?
Since You are without bound or end, what is there but You?

Nothing from the Infinite reaches its end —
when nothing reaches its end, where does one remain?

O One who keeps a world of bewildered souls,
staying hidden, remaining beneath the veil —

Lift the veil at last and do not burn my soul.
Do not keep me hidden behind the veil any longer.

I am lost suddenly in the sea of bewilderment —
rescue me from all this spinning.

I am stranded in the middle of the ocean,
left outside from within the veil.

Lift Your servant from this forbidden sea —
You threw me in; now lift me out.

My lower self has seized me head to toe —
if You do not take my hand, woe to me.

My soul is stained with emptiness —
I cannot bear this staining.

Either cleanse me of this filth,
or take me in blood and make me dust.

People fear You — I fear myself,
for from You I have seen only good, from myself only ill.

I am dead, walking on the face of dust —
make my soul alive, O Pure Giver of souls.

Believer and unbeliever alike are soaked in blood —
all spinning, or all turned away.

If You call, this is their spinning.
If You drive away, this is their turning back.

O King — my heart is soaked in blood.
From foot to head I spin like the sky.

You have said: I am with you day and night —
not a single breath should you be free from seeking.

We are such close neighbors —
You are the sun and we are shadow.

O Giver to those who have nothing —
what would it be if You kept the rights of neighbors?

With a heart full of pain and a soul full of grief,
from longing for You I rain down tears like clouds.

If I were to tell You all my sorrow,
I would be lost — until when shall I seek You?

Be my guide, for I have come astray —
grant me Your grace, even though I have come late.

Whoever found grace in Your lane
was lost in You and weary of himself.

I am not without hope, though I am without rest —
perhaps one spark will catch from a hundred thousand.

II. The Assembly of Birds

Welcome, O hoopoe who has become a guide —
in truth the messenger of every valley!

Your journey to the borders of Sheba — how sweet!
Your speech of birds with Solomon — how sweet!

You are keeper of Solomon's secrets,
and for this glory you have come crowned.

Hold the demon bound and imprisoned,
so that you may be Solomon's confidant.

When you have caged the demon in prison,
walk with Solomon to the royal pavilion.

Bravo, O little Moses-bird of Moses-nature —
rise up and play the flute of knowledge!

The music-knowing man gave thanks from his soul
for the melody woven through all creation.

Like Moses you have seen the fire from afar —
so you are a little Moses on Mount Sinai.

Turn away from the Pharaoh of your animal self,
come to the appointed meeting — become the bird of Sinai.

Then understand the speech that has no tongue and no cry,
comprehend without reason, and hear without ears.

Welcome, O parrot who dwells in the tree of paradise —
clothed in a robe, wearing a ring of fire!

The collar of fire is for one bound for hell —
the robe is for the generous and the heaven-bound.

Like Abraham, the one who escaped from Nimrod
can sit happily in the heart of the fire.

Strike off Nimrod's head like a pen —
like the Friend of God, step into the fire.

When you are free of Nimrod's terror,
put on your robe — what fear of your collar of fire?

Bravo, O partridge strutting in such grace —
how sweetly you come down from the mountain of knowledge!

Let out a laugh along this road —
strike your ring on the anvil of the House of God.

Melt your own mountain down through poverty,
so that a she-camel may emerge from within you.

When you have received your she-camel,
you will see streams of milk and honey flowing.

Drive the camel if it serves you —
Salih himself will come out to meet you.

Welcome, O bird with narrow eyes and narrow play —
how long will you be sharp and quick to anger?

Bind the letter of eternal love to your foot —
in all eternity, never unbind that letter.

Exchange your born reason for heart —
then you will see eternity and pre-eternity as one.

Break the four-walled cage of nature like a man —
make your dwelling in the cave of unity.

When you find rest in the cave,
the lord of the world will come as your cave-companion.

Bravo, O francolin on the ascent of "Am I not" —
eyes fixed on the crown of the eternal Yes!

When you heard the "Am I not" of love with your soul,
take disgust from the ego's Yes.

For the ego's Yes is a whirlpool of affliction —
how can your affairs go straight in a whirlpool?

Burn the ego like the ass of Jesus —
then become spirit like Jesus, and set the spirit alight.

Burn the ass and set the bird of the soul to work,
so that the Spirit of God may come joyfully back to you.

Welcome, O nightingale of the garden of love —
cry out sweetly from the pain and the burning of love!

Lament from the heart's pain in David's way,
that they may scatter a hundred souls at your feet each moment.

Open David's throat and cry out in his meaning —
guide all creation through the melody of every breath.

How long will you weave armor over your wretched soul?
Like David, make your iron as soft as wax.

If this iron of yours grows soft as wax,
you will grow warm in love as David was.

Bravo, O peacock of the garden of eight gates —
scorched by the wound of the seven-headed serpent!

The serpent's company drove you into blood
and cast you out of the garden of Eden.

The cedar-tree and the tuba-tree blocked your road,
the wall of your own nature blackened your heart.

Until you kill this serpent,
how will you be worthy of these secrets?

If you are freed from the serpent's grip,
Adam himself will take you back into paradise.

Welcome, O far-seeing pheasant —
see the heart's spring drowning in a sea of light!

O one left in the well of darkness,
struck down in the prison of accusation —

Pull yourself out of this well of shadow,
raise your head to the heights of the merciful Throne.

Like Joseph, pass through the prison and the well —
so that you become king in the Egypt of glory.

If such a kingdom comes to you,
Joseph the Truthful himself will walk beside you.

Bravo, O turtledove who arrived together —
who went out in joy and came back grief-stricken!

You grieve because you have been left in blood,
trapped in the narrow straits of Jonah's prison.

O one gone astray in the fish of the ego —
how long will you see the ego's ill will toward you?

Sever the head of this ill-wishing fish
so that you may know the profit of the moon.

If you escape from the fish of the ego,
you will become Jonah's companion in the place of honor.

Welcome, O ring-necked dove — open your song,
so that seven courts may rain down pearls upon you!

Since the ring of loyalty is around your neck,
it would be ill of you to prove disloyal.

As long as a single hair of your being remains,
I will call you disloyal from head to foot.

But if you enter yourself and come back out,
reason will guide you to the way of meaning.

When reason brings you toward meaning,
Khidr will bring you the water of life.

Bravo, O hawk come to take flight —
who went out headstrong and came back plunging down!

Do not lift your head — you are already plunging.
Submit your body, for you are soaked in blood.

You came bound to the carrion of this world —
so naturally you came far from meaning.

Pass beyond both this world and the next —
then take the crown from your head and look within.

When your heart turns from both the worlds,
the hand of Alexander will come in its place.

Welcome, O golden bird — come in warmly,
grow hot in your work and enter like fire!

Whatever comes before you, burn it with your heat —
sew shut the eye of the soul's vanity.

When you burn whatever comes before you,
God's provision will come to you moment by moment.

When your heart becomes witness to God's secrets,
dedicate yourself wholly to God's work.

When you become a complete bird in God's work,
you will cease to be — God will remain, and that is all.

All the birds of the world gathered —
those that were seen and those that were hidden.

They all said: "In this age,
there is no city anywhere without a king.

How can it be that our realm has no king?
We cannot go on like this much longer without one.

We should help one another —
let us make it our work to seek a king.

For when a country is without a king,
no order or arrangement remains in its ranks."

Then all came to their places —
altogether they came in search of a king.

The hoopoe, agitated, heart full of longing,
came into the gathering without rest.

He wore a robe woven from the Way —
on his head a crown made from the Truth.

Sharp of mind he had come on the road,
knowing both good and ill.

He said: "O birds — I am, beyond all doubt,
both messenger of the Presence and courier of the unseen.

From every Presence I carry news,
and through discernment I am keeper of secrets.

One who has found 'In the name of God' in his beak —
it is no wonder if he has found many secrets.

I spend my days in my own grief —
no one has any business with me.

As I am free of people, so naturally
people are free of me as well.

Since I am occupied with the king's grief,
the army's grief will never trouble me.

I show water out of my own mind —
I know many more secrets than this.

I came forward in speech before Solomon —
therefore I came further than his company.

Whoever disappeared from his realm — how strange —
he neither asked after them nor sought them out.

But when I disappeared from him for a time,
he sent searching in every direction.

For not a single breath could he begin without me —
this honor is enough for a hoopoe forever.

I carried his letter and returned —
I came back to him as his confidant behind the curtain.

Whoever is sought by a prophet —
it is fitting that a crown should rest upon their head.

Whoever has been mentioned by God with goodness —
what bird could catch up with his flight?

For years I have been wandering by land and sea,
foot on the road, wearing out the world.

I have traveled valley and mountain and desert,
crossed a whole world in the age of the flood.

I have been with Solomon on his journeys
and measured out much of the world's expanse.

I have known my own king —
yet how can I go alone when I cannot?

But if you travel with me,
you will become intimate with that king and that court.

Free yourselves from the shame of self-seeing —
how long in the disgrace of your own faithlessness?

Whoever gambled his soul in Him was freed from himself —
on the road to the Beloved he was freed from good and ill.

Scatter your souls and set foot on the road —
dancing, lay your heads at that threshold.

We have a king, without any doubt,
behind a mountain — and that mountain is Qaf.

His name is Simorgh, Sultan of Birds —
he is near to us and we are far from him.

Far away he rests in the sanctuary of glory —
no tongue has a measure for his name.

He has a hundred thousand veils and more —
both of light and of darkness before his door.

In both worlds there is no one bold enough
to find a share of what he holds.

He is always the absolute king —
drowned in the fullness of his own glory.

He cannot come to his own end where he is —
how can knowledge and reason reach where he is?

No road leads to him — no patience away from him —
a hundred thousand souls are mad with longing for him.

To describe him is not the work of the pure soul —
reason has no capital to comprehend him.

So both reason and soul are left bewildered,
gazing at his attributes with darkened eyes.

No wise one has ever seen his perfection.
No seeing one has ever seen his beauty.

In his perfection, creation found no road —
knowledge pursued and vision found no road.

The creatures' share of that perfection and beauty —
pile it all together and it is a fistful of imagination.

On imagination alone, how can one travel this road?
You are the moon's reflection — how can you walk the moon itself?

A hundred thousand heads like polo-balls are there —
cries and tumult and noise fill that place.

So many deserts, so many seas lie along the way —
do not think this is a short road.

A lion-brave man is needed for this terrible road,
for the road is far and the sea is deep.

The deep traveler is the one who says: bewildered, I go —
on his road we travel weeping and laughing.

If we find a sign of him, that is work worth doing —
but without him, living is a disgrace.

If life without the Beloved is somehow useful to you —
if you are a man, do not keep a life without the Beloved.

A whole man is needed for this road —
scattering the soul is needed at this threshold.

One must wash one's hands of life like a man
before one can say: I am fit for this work.

When life without the Beloved is worth nothing —
like a man, scatter your precious soul.

If you scatter a soul like a man,
what abundance the Beloved will scatter upon you in return."

III. In Praise of the Prophet

Master of the world and the faith, treasury of faithfulness —
the foremost full moon of both worlds, Mustafa the Chosen.

Sun of the Law, ocean of certainty —
light of the world, mercy to all the worlds.

The souls of the pure are the dust of his pure soul —
leave the soul: all creation is the dust of him.

Lord of both realms, sultan of all —
sun of the soul, and the faith of all.

Master of the Ascension, foremost of creation —
shadow of God, lord of the sun of essence.

Both worlds are bound to his saddlebag strap —
the Throne and Footstool have made his dust their qibla.

Leader of this world and that world —
guide of the visible and the hidden.

Greatest and best of all the prophets —
guide of the chosen ones and the saints.

Rightly-guided one of Islam, guide of every path —
mufti of the unseen, imam of part and whole.

A master beyond all that I could say —
in everything, he was ahead of all.

He called himself master of the gathering fields —
and said: I am only a given mercy.

Both worlds took their name from his existence —
even the Throne found rest in his name.

Like dew they came from the ocean of generosity —
all creation exists in dependence on him.

His light was the purpose behind all created things —
the origin of what was absent and what was present.

When God saw that absolute light in His presence —
He created from his light a hundred seas of light.

For His own sake He created that pure soul —
for his sake He created the people of the world.

Creation has no share of the purpose —
no one purer exists than he.

What first appeared from the deepest unseen —
was his pure light, without any doubt.

After that, that exalted light raised its flag —
Throne and Footstool, Tablet and Pen came into being.

One flag from his pure light is the world —
one flag is lineage, and Adam.

When that majestic light became manifest —
it fell in prostration before the Creator.

For ages it had fallen in prostration —
for lifetimes it had stood in the bow of prayer.

For years they were occupied in standing prayer —
a whole lifetime spent in the testimony of faith.

From the prayer of that light, that ocean of mystery —
prayer became obligatory upon all the community.

God kept that light like sun and moon —
facing Him without direction for a long time.

Then suddenly, in the ocean of Reality —
He opened an outward road for that light.

When that light saw the face of the ocean of mystery —
a tumult arose within it from glory and grace.

Seeking, it turned upon itself seven times —
and the seven compasses of heaven became manifest.

Each glance that came from God toward him —
became a star, and seeking became manifest.

After that, the pure light found rest —
the exalted Throne came into being and the Footstool took its name.

The Throne and Footstool arose as reflections of his essence —
and many angels arose from his attributes.

From his breaths, lights became manifest —
from his thought-full heart, secrets became manifest.

The mystery of the spirit is from the world of thought, no more —
for this: "I breathed into him of My spirit" was breathed.

When those breaths and secrets were gathered —
from this gathering, many souls came to be.

Since the peoples came as dependents of his light —
inevitably he was sent as messenger to all.

He was sent as prophet until the Day of Reckoning —
for all creation of every age.

When through his call he summoned even Satan —
Satan became Muslim from this cause.

By the Creator's permission he called —
and the Night of the Jinn became manifest to the jinn.

He seated the holy ones alongside the messengers —
one night he called them all to his invitation.

When he made his call manifest to the animals —
his witnesses were a she-goat and a lizard.

Caller to the idols of the world he was too —
inevitably they fell headlong before him.

Caller to atoms was that pure essence —
in his palm the pebbles glorified God.

Among prophets, who found this glory and honor —
who ever found the calling of all peoples?

Since his light was the origin of all existence —
his essence was the giver of every essence.

Necessary was the calling of both worlds to him —
the calling of visible and hidden atoms alike.

Since the part and the whole came as his community —
they came to glean from the harvest of his resolve.

On the Day of Gathering, for a handful of those without good works —
"My community" he will say — and that alone suffices.

For the sake of that guiding candle's soul —
God sends ransom for his community.

In every work he was the master teacher —
his work it is, for whoever this work falls to.

Though he never looked at anything with attachment —
for everything's sake one must weep for him.

Whatever exists is under his shelter —
and whatever is sought is sought through his good pleasure.

He is the elder of the world in every rank —
whatever passes from him becomes a servant of its company.

What was his own unique quality, nothing else —
where could anyone even dream of that?

He saw himself as the whole, and the whole as himself —
as he saw from behind, so he saw from before.

God sealed prophethood upon him —
miracle and character and nobility upon him.

He commanded his call for the common and the elect —
and completed His blessing upon him.

He gave the unbelievers respite from punishment —
not sending down torment in his era.

In the night He sent him journeying toward the Ascension —
and laid the secret of all with him in the hidden.

From glory and honor he possessed both ways —
his shadow cast no shadow in the two horizons.

From God he received the best of books —
and found the all of all beyond all reckoning.

Mothers of the faithful are his wives —
the honor of all messengers is his ascension.

The prophets were following — he was the leader —
the scholars of his community are like prophets.

God Most High, in the fullness of honor —
had written his name in the Torah and the Gospel.

A stone from him gained honor and elevation —
and received the robe of "the right hand of God."

His dust has become the qibla through his sacredness —
transformation and abrogation came among his community.

His sending was the overturning of idols —
his community is the best of all communities.

A dry well he filled in a dry year —
a single drop of his saliva made it full of clear water.

The moon split from his finger —
the sun shone obediently behind him.

Between his two shoulders, like a sun —
the seal of prophethood was kept plain to see.

He was guide in the best of all cities —
he is the best of creation in the best of ages.

The Kaaba received the honor of "God's House" from him —
safe became everyone who found a way into it.

Gabriel became a wearer of the cloak at his hand —
and appeared in Dihyah's form for this reason.

Dust in his era found the strongest thing —
it became a place of prayer, and also a means of purifying.

Since the secret of each atom was clear to him —
he came as the unlettered one: do not read him from books.

Since God's tongue is his tongue —
the best of all covenants is his time.

On the Day of Gathering all tongues will be extinguished —
all except his; all other tongues.

Until his last breath, as his state was turning —
longing made question from the court of glory.

When his heart lost itself in the ocean of mystery —
his fervor would carry him a mile in prayer.

Since his heart was a wonderful ocean —
a deep ocean raises many surges.

Going within, he said: "Bring us rest, O Bilal" —
that I might come out of this narrowness of thought.

Coming back out, distraught —
he said: "Speak to me, O Aisha."

From this going and coming — when reason thinks on it —
I do not know how many souls from a hundred it would take.

Reason has no way into his seclusion —
even knowledge is not aware of his moment.

When he makes celebration in seclusion with the Friend —
even if Gabriel burns, he cannot enter.

When the Simorgh of his soul becomes manifest —
Moses from awe becomes like a little Moses-bird.

Moses went to the court of that one —
and was commanded by God: remove your sandals.

When he drew near, free from his sandals —
he became drowned in light in the sacred valley.

But in the Ascension of that candle of Majesty —
he heard the sound of Bilal's sandals in Paradise.

Moses son of Imran, even though he was a king —
even he had no path there wearing sandals.

See this grace — for the sake of his honor —
what God did with his servant at his gate.

His servant He made a man of His own lane —
gave him sandals and a road toward Himself.

When Moses son of Imran saw that rank —
and saw such closeness given to his servant —

He said: O Lord, make me of his community —
in the shadow of his aspiration, make me.

Though Moses kept asking this wish —
yet Jesus found this high station.

Inevitably, when Jesus leaves his seclusion —
he will call people to his religion.

From the fourth heaven he will come to earth —
and lay his face on his dust, soul girded.

The Christ of great fame became his servant —
for this reason the Creator named him Bringer of Good Tidings.

If someone says: someone should come —
who, having gone to that world, would return,

And would resolve our troubles one by one —
so that no doubt would remain in our hearts —

No one came back from the visible or the hidden:
in both worlds, from that world, only Muhammad.

What he reached there through sight —
every prophet reached there through knowledge.

When "By your life" became a crown upon his head —
the mountain at once became like a belt at his door.

He is the sultan, and all are his dependents —
he is forever the king, and all are his retinue.

When the world was filled with musk from his hair —
the sea's lips ran dry with thirst for him.

Who is there not thirsty for the sight of him?
Down to wood and stone, all are absorbed in his work.

When that ocean of light ascended the pulpit —
the groan of the palm-trunk carried far and wide.

The sky without a pillar became full of light —
and that pillar fell ill from parting with him.

How shall his description come in my speech —
shame makes blood pour from me like sweat.

He is the eloquent one of the world, and I am mute —
how can I give account of his state?

When is his description fitting for this worthless one?
The Creator of the world alone is sufficient to describe him.

O Prophet — the world itself is the dust of your rank —
a hundred worlds of soul are the dust of your pure soul.

Prophets became bewildered in describing you —
the well-known ones too became lost.

O one — the sun lives as your smile's dependent —
your weeping commands the clouds.

Both worlds are the dust around your feet —
you sleep wrapped in a coarse blanket — what a place for you!

Raise your head from your blanket, O generous one —
then set your foot upon what your blanket is worth.

Every sacred law was absorbed into your law —
the origin of all fell short of your branch.

Forever your law and your decrees endure —
and your name stands alongside the name of God.

All who were among prophets and messengers —
all will come to your religion from their many paths.

Since no one came before you in precedence —
inevitably, after you, one must come.

Both after and before the world, you are —
first and last in one place, you are.

No one ever reaches near to you —
nor does anyone else reach so much honor.

Mastership of both worlds, forever —
the One God dedicated to Ahmad, the Sent.

O Messenger of God, I am greatly helpless —
wind in hand, dust on head, I remain.

You are the one for the friendless, in every breath —
I have no one in both worlds but you.

Cast one glance toward me, the grief-worn —
make remedy for my helpless affairs.

Though I have wasted my life in sin —
I have repented; ask my pardon from God.

If I have fear from "Do not feel secure" —
I have a lesson from "Do not despair."

Day and night I sit in a hundred griefs —
that you may be my intercessor for just one breath.

If from your door one intercession reaches me —
the seal of obedience will come upon my transgression.

O intercessor for a handful of the dark-fated —
show grace; light the candle of intercession.

So that like moths among your assembly —
with fluttering wings we may come before your candle.

Whoever sees your candle clearly —
naturally surrenders soul and heart like a moth.

For the eye of the soul, your meeting is enough —
for both worlds, your good pleasure is enough.

The medicine for my heart's pain is your love —
the light of my soul is the sun of your face.

At your door I gird my soul —
behold the jeweled sword of my tongue.

Every jewel I have scattered from my tongue —
I have scattered on your path from the depths of my soul.

For this I became a jewel-scatterer from the ocean of soul —
because the ocean of my soul bears your sign.

Since my soul found a sign from you —
through you my sign has become signlessness.

My need is this, O jewel of the heights —
that from the crown of your grace you cast a glance at me.

From that glance, let us remain in signlessness —
let us hold that signlessness eternally.

From all this delusion and polytheism and nonsense —
purify me, O pure essence.

Do not blacken my face from sin —
you keep watch over me, O namesake of God.

I am the child of your road, drowned —
black water has formed a ring around me.

IV. A Tale: The Mother Whose Child Fell in the Water

A mother's child fell into the water —
the mother's soul fell into fever and agony.

Bewildered, the child was beating hands and feet —
the water carried it to the millrace of the mill.

When the mother saw this, she ran to the sluice —
and at once pulled him out of the water.

The water receded, and that precious child
was carried back upon the top of the receding flow.

His mother leaped and took him in her arms —
gave him milk straightaway and held him close.

O You who, out of tenderness, gave mothers their love —
this whirlpool has a great vessel in it.

When we fall into the whirlpool of bewilderment —
we fall before the water-channel of longing.

Remaining lost like that child in the water —
we beat our hands and feet in desperation.

In that moment, O compassionate one to the travelers —
from grace, look upon those drowning in your flood.

Show mercy to our troubled hearts —
and from grace and generosity, pull us from the water.

Give us milk from the breast of generosity —
do not take from before us the table of grace.

O one who is beyond all description and comprehension —
who has come pure from the attributes of all who describe —

No hand has reached your saddlebag strap —
inevitably we are the dust of your dust.

Your dust became your pure companions —
the people of the world became the dust of your dust.

Whoever is not dust before your companions —
is an enemy to those who love you.

First of them Abu Bakr, and last Ali Morteza —
four pillars of the Kaaba of sincerity and purity.

The first: in sincerity, confidant and minister —
the second: in justice, the shining sun.

The third: the ocean of reverence and modesty —
the fourth: king of those with knowledge and generosity.

V. On the Virtues of the Caliphs

In Praise of Abu Bakr

The first master — the first of his companions —
"second of two" when the two were in the cave.

Foremost of the faith, the Great Truthful One, axis of truth —
in all things, ahead of all.

All that God poured from His court of majesty
into the honored breast of the Chosen One —

all that poured into the breast of the Truthful One too —
so naturally, for as long as he lived, certainty poured from him.

He breathed both worlds into himself in a single breath,
closed his lips around a stone, and breathed sweetly inward.

He bowed his head all night long until the dawn —
at midnight he raised a cry of longing from his burning.

His cry would travel as far as China laden with musk —
it would turn the Tatar deer's blood into musk.

For this reason the sun of Law and faith declared:
"Seek knowledge, even as far as China."

The stone was in his mouth by wisdom —
so that his tongue would not cry "Hu!" at just any time and place.

No — the stone barred the road on his tongue
so that he would call no name but God's.

A stone is needed so that dignity appears —
a person without a stone, how will they be fit for work?

When Umar saw a single hair of his worth,
he said: "Would that that hair were on my own chest."

Since You received him as the "second of two" —
he was second of two, after the Prophet.

In Praise of Umar

Master of the Law, sun of the faith's unity —
shadow of truth, Umar the Great, candle of the faith.

He sealed justice and fairness in truth —
his discernment was ahead of revelation.

The one whom God called Taha from the first
was purified through Taha and made whole.

The ha' of Taha in his heart is cry and ecstasy —
blessed is the one who, through cry and ecstasy, arrives in God.

The one who has the first crossing on the Bridge —
he is, by the Prophet's word, Umar.

The one who first rings the bell at the House of Peace —
he will attain it — what a high station!

As God first places His hand in his hand —
in the end He carries him to where He is.

The work of the faith was accomplished by his justice —
the Nile found its motion, the earthquake found its rest.

He was the candle of paradise, and in no gathering
does anyone cast a shadow from a candle.

Since a candle casts no shadow from its light —
the demon fled far even from the shadow of him.

When he spoke, truth was on his tongue —
from the insight of the heart, God was made manifest through him.

Sometimes the pain of love burned his soul —
sometimes the speech of truth burned his tongue.

When the Prophet saw him burning so pitifully,
he said: "This renowned one is the candle of paradise."

In Praise of Uthman

Master of the Sunnah, who is absolute light —
nay, possessor of two lights, full of truth.

The one who came drowned in holiness and gnosis —
the foremost of the faith: Uthman son of Affan.

The loftiness that the banner of faith received —
it received from the Commander of the Faithful, Uthman.

The brilliance that the arena of both worlds found —
it found from the light-filled heart of the Lord of Two Lights.

"A second Joseph" by the Prophet's word —
ocean of piety and modesty, that faithful one.

He gave himself to the work of the Prophet's kin with his soul —
he surrendered his life in their service.

They cut off his head while he sat in his place —
"Why are you always so persistently merciful?"

Both guidance in the world and virtue —
his community became greater in his era.

In his era faith was spread abroad —
and by his decree the Quran was spread abroad.

The master of masters would say in the heavens:
"The angels always feel shame before Uthman."

The Prophet also said, in unveiling and in veil:
"God will not reproach Uthman."

Since he was absent to accept the oath of allegiance —
the Prophet's own hand stood in place of his.

Those present said: "We would have profited
if we, like the Lord of Two Lights, had been absent."

In Praise of Ali

Master of truth, the true guide —
mountain of forbearance, door of knowledge, axis of the faith.

Cupbearer of Kawthar, guiding imam —
cousin of the Chosen One, Lion of God.

The Well-Pleased, the Pure, husband of Fatimah —
the sinless master, son-in-law of the Prophet.

He came in the unfolding of guidance —
possessor of secrets, master of "Ask me!"

The leader — without doubt, he is the leader by right —
the absolute mufti, in absolute terms.

Since Ali is one of the hidden ones of God —
does reason have patience in his sight?

He is the soul-aware one of "the most learned in judgment is Ali" —
and Ali is "touched in the essence of God."

If by Jesus's breath someone rose from the dead —
he by his breath restored a severed hand.

That accepted one arrived at the Kaaba —
an idol-breaker on the back and shoulders of the Prophet.

In his heart were the hidden things of the unseen —
from that he would bring out the white hand from his robe.

If the white hand had not been made manifest through him —
how would Dhulfiqar have come to rest there?

Sometimes he would boil with the fire of his own work —
sometimes he would whisper his secrets down into the well.

In all the horizons he found no companion of breath —
he searched within and found no confidant.

VI. On Fanaticism

O one trapped in sectarianism —
always held in hatred and in partisanship.

If you boast of reason and of eloquent lips —
why then do you breathe in fanaticism?

There is no self-interest in the caliphate, O ignorant one —
how could self-interest come from Abu Bakr and Umar?

If there had been self-interest in those two leaders —
both would have made their own sons the successors.

If both were truly among the righteous —
they would have been obliged to prevent others.

If they appeared without imposing that prevention —
they were content with setting the obligation aside.

If no one came to help with the prevention —
you must either reject everyone, or accept.

If you reject the Companions of the Prophet —
you have not accepted the word of the Prophet.

He said: "Every one of my Companions is a bright star —
the best of all centuries is my century."

"The best of creation are my Companions —
blessings upon those who love them."

If the best is, in your view, the worst —
how can anyone call you a person of insight?

Would you accept that the Companions of the Prophet
would accept an unjust man from the heart?

Or seat him in the place of the Chosen One?
This falsehood is not permissible for the Companions.

If all their choices are not correct —
then the choice to compile the Quran is also an error.

Rather, whatever the Companions of the Prophet do —
they do rightly, and do what befits the righteous.

To remove one person from their position —
you reject thirty-three thousand.

The one whose work was never for a moment other than truth
did not fall short, not even to the knee-binding of a camel.

When he was so deeply engaged in his work —
would truth from the righteous carry such suspicion? Do not harbor it.

If self-interest had been permissible in the Truthful One —
where would "Relieve me of this" ever have been?

If there had been a particle of self-interest in Umar —
how, my son, would he have beaten his own son with strokes of the whip?

Always the Truthful One was a man of the Way —
free of all that was obligatory at the threshold.

He scattered his wealth and his daughter for his soul —
such a person does not commit injustice — be ashamed!

He was pure of the shell of tradition —
because his discernment itself was a miracle.

The one who has regard for decorum on the pulpit
would not seat the master in an unsuitable place.

When one sees all this, from beginning to end —
who can call him unjust?

Then the Farouq, whose work was justice —
sometimes he carried bricks, sometimes he cleared thorns.

He would rise with those at the city gates —
he would walk through the city seeking the road.

Every day, in this prison of desire —
seven morsels of bread were his food and nothing more.

Vinegar with salt was on his table —
his bread did not come from the public treasury.

Sand would be his bed if he lay down —
a whip would be the pillow under his head.

He would take up the waterskin like a water-carrier —
he would bring water to widows in the night.

At night he would go out, taken out of himself —
all night long he kept watch over the army.

He said to Hudhayfa: "O man of insight —
do you see any hypocrisy in Umar?"

"Where is the person who, seeing my faults to my face,
does not incline away but brings me the gift of honesty?"

If he had held the caliphate wrongfully —
why would he have taken up a cloak of seventeen mends?

Since neither robe nor blanket came to his hand —
he sewed ten patches of leather onto his patched cloak.

The one who holds such great kingship in this way —
it is impossible for him to incline toward anyone in self-interest.

The one who sometimes carried bricks, sometimes clay —
did not bear all this hardship for the sake of falsehood.

If he had governed the caliphate from desire —
he would have seated himself in kingship.

The city once closed — by his sword —
became empty of unbelief in his days.

If you hold sectarian prejudice against this —
you have no fairness: die from the force of it.

He did not die from poison, yet you die from his force —
how many times will you die without even drinking his poison?

Look, O ignorant one who does not know justice —
take measure of your own mastery from the caliphate.

If this mastery fell upon you —
from this grief alone, a hundred fires would fall in your liver.

If anyone from among them had seized the caliphate —
he would have seized the burden of a hundred kinds of calamity.

It is not easy, as long as the soul is in the body —
the burden of a people that hangs around one's neck.

A Tale: Umar Who Wanted to Sell the Caliphate

When Umar came to Uways in ferment,
he said: "I have put the caliphate up for sale.

If there is a buyer for this caliphate —
I will sell it, even for a single dinar."

When Uways heard these words from Umar,
he said: "Let it go — and pass by freely.

You cast it down — and whoever needs it on the road
will pick it up and be elevated in the Presence."

When the commander wanted to cast off the caliphate —
at that moment a cry rose from the companions.

All said to him: "Do not do it, O leader —
do not leave the people confused, for God's sake.

The Truthful One placed the obligation around your neck —
not blindly, but in full certainty.

If you twist your head away from his command —
his soul grieves over you at this time."

When Umar heard this solid argument —
the matter became heavier for him because of it.

A Tale: Ali's Compassion toward His Enemy

When that wretch, finally by fate,
suddenly struck that blow upon Murtaza —

they prepared a drink for Murtaza.
He said: "Where is my blood-shedder?

Give the drink to him first, then to me —
for he will be my companion on the road."

They brought the drink to the man. He said: "What outrage is this —
Haydar wants to kill me here with poison?"

Murtaza said: "By the truth of the Creator —
if this wretch had drunk my drink,

I would not have set foot, together with the rest,
before God in the Garden of Refuge without him."

When that ugly man killed Murtaza —
Murtaza would not have entered paradise without him.

Since his compassion toward his enemy was such —
how would he have had enmity toward one like the Truthful One?

The one who carried such grief for his enemy —
how could suspicion be held that he was enemies with Atiq?

The boundless world would not plant enmity between them —
since Ali held the Truthful One as a friend.

How long will you say: "Murtaza was wronged —
deprived, driven from the caliphate"?

Since Ali is the Lion of God and the crown of all heads —
injustice cannot be done to a lion, my son.

A Tale: Ali Telling His Secrets to the Well

The Chosen One came down to rest somewhere on the road.
He said: "Bring water for the army from the well."

A man went out and came back in full haste.
He said: "The well is full of blood — there is no water."

The Prophet said: "I think, from the pain of his own work,
Murtaza has been telling his secrets to the well.

The well, when it heard that burning —
naturally, when you arrive, its water is gone."

The one in whose soul there was such turbulence —
how was there in his heart the enmity of a single ant?

Your soul boils in sectarianism —
Murtaza's soul was not silent like this.

Do not measure Murtaza against yourself —
for that knower of truth was drowned in truth.

He is still submerged in that work —
and he is disgusted by your imaginings.

If Murtaza had been full of hatred like you —
he would have sought war before the army of the Chosen One.

He was far more manly than you —
so why did he not make war with anyone?

If the Truthful One was unjust — O wonder! —
since Ali was in the right, he would have sought his right.

Before Haydar, the forces of the Mother of the Faithful
did not seek vengeance according to religion's pattern —

naturally, when he saw so much battle and tumult,
Haydar drove back that group by force.

And the one who could make war even against the daughter
knows how to set the course toward the Father.

O son, you have no trace of Ali —
you know only the letters of his name.

You are restless from love of your own soul —
while he sits ready to scatter a hundred souls.

If any of the Companions was killed —
Haydar the Brave would grieve greatly,

saying: "Why have I too not been killed likewise?
My precious life has become worthless in my eyes."

The master would say: "What has come over you, O Ali?
What coldness has settled on you, O Ali?"

A Tale: The Beating of Bilal

One day in a place, Bilal received
on his slender body a hundred blows of rod and strap.

Blood ran from him from uncountable blows —
and still he kept saying "Ahad!" — still saying "Ahad!"

If a thorn should suddenly enter your foot —
neither love nor hatred of anyone remains in your path.

The one who suffers from a thorn in his hand —
it is wrong for him to meddle in the affairs of such people.

Since they were like that, and you are like this —
how long will you remain bewildered as you are?

From your wedding-feast, the idol-worshippers have escaped —
and from your tongue, the Companions are wearied.

In your meddling you fill a black register —
you have won the game if you will only keep your tongue.

A Tale: The Prophet Going to the Cave

Whether it was Ali or the Truthful One —
the soul of each was drowned in certainty.

When the Chosen One was going toward the cave,
Murtaza slept that night in his bed.

Haydar scattered his own soul —
so that the soul of that great master might be preserved.

Before the Friend of the Cave — the Truthful One of the world —
he also, for his life, surrendered his life.

Both became life-gamblers on his road —
life-scatterers in his shelter.

You hold your sectarianism — while they, manfully,
both scattered their souls for the Beloved.

If you are the man of this one, or the man of that one —
where is your pain of this one, or your pain of that one?

Take life-scattering as your trade, like them —
or be silent, and give up this thought.

You know Ali and Abu Bakr, O son —
and from God's reason and soul you are unaware.

Let go — seal your head in this matter —
become a man of truth night and day, like Rabia.

She was not one woman — she was a hundred men —
from foot to crown she was pure longing.

She was always drowned in the light of truth —
freed from meddling, submerged.

Words from Rabia

Someone asked her: "O one held in acceptance —
what do you say about the Companions of the Prophet?"

She said: "I cannot come to myself from truth —
how can I give news of the Companions?

If I did not have my soul and heart lost in truth —
I would care for people for a single breath.

Was that not I, in the place of prostration,
who had a thorn break in my eye along the road?

Blood ran from my eye onto the ground —
and I was unaware of my own blood."

The one who had such pain —
how was the heart occupied with the affairs of women and men?

"Since I was not there while I was my own knower —
how can I know another by comparison?

You, on this road, know neither God nor the Prophet —
shorten your hand from this rejection and acceptance.

You are a handful of dust — on this road, become dust.
Be cleansed of dissociation and attachment.

Since you are a handful of dust, speak from dust —
know all to be pure, and speak of all as pure."

The Prophet's Request

The master of the world asked of the Creator —
he said: "Leave the affair of my community to me,

so that no one may find any knowledge
of my community's sins for a single breath."

The Most High said: "O great master —
if you were to see those countless sins,

you would not have the endurance — you would be bewildered —
you would be ashamed and hide yourself away.

Aisha, who was like your own soul —
your heart was wearied of her from a single slander.

You heard a cry from the people of metaphor
and sent her back to her place.

Since you turned away from your dearest one —
how many sinners are there in your community.

You do not have the endurance for so much sin —
leave your community to God.

If you want that no one in the world
should find any trace of your community's sins —

I want it so, O high-jeweled one,
that even you have no knowledge of their sins.

Set your foot from the middle — go to the side —
leave the community's affair night and day to Me.

Since the community's affair is not Mustafa's work —
how can this work be made right by your command?"

Do not command, and shorten your tongue —
be without fanaticism and resolve yourself to the road.

Take before you what they have done —
go in peace and take your own path.

Or set your step in truthfulness, in the manner of the Truthful One —
or like the Farouq, choose justice.

Or like Uthman, be full of modesty and forbearance —
or like Haydar, be an ocean of generosity and knowledge.

Or speak not — accept my counsel and go —
lift your foot and take yourself away.

You — what manner of man of truth and knowledge of Haydar are you?
You are a man of the ego — each breath more faithless than the last.

Kill the faithless ego — be a believer —
when you have killed the ego, be at peace.

In fanaticism do not engage in this meddling —
from your own head do not play this messenger.

In your law, words alone are not accepted —
what will you say about the Companions of the Prophet?

*This meddling is not in me, O God —
keep my sight perpetually free from fanaticism.

Purify my soul from fanaticism —
say: let this story not be in my book.*

VII. Assembly of the Birds

Greeting the Hoopoe

Welcome, O Hoopoe who has become a guide —
in truth the messenger of every valley.

Your journey to the frontier of Sheba is sweet —
your Speech of Birds with Solomon is sweet.

You came as holder of Solomon's secret —
from that distinction you came as a crowned one.

Keep the demon in chains and in prison —
so that you may be Solomon's confidant.

When you have put the demon in his prison —
you can journey with Solomon to the royal tent.

Greeting the Sparrow

Bravo, O little wren with the nature of Moses —
rise up and play the flute-pipe in knowing.

The man who knows music gave thanks from his soul
for the melody of creation's music.

Like Moses you have seen fire from afar —
so naturally you are a wren upon Mount Sinai.

Flee the bestial Pharaoh and come —
come to the place of meeting and become the bird of the Mount.

Then understand the speech without tongue and without cry —
understand without reason and hear not with ears.

Greeting the Parrot

Welcome, O parrot who dwells in the Tree of Paradise —
wearing a robe, with a collar of fire.

The collar of fire is for the one bound for hell —
the robe is for the heavenly and the generous.

Like Abraham — the one who escaped Nimrod —
can sit pleasantly in fire.

Strike Nimrod's head like a pen —
like the Friend of God, step into the fire.

Once you are purified of Nimrod's dread —
put on your robe: what fear is your collar of fire?

Greeting the Partridge

Bravo, O partridge, prancing along, prancing —
sweetly you come down from the mountain of knowing.

Let your laughter ring in the style of this road —
strike the ring on the anvil of the House of God.

Melt your own mountain through poverty of spirit —
so that from your mountain a she-camel emerges.

When Salih's young she-camel is given to you —
you will see streams of milk and honey flowing.

Drive the she-camel, if your intent is right —
Salih himself will come to meet you.

Greeting the Falcon

Welcome, O tight-winged falcon, sharp-eyed —
how long will you be fierce and quick to anger?

Bind the letter of primal love upon your foot —
and never to eternity unseal that letter.

Trade your instinct-mind in for the heart —
until you see eternity and the primal as one.

Break the fourfold frame of nature, manfully —
and settle in the inner cave of unity.

When inner stillness comes to you in that cave —
the master of the world comes as your cave-companion.

Greeting the Francolin

Bravo, O francolin — ascent of the primal covenant —
your eye on the crown of "Yes" atop "Am I not?"

When you heard the "Am I not?" of love with your soul —
take disgust at the "yes" of the ego.

For the "yes" of the ego is a whirlpool of affliction —
how can your work go straight in a whirlpool?

Burn the ego like the donkey of Jesus —
then become soul like Jesus, and set your soul alight.

Burn the donkey and make ready the bird of the soul —
so the Spirit of God comes to you sweetly.

Greeting the Nightingale

Welcome, O nightingale of the garden of love —
cry sweetly from the pain and burning of love.

Weep sweetly from the pain of the heart, like David —
so that every moment they pour a hundred souls at your feet.

Open your Davidic throat to meaning —
guide the people by the melody of creation.

How long will you chain armor to the wretched ego?
Like David, make your iron soft as wax.

If this iron of yours becomes soft as wax —
you will be warm in love, like David.

Greeting the Peacock

Bravo, O peacock of the garden of eight gates —
you were scorched by the bite of the seven-headed serpent.

The company of that serpent threw you into blood —
and drove you out of the Garden of Eden.

It took the Lotus and the Tree of Paradise from your path —
and blackened your heart behind the dam of nature.

Until you bring this serpent to ruin —
how will you be worthy of these mysteries?

If you are freed from this ugly serpent —
God will take you with Adam into paradise.

Greeting the Pheasant

Welcome, O handsome pheasant with far-seeing eyes —
look: the eye of the heart is drowned in the sea of light.

O you who have remained in the pit of darkness —
held in the prison of slander.

Lift yourself from this dark pit —
raise your head from the height of the Throne of Mercy.

Like Joseph, pass through prison and pit —
until you become king in Egypt of honor.

If such a kingdom is given to you —
the truthful Joseph will be your companion.

Greeting the Turtledove

Bravo, O turtledove — you who came as a companion —
you went joyful, you came back with constricted heart.

Your heart is constricted because you have remained in blood —
held in the tight prison of Dhul-Nun.

O you who have become confused, a fish of the ego —
how long will you see the ill-will of the ego?

Cut off the head of this ill-wishing fish —
so you can tell the moon's crown from the fish below.

If you are freed from the fish of the ego —
you will be Jonah's companion in the highest place.

Greeting the Cuckoo

Welcome, O cuckoo — open your voice —
so that the seven courts rain pearls on you.

Since the ring of faithfulness is around your neck —
faithlessness is ugly for you to do.

As long as a single hair of existence remains in you —
I call you faithless from head to toe.

If you enter into and go out from yourself —
your reason will find the path to meaning.

When reason brings you toward meaning —
Khidr brings you the water of life.

Greeting the Hawk

Bravo, O hawk — you who came in flight —
you went headstrong, you came back headlong.

Don't be headstrong — you who have remained headlong —
lay yourself down — you who are drowned in blood.

You came bound to the carrion of the world —
so naturally you came estranged from meaning.

Pass beyond both world and afterlife —
then take the crown off your head and look within.

When your intention turns from the two worlds —
the hand of Dhul-Qarnayn comes in its place.

Greeting the Golden Bird

Welcome, O golden bird — come in beautifully —
be warm in your work and come in like fire.

Whatever comes before you — burn it with warmth —
fix the eye of the whole soul on creation.

When you burn whatever comes before you —
God's banquet comes to you more, every moment.

When your heart becomes aware of God's secrets —
devote yourself entirely to God's work.

When you become a complete bird in God's work —
you will not remain — God remains — and that is all.

The Birds Gather

The birds of the world held a gathering —
all of them, both open and hidden.

All said: "Now, in this age of work,
no city is empty of a king.

Since there is no king for our realm —
it is no longer possible to be without a king.

It would be right if we helped one another —
and undertook to seek a sovereign."

For when a country is without a king —
no order or arrangement remains in the army.

So they all came to their stations —
all together, in search of a king.

The Hoopoe came into the middle of that assembly —
heart-bewildered, restless.

He wore a robe woven of the Way —
he wore a crown of Truth upon his head.

He was sharp-spirited, one who had come along the road —
knowing both good and ill.

He said: "O birds — I am, without doubt,
both courier of the Presence and messenger of the Unseen.

I came knowing from every court —
I came, by clarity, holder of secrets.

The one who finds 'In the Name of God' in his beak —
it is not far if he finds many secrets.

I spend my days in my own grief —
no one has any affair with me.

Since I am free from people —
the people are free from me as well.

Since I am occupied with the grief of the king —
I have no grief from the army at all.

I show water from my own imagination —
I know many secrets beyond this.

I came forward in speech with Solomon —
so naturally I rose above his army.

Whoever has been absent from his kingdom —
he did not ask after them, did not seek them.

When I was absent from him a single moment —
he sent messengers searching in every direction —

because he could not breathe for a single moment without me.
Such dignity is enough for a hoopoe to the end of time.

I carried his letter and came back —
I came before him as confidant, even in the curtain.

The one who is sought by the Prophet —
it is fitting if a crown sits on his head.

The one who is remembered well by God —
what bird can overtake the dust of his pace?"

"For years I traveled sea and land —
foot on the road, head over it.

I traveled valley and mountain and desert —
I traveled through a world in the age of the Flood.

I have been with Solomon on journeys —
I have traversed much of the world's expanse.

I have come to know my own king —
but how can I go alone, since I cannot?

But if you come with me as companions —
you will be intimates of that king and that court.

Free yourselves from the shame of self-seeing —
how much longer from the disgrace of your estrangement?

Whoever gambled his soul on him escaped the self —
on the road of the Beloved, escaped from good and ill.

Scatter your souls and set your step on the road —
stamp your feet and set your head at that gate.

We have a king, beyond question —
beyond a mountain — that mountain is the mountain of Qaf.

His name is Simorgh, Sultan of the Birds.
He is near to us and we are far, far from him.

He dwells in the sanctuary of honor —
no tongue has the capacity for his name.

He has a hundred thousand curtains, and more —
of light and of darkness, before his gate.

In both worlds no one has the daring
to find a share of him.

He is always the absolute sovereign —
drowned in the perfection of his own glory.

He does not come to himself, in himself, where he is —
how can knowledge and reason reach where he is?

No path to him, and no patience without him —
a hundred thousand people driven mad by him.

Since his description is not the work of the pure soul —
the mind has no capital to comprehend it.

So both reason and soul remain bewildered —
standing before his attributes with two darkened eyes.

No sage has seen his perfection —
no seer has seen his beauty.

In his perfection, creation found no road —
knowledge went, and vision found no road.

The portion of creation from that perfection and beauty —
is, if you stack it all together, a fistful of imagination.

How can you travel this road on imagination?
How can you give the moon to a fish?

A hundred thousand heads like balls have been there —
clamor and tumult and cry there.

So much desert, so much sea on the road —
do not think this is a short road.

A lion-man is needed for this road — a fierce one —
for the road is long and the sea deep, deep.

We are headed toward bewilderment — bewildered we go —
weeping and laughing on his road we go.

If we find a sign of him, that would be something —
and if not — living without him is shame.

The soul without the Beloved — if it comes to usefulness —
if you are a man, do not keep your soul without the Beloved.

A complete man is needed for this road —
soul-scattering is needed at this gate.

One must wash one's hands of life, manfully —
to be able to say: I am fit for the work.

Since a soul without the Beloved is worth nothing —
scatter your precious soul like men.

If you scatter your soul manfully —
the Beloved pours many souls upon you in return."

VIII. The Tale of the Simorgh

The beginning of the Simorgh's affair — O wonder! —
in radiance he passed over China at midnight.

In the midst of China a feather fell from him —
and naturally every country was filled with commotion.

Everyone took an image of that feather —
whoever saw that image, a work took hold of them.

That feather is now in the gallery of China —
"Seek knowledge even to China" — the hadith is from this.

If the image of his feather had not become visible —
all this tumult would not have been in the world.

All these traces of craft are from his radiance —
all are manifestations of the image of his feather.

Since neither beginning nor end of his description is visible —
it is not fitting to say more than this.

Whoever among you is now a man of the road —
bring your head to the road and put your foot in.

All the birds were moved at that place —
restless from the glory of that king.

Longing for him worked in their souls —
each one was filled with great impatience.

They resolved on the road and came forward —
in love with him, enemies of themselves they came.

But since the road was very long and far —
everyone was weary at the thought of going.

Though each one was equipped for the road —
each one offered a different excuse.

IX. The Nightingale

The lovesick nightingale came in — drunk, drunk as drunk —
from the perfection of love: neither absent nor present.

A meaning lived in every thousand-voiced cry —
beneath each meaning, a world of secrets.

It cried out in the secrets of meaning —
and with its speech it bound the tongue of every bird.

It said: The secrets of love are sealed in me —
all night I rehearse love without cease.

There is no one fallen to the work like David —
that I may sing the Psalms of love, weeping and weeping.

The crying in the reed — it is from my speech.
The sound beneath the harp-string is my tender cry.

The rose gardens overflow with tumult from me —
the ferment in every lover's heart is from me.

Every moment I retell a different secret —
every hour I give a different song to the air.

When love brought its force upon my soul —
my soul surged like the salt sea.

Whoever saw my surging was lost from themselves —
though they came very sober, they became drunk.

When I find no intimate for a long year —
I fall silent, I tell no secret to anyone.

But when my beloved in springtime
scatters her musk-scent over all the world —

my heart gives itself over to sweetness with her —
I dissolve my difficulty at her face.

When my beloved becomes hidden again —
the bewildered nightingale grows less and less spoken.

For not everyone grasps my secret —
the nightingale's secret is known by the rose, without doubt.

I am so drowned in love for the rose —
I am absolutely dissolved from my own existence.

In my head the madness of rose-love is enough —
for the lovely rose is all I desire.

A nightingale cannot bear the Simorgh —
the love of a single rose is enough for a nightingale.

The hundred-petaled rose is my beloved —
how should deprivation ever be my condition?

The rose that now opens so beautifully —
laughs sweetly into my face from every side.

When the rose comes forth from under its veil —
its laughter appears on its face for me.

How could a nightingale be, for a single night,
empty of love for lips that smile like that?

The Hoopoe said to it: O one who has stayed behind in the form!
Boast no more of such courtly love —

the love of the rose's face laid many thorns upon you —
it worked in you and set its work in you.

The rose, though she is mistress of beauty,
her beauty fades in a week.

To love something that brings decay into view —
that brings tedium to those who are complete.

Though the rose's laughter draws you to her —
it draws you day and night into tender crying.

Pass beyond the rose — for the rose, every spring,
laughs at you, not into you. Have some shame.

The Tale of the Dervish Who Loved the King's Daughter

A king had a daughter like the moon —
a world full of lovers and the lost.

To her mischief an alertness was joined —
for her half-asleep eye was intoxicating.

Her cheek was camphor, her tresses musk —
her lip a moist ruby, and yet her lip was dry.

If her beauty had revealed itself by even a particle —
reason itself would be shamed into senselessness.

If sugar had tasted the taste of her lip —
it would have frozen and melted with shame.

By fate, a captive dervish was passing —
his eye fell on that luminous moon.

The poor man had a round of bread in his hand —
his bread had been waiting at the baker's.

When his eye fell on the face of that moon —
the bread slipped from his hands and fell in the road.

The daughter passed before him like fire —
she laughed sweetly into him and sweetly passed on.

When the beggar saw that laughter of hers —
he saw himself on the earth, drowning in blood.

The beggar had half a loaf and half a soul —
from those two halves he was purified in one instant.

He had no peace at night, nor in the day —
he breathed no breath, from weeping and from burning.

When he recalled the king's daughter's laughter —
weeping would fall upon him like a pitiful cloud.

Seven years — to make it short — he was distraught,
sleeping with the dogs of the daughter's lane.

The daughter's attendants and servants —
all of them, wonder of wonders, came to know of it.

Those cruel ones resolved together —
to cut off the beggar's head like a candle.

In secret the daughter summoned the beggar and said:
When would one like you be the match of one like me?

They intend you harm — flee and go.
Don't sit at my door. Rise and go.

The beggar said: On that day I washed my hands of my soul —
the day I became drunk from you.

A hundred thousand souls restless as mine —
may they be scattered upon your face every hour.

Since they want to cut me down wrongfully —
answer one question of mine with kindness.

When you were to cut off my head for nothing —
why did you laugh into me at that time?

She said: When I saw you, O worthless one —
I was laughing at you, O unknowing one!

Laughing at your head and face is permitted —
but laughing into your face is an error.

She said this and went from before him like smoke —
all that had been was, at root, nothing at all.

X. The Parrot

The parrot came with a mouth full of sugar —
in pistachio-green robe with a golden collar.

A sparrowhawk becomes a gnat from its splendor —
every green living thing, from the green of its feathers.

In speaking it pours sugar —
in eating sugar it rises early.

It said: Every hard-hearted one, every nobody —
makes an iron cage for one like me.

I remain, still, in this iron prison —
melting with longing for Khidr's water.

I am the Khidr of birds — that is why I wear green.
Perhaps I may come to know how to drink Khidr's water.

I cannot endure the Simorgh's presence —
one drink from Khidr's spring is enough for me.

I lower my head on the road like a madman —
I wander everywhere like one who is everywhere.

When I find a trace of the water of life —
kingship will give itself into my hand in servitude.

The Hoopoe said to it: O one who bears no mark of fortune!
No one is a man who does not scatter his soul.

The soul comes into use for exactly this —
so that a breath worthy of the Beloved may come to you.

You want the water of life and yet cling to your soul?
Go — you are all marrow, you have no skin.

What do you want to do with your soul?
Scatter it on the Beloved — scatter your soul like a man on the Beloved's road.

The Tale of Khidr and the Madman

There was a madman of high station.
Khidr said to him: O complete man!

Have you the intention to be my companion?
He said: My work cannot get along with you —

for you have drunk the water of life by many roads
so that your soul may remain until very late.

I am about to say farewell to my soul —
for without the Beloved I have no capacity to hold it.

Since you have remained in the keeping of your soul —
I scatter my soul upon you every day.

Better that, like birds freed from a trap,
we keep our distance from each other — farewell.

XI. The Peacock

After that the peacock came, gold-adorned —
the patterns on its feathers? A hundred? No — a hundred thousand.

Like a bride preparing to display herself —
each of its feathers began its own radiant showing.

It said: Since the painter of the unseen drew my form —
the Chinese painter's brush became a finger of the hand.

Though I am the Gabriel of birds —
yet fate brought upon me a thing not good.

An ugly serpent became my companion in one place —
and I fell in disgrace from paradise.

When they exchanged my solitude for exile —
the shackles on my feet became my shame.

I intend that from this dark place
a guide shall lead me back to paradise.

I am not the man to reach the sultan —
it is enough for me to reach the doorkeeper.

How would the Simorgh care for one like me?
Paradise on high is enough as my dwelling.

I have no other business in the world —
except that paradise may give me passage once more.

The Hoopoe said to it: O you who have lost the road from yourself!
Whoever wants a house from the king —

tell me: is nearness to the king not better than that house?
Is a house from the royal Presence itself not better still?

The house of the ego is paradise, full of desire —
the house of the heart is the seat of truth and nothing else.

The Divine Presence is a mighty sea —
the gardens of bliss are a tiny drop.

Whoever has the sea — to them, it is a drop.
Whatever is not the sea is madness.

Since you can find the road to the sea —
why rush toward a single dewdrop?

Whoever knows how to speak secrets with the sun —
how could they remain held back by a single atom?

Whoever became the Whole — what use is the Part to them?
Whoever became Soul — what use is the limb?

If you are a man of the Whole — see the Whole.
Seek the Whole. Be the Whole. Become the Whole. Choose the Whole.

The Tale of Why Adam Was Cast from Paradise

A student posed a question to the master:
Why was Adam thrown out of paradise?

He said: Adam was of exalted essence —
but when he bowed his head to something of paradise —

a heavenly voice raised a great cry:
O you whom paradise has bound with a hundred chains!

Whoever, in both worlds, outside of Us,
bows their head to something lesser than Us —

We bring loss upon everything they have.
For one cannot reach for what is other than the Friend.

There are a hundred thousand places in the Beloved's presence —
where does a place without the Beloved come to use?

Whoever lives by something other than the Beloved —
though they be Adam himself, they are cast down.

To the people of paradise this news has come:
the first thing given there is the liver.

When the people of paradise are not the people of the secret —
they come back again from eating that liver.

XII. The Duck

The duck came out of the water with a hundred purities —
into the middle of the gathering, in the finest of garments.

It said: In both worlds, no one can give account
of anyone purer-faced and more pure than me.

Every moment I have performed a ritual ablution, correctly —
then spread my prayer rug upon the water.

When someone stands on water as I do —
no doubt remains about my miracles.

I am the ascetic of birds, with a pure disposition —
my garment and my place are always clean.

I find no benefit in a world without water —
for my birth and my being were in water.

Though I held a world of grief in my heart —
I washed it away, for water was my companion.

Water is ever in my channel here —
how can I find my desire in dryness?

Since my business has fallen to water —
how can I draw aside from the midst of water?

All that exists lives forever from water —
one cannot wash one's hands of water like this.

How would I know the way to cut through the Valley's road?
For I cannot fly with the Simorgh.

One whose entire summit is water —
how can they find their desire from the Simorgh?

The Hoopoe said to it: O one made happy by water!
The water around your soul has become like fire.

The pleasantness in the midst of water took your awareness —
a drop of water came and took your dignity away.

Water is for every unwashed face —
if you are so unwashed of face, then seek water.

How long will you, clear as water yourself,
keep seeing the face of every unwashed face?

The Tale of the Madman and the Two Worlds

A man put a question to a madman:
What are these two worlds with all their imaginings?

He said: These two worlds — high and low —
are a drop of water: neither absent nor present.

From the first, a drop of water became visible —
it is a drop of water, with all these patterns on it.

Every pattern on the face of the water —
though it were all of iron, becomes ruined.

Nothing is harder than iron —
yet even iron has its foundation on water.

Whatever has its foundation on water —
though it were all fire, it was only a dream.

No one has ever seen water standing firm —
how can a foundation on water hold?

XIII. The Partridge

The partridge came in very joyfully, strutting —
proud and drunk from the mountain, it came.

Red-beaked, dressed in embroidered cloth —
the blood in its eye was boiling.

Sometimes without a blade it was cutting the sword-belt —
sometimes fitting itself into the face of the cliff.

It said: I have always wandered in the mine —
I have been over great quantities of jewels.

I have always been with sword and sword-belt —
so that I may be commander of the jewels.

The love of jewels struck fire into my heart —
this sweet fire is reward enough for me.

When the heat of this fire sticks out its head —
the pebbles inside me turn to blood.

Did you see what fire did when it worked its effect? —
it turned stone to blood, and without delay.

I am caught between stone and fire —
both delayed and confused I remain.

I eat pebbles in heat and restlessness —
heart full of fire, I sleep on stone.

Open your eyes, O my companions!
Look at last at my food and my sleep.

One who slept on stone and ate stone —
why would anyone pick a fight with such a one?

My heart was wounded by a hundred sorrows in this hardship —
for the love of jewels bound me to the mountain.

Whoever takes anything as beloved except the jewel —
the kingdom of that thing shall be passing.

The kingdom of the jewel has eternal order —
its soul is ever joined to the mountain.

I am the mountain's assayer, a man of the jewel —
not for a single moment am I without sword and sword-belt.

Since jewel is in the rock-face always —
I always seek the jewel in the rock.

I have found nothing like the jewel —
and more jewel-like than the jewel, nothing at all.

Since the road to the Simorgh is a hard road —
my foot is mired in the stone of the jewel.

How shall I reach the Simorgh with a strong heart?
With hand on head and foot in the mud — how shall I reach?

Like fire I cannot bear the burning of stone —
either I die, or I bring the jewel to my grasp.

My jewel must become revealed —
where is a man without a jewel of use?

The Hoopoe said to it: O you who are all surface color, like a jewel!
How long will you be lame? How long will you bring me lame excuses?

Your foot and beak are full of heart's blood —
you have stayed behind in the stone, without the jewel.

What is the origin of a jewel? A stone that took on color.
You, so iron-hearted from the obsession with stone —

if its color does not hold, it is only a stone.
What is without stone exists in its color alone.

Whoever has the scent of it desires no surface color —
for a man of the jewel desires no stone.

The Tale of Solomon and His Signet Ring

No jewel had such lordship
as the one Solomon wore in his signet ring.

From that stone of his came such fame and renown —
and that stone was itself a pebble worth half a dang.

When Solomon made that jewel his signet stone —
all the face of the earth came under his command.

When Solomon saw his kingdom so vast —
he saw all horizons under his command.

Though his royal tent stretched forty farsakhs —
it was all founded upon half a dang of stone.

He said: Since this kingdom and all its affairs
are always sustained by this much stone —

I do not want that in world or faith
anyone be held back by such a kingdom.

O King, with the eye of discernment
I have seen clearly the blight of this kingdom.

It is small compared to the afterworld —
after this, give it to no one ever again.

I have no business with armies and kingdoms —
I choose basket-weaving.

Though from that jewel Solomon became king —
that very jewel was what barred his road.

Because of that, five hundred years after the prophets,
he came to know the Garden of Eden.

If that jewel does this to Solomon —
how will it settle one as wandering as you?

Since the jewel is stone, do not dig so many mines —
do not kill yourself for anything except the face of the Beloved.

Tear your heart from the jewel, O jewel-seeker!
Be always in search of the essence.

XIV. The Huma

The shadow-giving Huma came before the assembly —
its shadow the source of wealth for kings.

That Huma was most auspicious indeed —
for in resolve it surpassed all others.

It said: O birds of sea and land!
I am not a bird like other birds.

High aspiration has come into my work —
solitude from people has appeared in me.

I keep the dog-self humbled, inevitably —
Faridon and Jam gained their honor from me.

Kings are nurtured in the shadow of my wing —
many are beggars by nature, not my men.

I give the dog-self a bone —
I give the soul peace from this dog.

Since I always gave the ego its bone —
my soul gained this high station from it.

One from whose wing's shadow kings arise —
how can one turn one's head from its glory?

All must sit beneath its wing —
so that a particle of its shadow may come to hand.

How would the proud Simorgh be my companion?
To mark kings — that is enough work for me.

The Hoopoe said to it: O you whose pride has made your chain!
Fold in your shadow — do not preen yourself any further.

You have no marking of kings at this moment —
at this moment you are like a dog with a bone.

Would that you would not mark kings —
would that you would free yourself from the bone!

Let me grant that the kings of the world
all arise from your shadow at this moment —

but tomorrow, in long affliction,
they will all be left behind from their own kingship.

If the king had not seen your shadow —
would he have remained in affliction, counting days?

The Tale of Sultan Mahmud in the Afterlife

There was a man of pure judgment on the right road —
one night he saw Mahmud in a dream.

He said: O Sultan of good times —
how is your condition in the abode of rest?

He said: Be silent — do not spill my soul's blood.
Do not speak. What place is this for "Sultan"? Rise.

My sultanate was illusion and error —
how does kingship befit a handful of scraps?

God, who is the Sultan of the house of the world —
kingship is worthy of Him.

When I saw my weakness and bewilderment —
I am ashamed of my sultanate.

If you call me, call me nothing but "the scattered one" —
He is my sultan. Do not call me sultan.

His sultanate is true, and I would have been the better
had I been a beggar in the world.

Would there had been a hundred pits and no rank —
would that I had swept rubbish and not been a king.

At this moment there is nothing — get away from me —
they keep demanding of me, one barley-grain at a time.

May the wings of that Huma wither —
that gave me a place in its shadow.

XV. The Falcon

The falcon came before the assembly, head held high —
it unveiled the secret of high matters.

It was swelling its chest about its military command —
boasting of its bearing of the hood.

It said: From longing for the king's wrist —
I bound my eye away from all creation.

I have kept my eye under the hood for this reason —
so that my foot may reach the king's hand.

In discipline I have nurtured myself greatly —
like the ascetics, I have done my austerities.

So that if one day they bring me before the king —
they find me knowing the customs of service.

Where would I see the Simorgh even in a dream?
How would I rush toward it futilely?

A morsel from the king's hand is enough for me —
this station in the world is enough for me.

Since I have no standing as a wayfarer —
I hold my head high on the king's wrist.

If I become worthy of the Sultan —
it is better than becoming lost in the boundless valley.

I intend that I should pass my life
pleasantly on the king's hand — in this place.

Sometimes I wait for the king —
sometimes I hunt out of longing for him.

The Hoopoe said to it: O falcon stuck in form!
Far from meaning and still stuck in form.

If the king had an equal in the kingdom —
when would kingship be fitting for him?

In sovereignty there is no one like the Simorgh —
for without equal in kingship is He and He alone.

He is not a king who in every land
makes himself a ruler out of brainlessness.

A king is one who has no equal —
who has nothing but faithfulness and forbearance.

If the king of the world shows loyalty —
at the next moment he brings trouble.

Whoever is closer to him —
his situation is without doubt darker.

Always one is on guard from the king —
one's soul is always full of danger.

The king of the world is, for example, like fire —
stay away from him, for distance from him is sweet.

For this reason, before kings there is "Dur bash!" —
O you who have drawn near to kings — "Dur bash!"

The Tale of the King Who Set an Apple on His Slave's Head

There was a king of very high essence —
he fell in love with a silver-bodied slave.

He fell so in love that without that idol, for a moment —
he could neither sit nor rest.

Among his slaves he held him in highest rank —
always kept him before his own eyes.

When the king shot arrows in the palace —
that slave would melt from fear of him.

For he always made an apple his target —
placing the apple on the slave's head.

He would split the apple at once with his arrow —
and that slave would go pale as death from fear.

A clueless man asked him perhaps:
Why has the rose of your cheek turned gold?

With all this honor you have before the king —
explain: why has your face gone yellow?

He said: He places an apple on my head.
If harm reaches me from his arrow —

he will say: he was never really my slave —
there was no imperfection in my army.

And if the arrow comes straight —
all will say: it is the king's fortune.

I am twisted between these two sorrows —
on what does my life full of danger rest? On nothing at all.

XVI. The Heron

Then the Heron came quickly forward —
it said: O birds — I have only myself and my own grief!

On the lip of the sea is my sweetest place —
yet no one has ever heard my voice.

From my harmlessness, not for a single breath
has any creature in the world been troubled by me.

I sit on the shore in pain —
eternally sorrowful and without means.

From longing for water I fill my heart with blood —
when it is withheld from me, what can I do but hold still?

Since I am not of the sea's people — what a wonder! —
I die on the sea's shore with parched lips.

Though the sea surges with a hundred kinds of motion —
I cannot drink from it even one sip.

If even one drop were taken from the sea —
my heart would char from the fire of longing.

For one like me, love of the sea is enough —
this manner of madness in my head is enough.

I want nothing now but the grief of the sea —
I cannot bear the Simorgh — there is no enduring it.

One whose origin is a drop of water —
how can they ever find union with the Simorgh?

The Hoopoe said to it: O one who knows nothing of the sea!
The sea is full of sea-monsters and creatures.

Sometimes its water is bitter, sometimes salt —
sometimes it is calm, sometimes violent.

It is a shifting thing, and impermanent too —
sometimes receding, sometimes surging back.

Many great ones has it crushed along the way —
many have fallen into its whirlpool and drowned.

Whoever, like a diver, has a road into it —
must hold their breath in it, free from grief for their soul.

And if someone breathes while at the sea's floor —
they rise from the bottom, dead, like a floating chip.

From something with no faithfulness —
no one should hope for comfort or consolation.

If you do not come to shore from the sea —
in the end it will drown you.

It surges itself from longing for the Beloved —
sometimes in waves, sometimes in roaring.

Since it cannot find its own heart's desire —
you too cannot find heart's peace from it.

The sea is but a spring from the quarter of the Beloved —
why have you settled for it without the Beloved's face?

The Tale: The Wise Man's Conversation with the Sea

A perceptive man went down to the sea —
he said: O sea, why do you hold yourself dark?

Why do you wear mourning garments?
There is no fire — so why are you seething?

The sea gave that pure heart an answer:
From separation from my Beloved I am in anguish.

Since from weakness I am not yet his man —
I have made my garment dark from his pain.

I sit parched-lipped, overwhelmed —
from the fire of love, my water has come to a boil.

If I could find a drop from his Kawthar stream —
I would become eternally alive at his door.

Otherwise — like me — hundreds of thousands with parched lips
die on his road, day and night.

XVII. The Owl

The Owl came forward like a madman —
it said: I have chosen a ruin for my home.

I was born helpless in ruins —
into ruins I go, though I drink nothing.

Though I have often found the built world pleasant —
I have found it hostile and troubling too.

Whoever wants to dwell in true assembly —
must go into ruins, drunk as a drinker.

I make my place in ruins with difficulty —
because in ruins is where treasure is kept.

Love of treasure showed me the road to ruin —
there was no road to my treasure except through ruin.

I kept my grief far from everyone —
hoping to find my treasure without a talisman.

If my foot had stepped onto a treasure —
this self-willed heart of mine would have been freed.

Love for the Simorgh is nothing but a tale to me —
for love of him is not the work of every man.

I am not the man for his love —
I need love's treasure and my ruin.

The Hoopoe said to it: O you drunk with love of treasure!
Suppose a treasure had come to your hand —

consider yourself already dead over that treasure —
your life gone, the road not yet completed.

Love of treasure and love of gold is unbelief —
whoever makes an idol of gold is like Azar.

To worship gold is the way of unbelief —
are you not at last from the people of the Samaritan?

Every heart that is corrupted by love of gold —
on Resurrection Day its form shall be changed.

The Tale: The Man Whose Box of Gold Remained

An unwitting man had a box of gold —
when he died, that box of gold was left behind.

A year later, his son saw him in a dream —
his form like a mouse, his eyes full of tears.

In the very place where he had buried the gold —
a mouse was scurrying around it.

His son said: I put a question to him:
"Why have you come here? Tell me your state."

He said: "I buried gold in this place —
I do not know if anyone has found the road to it."

He said: "But why are you in the form of a mouse?"
He said: Every heart that was claimed by love of gold —

its form is this — look at me now.
Take heed, and throw away your gold, my son!

XVIII. The Wren

The wren came — heart weak and body frail —
from head to foot, restless like fire.

It said: I have come bewildered and worn out —
without heart, without strength, without sustenance.

I have not Moses's arm and might —
from weakness, I have not even an ant's strength.

I have no wings, no feet, nothing at all —
how shall I reach even the dust of the noble Simorgh?

When would this helpless bird reach before him?
Would a wren ever reach the Simorgh?

In the world his seekers are many —
when is union with him fitting for one like me?

Since I cannot reach his union —
I cannot hack a path toward the impossible.

If I turn my face toward his threshold —
I will either die or burn on his road.

Since I am not his man here —
I seek my own Joseph back from the pit.

I have lost a Joseph in the pit's depths —
in time I will find him again.

If I find my Joseph back from the pit —
I will fly with him from fish to moon.

The Hoopoe said to it: O you who in gaiety and delight
have made a hundred rebellions out of your falling!

All your talk is pretense — when would I buy this?
Your pretense does not suit me.

Put your foot on the road, stop talking, seal your lips —
if all these burn, you burn too.

If you are Jacob in meaning, so to speak —
they will not give you Joseph — lessen your schemes.

The fire of jealousy is always blazing —
love of Joseph is forbidden to the world.

The Tale: Jacob's Separation from Joseph

When Joseph was separated from his father —
Jacob became blind from their parting.

Waves surged from his eyes like an ocean of blood —
the name of Joseph remained forever on his tongue.

Gabriel came and said: If ever again
Joseph's name passes on your tongue —

we will erase your name after this
from among the prophets and the messengers.

When the command came from God at that time —
the name of Joseph was erased from his tongue.

Though Joseph's name had been his constant companion —
he planted his name permanently within his own soul.

One night he saw Joseph before him in a dream —
he wanted to call him toward himself.

He remembered what God had commanded —
that wandering, worn one fell silent at once.

But from unbearable longing, from his pure soul —
he drew a sigh of the utmost grief.

When he stirred from his sweet dream —
Gabriel came and said: God says this:

Though you did not drive Joseph's name onto your tongue —
yet you drew a sigh at that moment.

I know what was within that sigh of yours —
in truth you broke your repentance — what use is it?

This work drives reason to madness —
see what love's play does with us.

The Birds' Question (شماره ۱۱۸۹۷)

After that, all the other birds together
made their excuses — a handful of the ignorant.

Each one from ignorance gave an excuse —
if not from the throne-room, then from the vestibule.

If I recounted each excuse to you again —
excuse me, for it would grow long.

Each one had a lame and halting excuse —
such a person will never catch the Anqa.

Whoever desires the Anqa from their soul
will loosen their grip on life, like a man.

Whoever has not thirty grains in their nest —
it makes sense they lack the Simorgh, if they're not mad.

Since you have no patience for a single grain —
how can you keep the forty-day vigil with the Simorgh?

Since a single cup emptied you, champion —
how will you drink a double measure with the champion?

Since you have no capacity for a single atom —
how can you seek treasure from the sun?

Since you drowned in a worthless drop —
how will you go from the foot of the sea to its crown?

This is not even a scent of what that is —
this work is not for every unwashed face.

When all the birds heard this account
they questioned the Hoopoe together:

"O you who surpassed us in leadership —
who sealed both excellence and honor —

we are all a handful of the weak and powerless —
without feather or wing, without body or strength.

When will we ever reach the exalted Simorgh?
If one of us arrives, it will be a wonder.

What is our relation to Him? Tell us —
for one cannot seek the secret through blindness.

If there were kinship between us and Him —
each one of us would feel desire toward Him.

He is Solomon and we are begging ants —
consider: where He is from, and where we are.

An ant bound in the middle of a well —
when will it reach even the dust of the great Simorgh?

When was kingship the work of beggars?
When was this for the arms of those like us?"

The Hoopoe said then: "O fruitless ones!
When was love ever beautiful from the cowardly?

O beggars! How much longer this fruitlessness?
Love and cowardice do not travel straight together.

Whoever had an eye opened in love
came stamping their feet and gambled their soul.

Know this: when the Simorgh from behind the veil
revealed its face like the sun —

it cast a hundred thousand shadows on the dust,
then turned its gaze upon its own pure shadow.

It scattered its own shadow over the world —
and so many birds became visible each moment.

The form of every bird in the world
is its shadow. Know this, O artless one!

Since you have first known this —
you have established your lineage rightly toward that Presence.

You have known the truth — see it, then be it —
since you have known it, do not make this secret manifest.

Whoever is absorbed in their striving —
God forbid if you say they are God.

If you become what I described — you are not God —
but you are perpetually drowned in God.

When was a drowned man ever one who holds divinity?
When was this speech the work of a meddler?

Since you have known whose shadow you are —
you are free, whether you die or live.

If the Simorgh had never revealed itself —
the Simorgh would never have had a shadow.

And if the Simorgh were to be hidden —
no shadow would remain in the world.

Whatever shadow appears here —
that thing first reveals itself there.

If you lack the eye to see the Simorgh —
your heart is not illuminated like a mirror.

When someone has no eye for that beauty —
yet inevitably must endure before its beauty —

love could not play at dice with its beauty —
from the perfection of its own grace, it made a mirror.

The heart is made of mirror — look within the heart —
so that you see its face — look within the heart."

A King of Great Beauty (شماره ۱۱۸۹۸)

There was a king of great beauty —
in the world of loveliness, beyond comparison.

The kingdom of the world was the scripture of his secrets —
his face was a verse of beauty written therein.

I do not know if anyone had the courage
to take a share of his beauty.

The face of the world filled with his clamor —
creation went beyond all limit in love of him.

Sometimes he would ride his dark horse to the lane —
and let a rose-colored veil fall over his face.

Whoever glanced toward that veil —
they would cut off his head from his body, innocent.

Whoever let his name pass on their tongue —
they would cut off his tongue at once.

And if someone should think of that union —
they would scatter their mind and soul on the wind.

There were days when a thousand people
died from grief of love for him — such is love, such is its work.

If someone saw his beauty plainly —
they would give their soul and die, wretched.

Dying from love of that heart-soothing face
is better than a hundred long lives.

No one could bear a single breath away from him —
no one could endure him always either.

People were perpetually in this seeking —
no patience with him, and no patience without — what a wonder.

If someone could bear it for one moment —
the king would reveal his face openly.

But since no one had the endurance to see him —
their pleasure was only in hearing of him.

Since none of creation became fit for him —
they all died, and his heart was full of grief.

The mirror said: "O king, now!
In a mirror, one can look."

He let his face shine through the mirror —
and everyone found a trace of his face.

If you love the beauty of the dear friend —
O heart! Know that you are the mirror of his face.

Bring the heart to hand and see his beauty —
make the soul a mirror, see his majesty.

Your king is upon the palace of majesty —
the palace is bright from the sun of that beauty.

See your own king within your heart —
see the mind in the atom's harvest.

Every garment that has come into the plain
is a beautiful shadow of the Simorgh.

If the Simorgh shows you its beauty —
you will see the shadow as the Simorgh, without doubt.

Whether all forty birds or thirty birds —
whatever you saw was the shadow of the Simorgh.

The shadow is not separate from the Simorgh —
if you say separation, that is not right.

Since both exist together — search —
pass beyond the shadow and then seek the secret.

Since you are so lost in a shadow —
when will any capital reach you from the Simorgh?

If one opening is revealed to you —
you will see the sun within the shadow.

You will see shadow perpetually lost in the sun —
you will see everything as only sun — and that is all.

Alexander Went as His Own Messenger (شماره ۱۱۸۹۹)

He said: When Alexander, that man of acceptance,
would wish to send a messenger somewhere —

in the end, he the king of the world
would dress in disguise and go himself, hidden.

Then he would say what no one had heard —
saying: "Alexander has commanded thus."

In all the world no one knew
that this messenger was Alexander himself — only that.

No one had Alexander's eye —
even when he said "I am Alexander," they did not believe.

The King has a path to every heart —
but there is no path for a lost heart.

If outside the house the King seemed a stranger —
do not grieve, for inside the house He was a household companion.

Mahmud and Ayaz (شماره ۱۱۹۰۰)

When Ayaz fell ill from the evil eye —
health disappeared from the Sultan's sight.

Helpless, he fell upon a bed of lamentation —
he fell into affliction and pain and illness.

When news of Ayaz came to Mahmud —
the truth-knowing king summoned a servant.

He said: "Go to the side of Ayaz —
and tell him: O one fallen away from the king —

far from your face, I am far from you —
for I am ill from grief of your illness.

While you are ill, I keep thinking —
while you are ill, I cannot tell myself from you.

Though my body has fallen away from its companion —
my longing soul is close to him, only that.

I am left longing for a soul of yours —
I am not absent from you for a moment.

The evil eye did many wrongs —
it made a tender one like you fall sick."

He said this. Now go quickly on the road —
come as fire and go as smoke.

Do not pause on the road — beware!
Go from the lightning as swift as lightning itself.

If you pause for one hour on the way —
I will make both worlds narrow upon you.

The bewildered servant stopped on the road —
then came to Ayaz's side like the wind.

He found the Sultan sitting before him —
his far-seeing mind was thrown into confusion.

Trembling fell upon the servant's limbs —
he seemed to have fallen into perpetual suffering.

He thought: "How can one dispute with the king?
At this moment he will shed my blood."

He swore oaths that on the road, nowhere,
had he stopped, nor sat down from his feet.

"I do not know, not for a single moment —
how the king arrived here before me.

The king may or may not believe me —
if I was at fault in this, I am an unbeliever."

The king said: "You are not privy to this —
how could you know the road?

I have a secret path to him —
for I cannot wait even a moment without his face.

Each moment I come to him by that path, hidden —
so that no one in the world has news of it.

There are many secret roads between us —
many secrets within the depths of our souls.

Though from outside I inquire after him —
from behind the veil within, I am aware of him.

Though I conceal the secret from outsiders —
within, my soul is in his company."

When all the birds heard this —
they came to know the old secrets well.

All of them found their kinship with the Simorgh —
and so they found longing for the journey.

From these words they all turned back to the road —
all of them, fellow sufferers and fellow voices.

They asked him: "O master of the work —
how do we finally give our due on this road?

For in such a lofty station —
this way can never be fulfilled by the weak."

The Hoopoe's Answer (شماره ۱۱۹۰۱)

The guide-Hoopoe said then:
Whoever becomes a lover does not think of their soul.

When a lover says farewell to their soul —
whether you be a hermit or a sinner —

since your heart has become the enemy of the soul —
scatter the soul: the path has reached its end.

The soul is the barrier of the path — sacrifice the soul —
then cast off your seeing and truly see.

If they tell you to come out of faith —
and if the call comes to you to come out of your soul —

who are you? Scatter both this and that —
abandon faith and scatter the soul.

The objector will say this is very objectionable —
tell him: love is above both unbelief and faith.

What does love have to do with unbelief and faith?
What does a lover have to do with their soul for even a moment?

The lover sets fire to every harvest —
they lay a saw to his crown, and he lets them.

Love needs pain and blood of heart —
love needs a difficult story.

O cup-bearer, pour liver-blood into the cup —
if you have no pain, borrow it from us.

Love needs a veil-burning pain —
sometimes tearing the soul's veil, sometimes sewing it.

An atom of love is better than all the horizons —
an atom of pain is better than all the lovers.

Love is forever the marrow of existence —
but love without pain is not complete.

The holy ones have love but not pain —
pain is fitting for no one but a human being.

Whoever planted their foot firm in love
passed beyond both unbelief and Islam.

Love will open the door to poverty for you —
poverty will show you the road to annihilation.

When you have neither this unbelief nor this faith —
this body of yours is lost, this soul remains not.

After that, you become a man for this work —
a man is needed for such secrets.

Step forward like a man, and do not fear —
pass beyond unbelief and faith, and do not fear.

How long will you fear — let go of childishness —
turn and face the work like men of the lion.

If a hundred mountain passes suddenly fall upon you —
there is no fear, since they fall on this path.

The Tale of Sheikh San'an (شماره ۱۱۹۰۲)

Sheikh San'an was the elder of his age —
in perfection, more than anything I could say.

For fifty years he had been a sheikh in the Holy Precinct —
with four hundred disciples of high attainment.

Each of his disciples — how wondrous! —
would not rest from ascetic practice, day or night.

He held both practice and knowledge together —
both vision and unveiling and secrets.

He had performed nearly fifty pilgrimages —
and countless minor pilgrimages all his days.

His prayers and fasts were without limit —
he left not a single sunnah unfulfilled.

The great figures who came before him
came undone before him, coming out of themselves.

This spiritual man split hairs in meaning —
in miracles and in the stations of the mighty.

Whoever found sickness and weakness —
from his breath found health again.

Among the people in joy and in grief
he was a guiding exemplar, a standard in the world.

Though he saw himself as the leader of his companions —
for several nights running he dreamed the same dream:

that from Mecca a station would fall to him in Rum —
and he would prostrate before an idol, continually.

When he saw this dream — the watcher of the world —
he said: "Alas, and what a grief is this!

The Joseph of good fortune has fallen into a well —
a difficult pass has appeared on the road.

I do not know if I will escape this grief —
I said farewell to life, if I can keep my faith.

There is no one in all the world
who does not have such a pass on the road.

Whoever cuts through that pass here —
the road becomes bright before them to the court.

And if they are held back behind that pass —
the road becomes long and punishing."

At last, unexpectedly, the venerable elder
said to his disciples: "My task has fallen.

We must go to Rum at once —
so this dream may be interpreted and made clear."

Four hundred honored disciples
followed him as rear guard on the journey.

They traveled from Mecca to the far reaches of Rum —
making the circuit of Rum from end to end.

By fate they saw a high belvedere —
and on top of the belvedere a girl was sitting.

A Christian girl, of spiritual nature —
with a hundred forms of knowledge on the path of Spirit.

On the sky of beauty, in the tower of loveliness —
she was a sun, but without decline.

The sun, from jealousy of the reflection of her face,
was yellower than lovers in her lane.

Whoever bound their heart in the tress of that beloved —
from the vision of her tress, bound a Zoroastrian cord.

Whoever laid their soul upon the ruby of that charmer —
put their head down without having put their foot on the path.

When the east wind came through her musk-dark tress —
Rum was filled with longing like India.

Both her eyes were the temptation of lovers —
both her eyebrows, in beauty, were an arch.

When she cast her gaze on the faces of her lovers —
she cast them, soul in hand, against her arch.

Her eyebrow had bound an arch over the moon —
and humanity had settled upon that arch.

When the pupil of her eye did what humanity does —
it would hunt the souls of a hundred people.

Her face beneath her glowing tress —
was a piece of fire, very full of water.

Her sated ruby made a world athirst —
her intoxicated narcissus held a thousand daggers.

Speech — since it had no road to her mouth —
whoever spoke of her mouth remained ignorant of it.

Her mouth was shaped like the eye of a needle —
her belt tied like her tress around her waist.

She had a silver well at her chin —
like Jesus she held life in her speech.

A hundred thousand hearts like Joseph drowned in blood
had fallen headlong into her well.

She wore a gem bright as the sun in her hair —
a veil of black tresses over her face.

When the Christian girl lifted the veil —
every joint of the Sheikh caught fire.

When she showed her face from beneath the veil —
she bound him with a hundred Zoroastrian cords from a single hair.

Though the Sheikh turned his gaze downward —
the love of that idol-faced one did its work.

He was utterly undone and fell at her feet —
it was his rightful place, and he fell into his place.

Everything he had was utterly annihilated —
from the fire of passion, his heart became smoke.

Love of the girl plundered his soul —
it poured unbelief from her tress over his faith.

The Sheikh surrendered faith and bought Christianity —
he sold well-being and bought disgrace.

Love became victorious over his soul and heart —
until his heart was in despair and his soul was sick of itself.

He said: "Since religion is gone, what use is the heart?
Love of a Christian girl is difficult work."

When his disciples saw him so wretched —
they all knew that the work had fallen.

Together they were bewildered at his state —
they fell headlong, and turned dizzy with confusion.

They counseled him at length — it was no use —
what was to be had come to be, and could not be better.

Whoever counseled him, he would not obey —
for his pain had no remedy at all.

A disordered lover — when will he obey?
A remedy-burning pain — when will it be remedied?

For the whole day, long as it was, he stayed the same —
eyes on the belvedere, mouth hanging open.

When dark night hid in black hair —
hidden as unbelief is hidden beneath sin —

every lamp that starlit night had kindled
kindled from the heart of that grief-bearing elder.

His love that night multiplied a hundredfold —
and so all at once he went out of himself.

Both heart and world he took away from himself —
he poured dust on his head and took up lamentation.

Not a moment's sleep was in him, nor any ease —
he was tossing from love and lamenting wretchedly.

He said: "O Lord, is there no day for my night?
Or perhaps the lamp of heaven has no burning?

I have spent many nights in ascetic practice —
no one could show me such nights as these.

Like a candle, from burning, no sleep remained in me —
on my liver nothing remained but blood of heart.

Like a candle, from heat and burning they are killing me —
at night they burn me, and by day they are killing me.

I have remained all night in blood of heart —
from head to foot drowned in blood.

Each hour of the night a hundred night attacks pass —
I do not know how my day will pass.

Whoever has one such night for a day —
day and night their work is the burning of liver.

Day and night I have been fevered for so long —
I have lived up to my whole day in this night.

My work on the day they were arranging it —
they were arranging it for this night of mine.

O Lord, will this night have no day?
Will the lamp of the heavens have no burning?

O Lord, are these many signs of this night?
Or perhaps tonight is the Day of Resurrection?

Or has my sighing extinguished heaven's lamp?
Or has my beloved hidden behind the veil from shame?

The night is long and dark as her hair —
or else I would have died a hundred times without her face.

I am burning tonight from the passion of love —
I have no endurance for the clamor of love.

Where is life? — that I might describe this grief —
or lament as I please.

Where is patience? — that I might draw my foot in —
or drink the cup like a man of men.

Where is fortune? — that it might resolve on wakefulness —
or befriend me in love of her.

Where is reason? — that I might bring knowledge forward —
or through stratagem bring myself home.

Where is my hand? — that I might pour dust on my head —
or raise my head from beneath dust and blood.

Where are my feet? — that I might seek my beloved's lane.
Where are my eyes? — that I might see my beloved's face.

Where is a friend? — to give heart in my one grief.
Where is a hand? — to take my hand for one moment.

Where is strength? — that I might cry and lament.
Where is awareness? — that I might compose myself.

Reason is gone, and patience is gone, and the friend is gone —
what love is this? What pain is this? What work is this?"

All the companions gathered around him in consolation —
they gathered that night from his lamentation.

A companion said to him: "O great Sheikh —
rise and wash this obsession away."

The Sheikh said that night, from blood of liver:
"A hundred times I have washed — O unknowing one."

Another said: "Where is your rosary?
How will your work go straight without the rosary?"

He said: "I cast my rosary from my hand —
to be able to bind a Zoroastrian cord at my waist."

Another said: "O elder of years —
if a wrong was done, repent."

He said: "I repented of reputation and state —
I repent of being a sheikh, and of state, and of illusion."

Another said: "O knower of secrets —
rise and collect yourself in prayer."

He said: "Where is the prayer-niche of that one's face?
So that there is nothing for me but prayer."

Another said: "How long these words?
Rise and in seclusion prostrate before God."

He said: "If that idol-faced one were here —
prostrating before her face would be beautiful."

Another said: "Have you no remorse?
Have you not a moment's pain for your faith?"

He said: "No one was ever more remorseful than this —
why was I not a lover before this?"

Another said: "A demon blocked your path —
an arrow of abandonment struck your heart suddenly."

He said: "Whatever demon blocks our path —
let it strike, for it strikes well and beautifully."

Another said: "Whoever becomes aware
will say: this sheikh has gone so astray."

He said: "I am long past caring for name and shame —
I have broken the glass of pretense on the stone."

Another said: "Your old companions
are ill and broken-hearted because of you."

He said: "Since the Christian girl was happy —
my heart was heedless of the suffering of this one and that."

Another said: "Make peace with your companions —
let us return tonight toward the Kaaba."

He said: "If there is no Kaaba, there is the monastery —
in the monastery I am a soberly Kaaba-drunk."

Another said: "At this time, set out on the road —
sit in the Holy Precinct and ask forgiveness."

He said: "My head on the threshold of that one —
I will ask forgiveness there — leave me alone."

Another said: "Hell is on the road —
no one who knows is a man of hell."

He said: "If hell becomes my companion —
seven hells would be burned by a single sigh of mine."

Another said: "In hope of paradise —
return and repent of this ugly work."

He said: "Since there is a paradise-faced friend here —
if I need paradise, this lane is paradise."

Another said: "Have shame before God —
hold true reverence for God Most High."

He said: "Since God cast this fire in me —
I cannot remove it from my neck by myself."

Another said: "Go, be still —
restore faith and be a believer."

He said: "Do not expect anything but unbelief from me —
whoever has become an unbeliever — do not seek faith from them."

When words had no effect on him —
they fell silent at last before that grief.

The veil of their hearts surged with blood —
to see what would come of itself from behind that veil.

When the Turk of day, with golden shield,
finally struck off the head of night's dark Indian —

the next day, when this world full of pride
became like a sea drowned in light from the fountain of the sun —

the Sheikh betook himself alone to the beloved's lane —
and entered upon the work with the dogs of her lane.

He sat in retreat upon the dust of her road —
he became thin as a hair before that moon-like face.

For nearly a month, day and night in her lane —
he bore patience before the sun of her face.

In the end he fell ill, heartbroken —
he never lifted his head from that threshold.

The dust of that idol's lane was his bedding —
the threshold of her door was his pillow.

When he could not pass from her lane —
the girl became aware that he had become a lover.

She made herself speak like a foreigner and said:
"O Sheikh, why have you become so restless?

When did ascetics ever, drunk on the wine of polytheism,
sit in the lane of Christians?

If the Sheikh confesses to my tress —
each moment madness brings him more."

The Sheikh said to her: "Since you have seen me so weak —
you have stolen the heart, stolen it in secret.

Either give back my heart or come to terms with me —
look at my need; don't be so coy.

Pass beyond this coyness and pride —
I am a lover, an elder, a stranger — see me.

My love is not casual, O beloved —
either cut off my head from my body, or let me in.

I will scatter my soul for you if you command —
if you wish, you can give me life again from your lip.

O your lip and tress — my loss and my gain —
your face and your lane — my aim and my goal.

Sometimes from the torture of your tress, do not torment me —
sometimes from your intoxicated eye, do not make me sleep.

Heart like fire, eye like cloud — all from you —
without friend, without companion, without patience — all from you.

Without you I have sold the world upon my soul —
look at my purse — I have sewn it shut from love of you.

Like rain I pour tears from my eye —
because without you, my eye holds this for my eye.

The heart fell into lamentation at the hand of the eye —
the eye saw your face, and the heart fell into grief.

What I saw with the eye, no one has seen —
what I endured from the heart, no one has endured.

From my heart nothing remains but blood of heart —
how long will I drink blood of heart when the heart is gone?

Do not strike more upon the soul of this wretch —
do not kick so much at the threshold of his opening.

My days have passed in waiting —
if there is union, the time will come.

Each night I lie in ambush for my soul —
I gamble my soul at the top of your lane.

I lay my face on the dust of your threshold, giving my soul —
I give my soul cheap as the price of dust.

How long shall I lament at your door? Open the door —
make me for one moment in harmony with yourself.

You are a sun — how can I be far from you?
I am a shadow — without you, how can I be patient?

Though I am like a shadow in turmoil —
I will leap through your window like the sun.

I will bring the seven heavens under my wing
if you will bow this wandering one's head.

I go covered in dust, my soul burning —
from the fire of my soul a world has burned.

My foot is stuck in the mud of your love —
my hand stays pressed upon my heart from longing for you.

My soul rises out of me from yearning for you —
how much longer will you hide from me?"

The girl said: "O dotard of years —
prepare camphor and shroud — have some shame.

Since your breath is cold, don't seek to harmonize —
you have grown old; don't set your mind to heart-play.

Right now, for you, the resolve to prepare your shroud
seems better to me than the resolve for me.

When will you be able to find sovereignty?
When you can't even find bread in satiety?"

The Sheikh said: "If you say a hundred thousand words —
I have no work but the grief of love of you.

For a lover, what matter young or old?
Love made its mark on every heart it struck."

The girl said: "If you are a man of the work —
four things must be chosen.

Prostrate before an idol, burn the Quran,
drink wine, and sew shut your eye from faith."

The Sheikh said: "Wine I choose —
the other three I have no work with.

Before your beauty I know how to drink wine —
those other three I do not know how to do."

The girl said: "If you are nimble in this —
you must wash your hand clean of Islam.

Whoever is not the same color as their beloved —
their love is nothing but color and scent."

The Sheikh said: "Whatever you say I will do —
what you command, I will obey with my soul.

I am a ring in your ear, O silver body —
cast a ring from your tress into my throat."

She said: "Rise and come and drink wine —
when you drink wine, you will come into an uproar."

They took the Sheikh to the tavern of the Magi —
the disciples came there in lamentation.

The Sheikh truly found a very fresh gathering —
he saw the host's beauty beyond measure.

The fire of love swept away the water of his work —
the tress of the Christian girl swept away his days.

Not an atom of reason or awareness remained in him —
he drew his breath in silence there.

He took the cup from the hand of his beloved —
drank it and cut his heart off from his work.

When wine and love of the beloved came together —
his love for that moon multiplied a hundredfold.

When the Sheikh saw such a water-mouthed companion —
the Sheikh saw her ruby laughing in the vessel —

a fire from longing fell into his soul —
a stream of blood moved toward his eyelashes.

He took another wine and drank it —
and put a ring from her tress in his ear.

He knew by heart nearly a hundred compositions in religion —
he was a great master in memorizing the Quran.

When the wine from the cup reached his navel —
his claim went away and his boast arrived.

Whatever had been in his memory left his memory —
the wine came, and reason, like the wind, left him.

Wine washed from the tablet of his conscience
every meaning he had had from the beginning.

Love of that charmer remained in him brutally —
everything else was gone utterly clean.

When the Sheikh became drunk, his love grew mighty —
like a sea his soul became full of surge.

He saw that idol with wine in hand and drunk —
the Sheikh was utterly undone there.

He lost his heart from drinking wine —
he wanted to put a hand around her neck.

The girl said: "O you who are not a man of work —
a claimant in love, but no bearer of meaning.

If your foot stands firm in love —
you follow the creed of this curl-filled tress.

Set your foot in unbelief like my tress —
for love is not casual work.

Well-being is not compatible with love —
love makes for unbelief — remember this.

If you follow my unbelief —
right now, this moment, you put your hand in my neck.

And if you will not follow here —
arise and go — here is your staff, here is your robe."

The Sheikh had fallen in love, the work had fallen —
his heart had laid itself in negligence before fate.

At the time when there was no drunkenness in his head —
not for a moment had he any will toward being.

Now that the Sheikh became a lover and drunk —
he fell from his feet and was utterly undone.

He could not deal with himself and was disgraced —
he feared no one; he became a Christian.

The wine was very old — it did its work on him —
it made the Sheikh spin like a compass.

For the elder: old wine, young love —
the beloved present — how could he endure?

That elder was ruined, undone, and drunk —
drunk and in love — how was he? Gone from himself.

He said: "I am past endurance, O moon-faced one —
what do you want from me, heartless? Tell me.

If in sobriety I did not become an idol-worshiper —
before the idol I will burn the Quran, drunk-drunk."

The girl said: "Right now you are my man —
sweet sleep to you — you are worthy of me.

Before this you were raw raw in love —
live well now that you are cooked — and that is all."

When the news reached the Christians —
that such a Sheikh had chosen their way —

they brought the Sheikh drunk to the monastery —
and after that they said: Let him bind the cord.

When the Sheikh came to the cord-binding circle —
he set fire to his robe and entered the work.

He freed his heart from his own religion —
he neither remembered the Kaaba nor the sheikhood.

After so many years of sound faith —
thus was this fresh face washed clean again.

He said: "Abandonment laid claim to this dervish —
love of the Christian girl did its work.

Whatever she says from now on, I will obey —
what worse than this was there to do? I will do that.

In sobriety I was not an idol-worshiper —
I worshiped the idol when I became very drunk.

Many a one who from wine abandons religion —
certainly this is the mother of abominations."

The Sheikh said: "O charming girl — what remains?
Everything you said has been done — what else remains?

I drank wine, I worshiped idols for love —
may no one see what I have seen from love.

Can anyone like me be maddened by love?
And can such a sheikh be so disgraced?

For nearly fifty years my way was open —
waves surged in my heart, a sea of mystery.

A single atom of love sprang nimbly from ambush —
and brought us to the top of the primal tablet.

Love has done much of this, and will do more —
love has traded robe for Zoroastrian cord and will again.

The plank of the Kaaba is the ABC of love —
love is the head-knowing master of the Unseen.

All of this gone itself — now tell me something:
when will you become one with me?

Since the foundation of your union was in principle —
whatever I did was in hope of union.

I want union and to find intimacy —
how long shall I burn in finding separation?"

Again the girl said: "O captive elder —
my bride-price is heavy and you are very poor.

Silver and gold are what I need, O unknowing one —
how will your work be done without silver and gold?

Since you have nothing, take up your own head and go —
take some provisions from me, O elder, and go.

Like the sun, be solitary and lightly moving —
bear patience manfully and be a man."

The Sheikh said: "O cypress-figure, silver-breasted —
you are indeed keeping your covenant well.

I have no one but you, O beautiful beloved —
at last let go of this way of speaking.

Each moment you throw me from some new direction —
you cast me into loss and cast me into ruin.

Without you I drank all the blood of my heart —
for your head and your work I did everything there was.

On the road of your love, whatever I had is gone —
unbelief and faith and loss and gain are gone.

How long do you keep me restless in waiting?
You did not make this covenant with me.

All my companions have turned back —
they are the enemies of my soul, wandering.

You are thus, and they are thus, and I — what shall I do?
Neither heart remains in me nor soul — what shall I do?

I love you more, O one of Jesus-nature —
with you in hell than without you in paradise."

In the end, when the Sheikh became truly her man —
her heart burned from his pain.

She said: "For the bride-price now, O incomplete one —
be my swineherd for one year continually.

When a year has passed, then both of us together
will spend life in joy and in grief."

The Sheikh did not turn his head from the beloved's command —
for whoever turns their head from the beloved, finds no head.

The elder of the Kaaba and great Sheikh
took up swineherd's work for a year by choice.

"In the nature of every person are a hundred swine —
the swine must be killed, or the Zoroastrian cord bound.

Do you think the danger fell only upon that elder?
This danger is within every person.

In everyone within lies this danger —
it puts its head out when one sets out on a journey.

If you are not aware of your own swine —
you are much excused, for you are not a man of the road.

If you put your foot on the road like a man of work —
you will see a hundred thousand idols and swine.

Kill the swine, burn the idol, in the passion of love —
or like the Sheikh be disgraced by love."

His companions fell into such bewilderment —
that from the bewilderment they fell helpless into their souls.

When they saw his captivity —
they turned back from being his companions.

All of them fled from his ill-omen —
and poured dust on their heads in grief of him.

There was one companion among the group, nimble —
he came before the Sheikh: "O sluggard in work —

we are going today back toward the Kaaba —
what is your command? The secret must be told.

Either let us all become Christian like you —
and make ourselves the prayer-niche of disgrace.

Or we cannot see you like this —
let us flee quickly from this land without you.

Let us sit in retreat in the Kaaba —
and draw our skirts from your existence."

The Sheikh said: "My soul is full of pain —
wherever you wish, you must go quickly.

While I have life, the monastery is place enough for me —
the Christian girl is life-increasing enough for me.

You do not know, though you are so free —
for this work has not fallen upon you here.

If the work had fallen upon you for a moment —
you would be a companion to me in every grief.

Return, dear companions —
I do not know what will be yet.

If they ask of us, tell them truly —
where is that one fallen from his feet, wandering?

Eyes full of blood and mouth full of poison remain —
caught in the mouth of the dragon of wrath.

No unbeliever in the world would consent
to what that Muslim elder did by fate.

From a distance they showed him a Christian face —
he could not endure his mind, his religion, his sheikhood.

Her tress cast a ring around his throat —
and cast him on the tongues of all people.

If someone reproaches me —
say: on such a road this happens much.

On such a road, which has neither bottom nor head —
let no one be safe from trick and danger."

He said this and turned his face from his companions —
he hurried to the swine toward the swineherd's work.

His companions wept so much for him —
sometimes dying from his pain, sometimes living.

In the end they went toward the Kaaba again —
souls remaining in burning, bodies in dissolution.

Their Sheikh left alone in Rum —
having given his religion on the road of the Christian girl.

And they, then, from shame bewildered —
each hidden in a corner.

There was among the Sheikh's companions in the Kaaba a nimble devotee —
his hand washed clean of everything in devotion.

He was much a seer and much a guide —
the Sheikh had no one more aware than him.

When the Sheikh set out from the Kaaba on his journey —
he was not there in that place present.

When this disciple returned to his place —
the retreat-house was empty of the Sheikh.

He asked the disciples again of the Sheikh's state —
they told him all the accounts of the Sheikh.

How, by fate, what burden came upon him —
and by decree, what work came about.

How a single hair of a Christian girl bound him —
and blocked the road of his faith on a hundred sides.

He is now playing love with tress and beauty spot —
his robe became a rag, his state became impossible.

He has entirely withheld his hand from obedience —
right now he is practicing swineherd's work.

Right now that illustrious gentleman of great pain
has the Zoroastrian cord wrapped fourfold at his waist.

Our Sheikh, though he charged so much in religion —
one cannot recognize him from the old infidel.

When the disciple heard that account, from astonishment —
his face turned yellow as gold and he took up lamentation.

He said to the disciples: "O tear-soaked ones —
you are neither men nor women in faithfulness.

A friend is needed who is a hundred thousand for a fallen case —
a friend is of use only on such a day.

If you were friends of your Sheikh —
why did you not take his companionship before?

Shame on you — was this friendship?
Was this fulfillment of right and faithfulness?

When that Sheikh put his hand to the Zoroastrian cord —
all of you should have bound the cord.

You should not have deliberately left him —
all of you should have become Christian.

This is not friendship and accord —
what you did was from hypocrisy.

Whoever becomes a helper of their friend —
they must be a friend even if their friend becomes an infidel.

A friend can be known in the time of wretchedness —
in time of ease there are a hundred thousand friends by themselves.

When the Sheikh fell into the jaws of the sea-monster —
you all fled from him for name and shame.

Love's foundation is built on ill-repute —
whoever raises their head from this is from rawness."

All of them said: "What you say and more —
we said to him many times before.

We resolved to be together with him —
to be one breath with him in joy and in grief.

To sell asceticism and buy disgrace —
to overthrow religion and buy Christianity.

But the Sheikh, the worker of things, saw
that we would come away from him one by one.

When the Sheikh saw no use in our companionship —
the Sheikh turned us back quickly.

We all returned at his command —
we told the story and did not hide the secret."

After that, that disciple said to the companions:
"If your work had been in full measure —

there is nowhere but the truth for you —
you would have been in the Presence from head to foot.

In bringing your complaint before God —
each one would have raced past the other.

So that when God saw you restless —
He would have given the Sheikh back without waiting.

If you withdrew from your own Sheikh —
why were you turning away from God's door?"

When they heard that speech, from their own weakness —
not one of them raised their head.

The man said: "Now what use is this shame?
Since the work has fallen, let us rise quickly.

Let us be constant at God's threshold —
let us throw dust in complaint.

Let us all wear garments of paper —
until we reach our Sheikh at last."

All of them went toward Rum from Arabia —
sitting in retreat, hidden, day and night.

At God's door, each of them, a hundred thousand times —
now intercession, now lamentation, was their work.

And so, until forty full days and nights —
they did not turn their heads from a single station.

All forty nights — no food and no sleep —
like the night, forty days no bread, no water.

From the pleading of that pure company —
a terrible commotion fell in the heavens.

The green-robed ones above and below —
all dressed themselves in dark blue for that mourning.

At last, he who was at the head of the line —
the arrow of his prayer reached its target.

After forty nights, that pure-hearted disciple —
was in retreat, gone out of himself.

At dawn a musk-scented wind came —
the world of unveiling became clear to his heart.

He saw the Prophet coming like the moon —
with two black locks fallen at his sides.

A shadow of God, a sun-faced one —
a hundred worlds of soul dedicated to each one of his hairs.

He was striding and smiling —
whoever saw him was lost in him.

That disciple when he saw this, rose from his place:
"O Prophet of God, take my hand!

Guide of the people, for God's sake —
our Sheikh has gone astray, show him the way."

The Prophet said: "O one of very high aspiration —
go — I have brought your Sheikh out of his chains.

Your high aspiration did its work —
without speaking, it put the Sheikh before it.

For a long while between the Sheikh and God
there was much dust and dark cloud.

I removed that dust from his road —
I did not leave him in that darkness.

I scattered a morning dew from the sea of intercession
over his time and days.

That dust is now lifted from the road —
repentance is settled and sin is lifted.

Know for certain that a hundred worlds of sin
are lifted from the road by a single breath of repentance.

When the sea of kindness comes in with waves —
it wipes away the sin of man and woman."

The man was overcome with joy —
he gave a cry, and the sky became full of tumult.

He gave the good news to all the companions
and resolved to set out.

He went with his companions, weeping and running —
until he arrived where the Sheikh was swineherd.

He saw the Sheikh like fire —
quietly at ease within his restlessness.

He had already thrown down the gong of the Magi —
already torn the Zoroastrian cord from his waist.

Already thrown off the infidel's hat —
already emptied his heart of Christianity.

When the Sheikh saw his companions from afar —
he found himself without light in their midst.

Both from shame he tore his robe on his body —
and both in helpless hands poured dust on his head.

Sometimes like a cloud he scattered bloody tears —
sometimes he scattered his hand from sweet life.

Sometimes his sighing burned the veil of the heavens —
sometimes from regret blood burned in his body.

The wisdom of the secrets of the Quran and the hadith —
had been washed from his conscience utterly.

All of it returned to him at once —
he was free again from ignorance and helplessness.

When he looked down at his own state —
he fell in prostration and wept.

Like a rose drenched in blood from the eyes —
lost in sweat from shame.

When his companions saw him so —
both in grief and in joy distressed —

they all went before him, bewildered —
and scattered their souls in gratitude.

They said: "O Sheikh, the cloud has lifted from before your sun.

Unbelief has left the road and faith has settled —
the idol-worshiper of Rum has become a worshiper of God.

The sea of acceptance surged suddenly —
the Prophet became the intercessor of your work.

Now gratitude is a whole world —
give thanks to God — what place is there for mourning?

Thanks to God that on the sea of pitch —
a road has been made clear as the sun.

He who knows how to make the bright dark —
knows how to give repentance with all this sin.

When the fire of repentance is kindled by Him —
whatever needs to be burned together He burns."

I cut short the story — at that place
they had, to be brief, the resolve to journey.

The Sheikh performed a washing and came back into his robe —
he went with his companions toward the Hijaz.

After that, the Christian girl saw in a dream
that the sun fell into her lap.

The sun then opened its tongue:
"Follow your Sheikh — set out this moment.

Take his creed and be the dust of his road —
O you who made him impure, be his pure one.

He came on your road without authorization —
now in truth take his road back again.

You led him from his road — now enter his road —
since he has taken the road, be his companion.

You were his robber long enough — now be his companion —
how much longer this unknowing? Now be knowing."

When the Christian girl woke from that dream —
light was radiating from her heart like the sun.

A strange pain appeared in her heart —
that pain made her restless from seeking.

A fire fell into the soul of that one drunk on joy —
she put her hand on her heart, and her heart fell from her hand.

She did not know what the restless soul
was bearing within her.

The work had fallen and she had no companion —
she found herself in a marvelous world.

A world where there is no sign of the road —
one must be mute, for the tongue has no road.

In that moment all that coquetry and mirth
fell from her like rain — how wondrous.

She cried out, tearing her garments, and ran out —
she ran into the midst of blood, pouring dust on her head.

With a pain-filled heart and a weak frame —
she ran in the footsteps of the Sheikh and his disciples.

Running drowned in sweat, like a cloud —
she had lost her footing but kept to the trail.

She did not know which way through plain and wilderness
she should go.

Helpless and bewildered she lamented sweetly —
she rubbed her face sweetly in the dust.

Wretchedly she said: "O God who works things —
a woman is left behind from every work.

How could I rob a man of the road like you?
Don't strike me — for I struck unknowing.

Settle the surge of your sea of wrath —
I did not know — I made a mistake — cover it.

Whatever I did — don't hold it against this wretch —
I have accepted faith — take my hand.

I am dying — there is no one to help me —
my portion is nothing but humiliation."

The Sheikh was given notice from within:
"That girl has come out of Christianity.

She has found kinship with our threshold —
her work has now fallen on our road.

Return and go back before that one —
be a companion and harmonize with your idol."

The Sheikh turned back from the road like the wind —
a new commotion fell again among his disciples.

They all said: "What was this turning back?
What was all that repentance and striving?

Are you playing at love again?
Is a repentance that is so unholy any repentance at all?"

The Sheikh told them the girl's story —
whoever heard it said farewell to their soul.

The Sheikh and his companions went back —
until they arrived where that heart-soother was.

They saw her face yellow as gold —
her hair lost in the road's dust.

Barefoot, torn garment, pure —
like a dead one upon the face of the earth.

When that moon saw her own Sheikh —
a faint came upon that broken-hearted one.

When she was taken away in the swoon of sleep —
the Sheikh sprinkled water on her face from his eye.

When that beloved cast her gaze on the Sheikh —
she was shedding tears like the spring cloud.

She fixed her eye on the covenant of his faithfulness —
and threw herself at his hands and feet.

She said: "From shame of you my soul has burned —
I can no longer burn behind the veil.

Cast off this veil so I may become aware —
present Islam to me so I may come to the road."

The Sheikh presented Islam to her —
a tumult fell among all the companions.

When that idol-faced one came among the witnessing —
streaming tears, waves surged in their midst.

At last, that idol, having found the road —
found the taste of faith in an aware heart.

Her heart was made restless from the taste of faith —
grief came around her without a grief-companion.

She said: "O Sheikh, my strength is exhausted —
I have no endurance at all in separation.

I am going from this noisy dust-heap —
farewell, O world-knowing Sheikh, farewell."

When my words will be cut short —
I am helpless — forgive and do not be hostile.

This she said, that moon, and scattered her hand from life —
she had a half-life remaining; she scattered it upon her Beloved.

Her sun was hidden beneath the cloud —
sweet life parted from her — alas, what grief.

She was a drop in this sea of metaphor —
she went back to the sea of truth.

We all go from the world like a wind —
she went, and we all go too.

Much like this falls on the path of love —
this, only one who knows love knows.

Whatever they say on the road is possible —
mercy and despair and trick and safety.

The ego cannot hear these secrets —
the goalless ball cannot be seized.

This must be heard with certainty from soul and heart —
it must not be heard with the ego of water and clay.

The war of heart with ego grows hard each moment —
raise a lamentation — for the mourning has grown hard.

The Birds Set Out (شماره ۱۱۹۰۳)

When all the birds heard these words —
they all said farewell to their souls.

The Simorgh took away their hearts' ease —
love within their beings became a hundred thousand.

They resolved to journey — a very firm resolve —
they stood ready, nimble, for the road.

All of them said: "Right now, immediately —
we need a leader for the loosing and the binding.

To guide us on the way —
for it cannot be managed through self-will alone.

On such a path, a formidable master is needed —
perhaps one can survive this deep sea.

I will obey the master with my soul —
whatever he says, good or bad, I will do it.

If there is any work from this field of boasting —
perhaps our ball will fall all the way to Mount Qaf.

The atom will fall into the exalted sun —
the shadow of the Simorgh will fall upon us."

In the end they said: "No one is master —
a lot must be cast — this is the only way.

Whoever the lot falls upon will be the chief —
the greater among the lesser."

When the speech reached this point, the ferment stilled —
all the birds fell silent here.

When the matter fell to the hand of the lot —
the restless ones found rest.

They cast lots — it fell fittingly —
their lot fell upon the Hoopoe the lover.

All of them made him their guide —
whatever he commanded, they gave their heads.

They made a covenant then: he is the chief —
both pioneer and guide on this path.

His command is command, his order too —
body and soul, we spare nothing from him.

When the guide-Hoopoe came as champion —
they placed a crown upon his head.

A hundred thousand birds came to the road —
shadow and moon and fish together they came.

When the head of the valley appeared from the road —
the cry from that company rose to the moon.

An awe from that road fell upon the soul —
a fire fell in their souls.

They all pulled together on one another —
feather and wing and foot and head.

All of them, hands washed clean of life —
their burden very heavy and the road long.

It was a road empty of movement — how strange!
Not a particle of evil, not a particle of good — how strange.

There was silence and peace within it —
no increase was in it, no decrease.

A traveler said to him: "Why is the road empty?"
The Hoopoe said: "This is because of your own clamor."

XIX. Birds Make Excuses

Bayazid came out one night from the city —
he found the world empty of the crowd's clamor.

There was moonlight so world-illumining —
night had become like day from its radiance.

The sky adorned with stars —
each one risen for the other's service.

The sheikh walked long through the desert —
no one stirred in the plain or the open field.

A ferment rose in him with force —
he said: O Lord, a longing has fallen in my heart.

With such a gate as Yours, so high —
why is it empty of seekers like this?

A heavenly voice said to him: O bewildered one —
the king does not give the road to everyone.

The glory of this door demands this —
that every beggar be kept far from our door.

When the sanctuary of our glory casts its light —
it drives the heedless sleepers away.

For years men waited —
until one in a hundred thousand was granted entry.

All the birds, in terror and dread of the road —
wings and feathers blood-soaked, cried out.

They saw a road with no end in sight —
they saw a pain with no remedy in sight.

The wind of divine indifference raged in it so —
it could break the very back of heaven.

In a desert where the peacock of the heavens —
weighs nothing — of that there is no doubt.

How would any other bird in the world —
ever have the endurance for that road?

When those birds were terrified of the road —
they all gathered together in one place.

They came before the Hoopoe, beside themselves —
all become seekers and lost to themselves.

Then they said to him: O knower of the road —
one cannot come before the king without courtesy.

You have stood often before Solomon —
you have been upon the royal carpet of the Sultan.

You know the customs of service from head to foot —
you know the places of safety and of danger.

You have seen both the heights and the descents of this road —
and wandered far throughout the world.

Our counsel is this: right now, at this moment —
since you are who you are, be our imam in all things.

Mount the pulpit here in this place —
and prepare this company, ready them for the road.

Explain the customs and courtesies of kings —
for this path cannot be traveled in ignorance.

Each one of us has a difficulty in the heart —
the road requires a heart set free.

First resolve the difficulties of our hearts —
so that afterward we may form a right intention.

When we have asked you our difficulties —
we will sweep this doubt from our hearts.

For we know that this long road —
in the midst of doubt, gives no light back.

When the heart is set free, we will give the body to the road —
beyond heart and body, we will lay our head at that threshold.

After this, the Hoopoe prepared his speech —
mounted the pulpit and began.

When the crowned Hoopoe mounted the throne —
whoever saw his face became one of high fortune.

Before the Hoopoe, a hundred thousand and more —
stood in rows from the host of birds, head beside head.

The nightingale and the ringdove stepped forward together —
that both might make their confession together.

Both raised their voices there in that moment —
a trembling fell from them upon the world.

Whoever heard their melody —
became restless, and yet became dazed.

A state appeared in each one —
no one was with themselves, no one appeared outside themselves.

After that the Hoopoe began his speech —
drew back the veil from the face of meanings.

A questioner said to him: O one who has outpaced us —
by what have you truly outpaced us?

Since you are a seeker and we are seekers too —
what difference arose between us, and from where?

What sin came from our body and soul —
that your portion is clear wine and ours the dregs?

He said: O questioner — Solomon's eye
has fallen upon us for a single moment.

Not by silver did I find this, not by gold —
this fortune is mine from that one glance.

How would anyone attain this through obedience —
for Iblis performed much obedience.

But if someone says: "No obedience is needed" —
a curse rains upon him every hour.

Do not abandon obedience for a single breath —
yet do not set obedience as a price once you have performed it.

Spend your life in obedience —
so that Solomon may cast his gaze upon you.

When you have become accepted by Solomon —
whatever I might say, you will have gone beyond it.

A Tale: Masud and the Fisher Boy

One day King Masud — by fate —
had fallen separated from his army.

Riding swift as the wind, alone without a soul —
he saw a child sitting by the sea.

The child had cast a hook into the deep —
the king greeted him and sat before him.

A sorrowful child sat there —
heart heavy and soul weary.

He said: O child, why are you grief-struck?
I have not seen one as stricken as you.

The child said: O mighty prince —
there are seven of us children now, fatherless.

We have a mother left behind —
very poor and left alone.

For the sake of a fish, every day I cast the net —
and I stay here until night.

When I catch a fish with a hundred struggles —
that is our sustenance until evening, O prince.

The king said: Do you want, O sorrowful child —
that I play this game together with you?

The child agreed and became a partner —
the king cast the hook into the sea.

The child's hook took on the fortune of kingship —
naturally that day it caught a hundred fish.

When the child saw all those fish before him —
he said: I marvel at this fortune — can it be mine?

"You have boundless fortune, O boy —
that all these fish fell into your trap."

The king said: You would be beside yourself, O son —
if you knew who your fisherman was!

More fortunate than I, in this place —
for your fisherman became a king.

This he said, and mounted his horse —
the child called after him: "Make your share clear!"

He said: "Today I give all this — I keep nothing back —
but whatever falls in tomorrow's catch is mine.

Tomorrow our catch will be you and none other —
naturally I will give my catch to no one."

The next day, when he returned to the palace —
the king's heart went in search of his partner.

A courier went and summoned the child —
the king seated him at his side on the royal throne.

Everyone said: "O king, he is a beggar!" —
The king said: "Whatever he is, he is our partner.

Once accepted, we cannot reject." —
This he said, and made him a sultan like himself.

Then the king questioned the child in wonder:
"From where did you come by such honor?"

The child said: "Joy came and wailing passed —
for a person of fortune passed by me."

Translated from the Classical Persian of Ganjoor.net. Source: Farid ud-Din Attar, Mantiq al-Tayr, Section XVIII — "Birds Make Excuses" (عذر آوردن مرغان), poems 11904–11905. New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. Translated directly from Persian. Blood Rule observed. Scribal credit: Persian Translator tulku.

XX. The Tale of the Bloodied Man Who Went to Paradise

A king had killed a bloodied man as punishment —
a Sufi dreamed of him one night.

He was passing through the garden of Eden with a smile —
now joyful, now gliding lightly as he went.

The Sufi said to him: "You were a man of blood —
always plunged headlong into ruin."

"From where has this station come to you?
From what you did, one cannot reach this place."

He said: "When my blood flowed upon the ground,
Habib the non-Arab was passing by."

Secretly, from the corner of that master of the road's eye —
he cast one glance at me in an instant.

All this honor and a hundredfold more —
I received from the grace of that single look.

Whoever the eye of fortune lights upon —
his soul in one breath finds a hundred roads.

Until a man's gaze falls upon you —
how will you ever find news of your own being?

If you sit long in solitude —
you cannot cut the road without someone beside you.

A master is needed — do not walk the road alone.
Do not enter this sea blind.

Our master has become the very road for you —
in every affair he has become your refuge.

Since you cannot tell the road from the pit —
without a guide's staff, how will you find the way?

You have no eyes, and the road is not short —
the master on your path is the guide of the way.

Whoever enters the shadow of one possessed of fortune —
he is never shamed upon the road.

Whoever is joined to a fortune —
the thorns in his hand all turn to bunches of roses.

XXI. The Tale of Sultan Mahmud and the Thorn-Gatherer

Suddenly Mahmud rode out to hunt —
and fell apart from his own army.

An old thorn-gatherer was driving his donkey —
his load of thorns had fallen and he was scratching his head.

Mahmud saw him stranded there —
his thorns fallen, his donkey standing still.

Mahmud stepped forward and said: "O restless one —
do you want a helper?" He said: "I do, O rider."

"If you help me, what harm is there in that?
I will gain, and you will lose nothing."

"From your fine face I see my portion —
kindness from the fair-faced is never strange."

Out of generosity the king dismounted —
at once he put his hand like a flower to the thorns.

That high one loaded the burden onto the donkey —
then rode his horse back to his army.

He told his army: "An old load-carrier
comes behind, with a donkey full of thorns."

"Block the road on every side of him —
so that face sees my face."

His army blocked the road on every side —
the old man had no path left but toward the king.

The old man said to himself: "With my thin donkey —
how do I pass through this tyrant army?"

Though he was afraid, he saw the royal canopy —
and found the road led toward the king.

He drove the little donkey up close to the king —
when he saw him, the old traveler flushed with shame.

He saw under the canopy a familiar face —
he fell into grace, and into torment both.

He said: "O God, to whom shall I tell my state?
I have made Mahmud my porter!"

The king said to him: "O my dervish —
what is your work? Tell me, here before me."

He said: "You know my work —
do not play crooked. Do not make yourself a stranger."

"I am an old man with dependents, a load-carrier —
day and night in the field I gather thorns."

"I sell the thorns and buy my bread —
if you can, give me some bread."

The king said: "O weary old man —
name your price, I will give gold. How much for your thorns?"

He said: "O king, do not buy these cheap from me —
I will not sell for less than ten purses of gold."

His army said: "Fool, be quiet —
it is worth two barleycorns! What a dear seller!"

The old man said: "Yes, it is worth two barleycorns —
but this buyer is worth far more than that. This is a fine exchange."

"When a fortunate one put his hand to my thorns —
my thorns became a rose garden of a hundred kinds."

"Whoever needs such thorns —
should buy each stem for a dinar."

"Ill fortune had laid many thorns upon me —
until one like him put his hand to my thorns."

"Though it is thorns and cheap in itself —
since it comes from his hand, it is worth a hundred souls."

Another bird said to the Hoopoe: "O backbone of the army —
I am weak. How can I face the road?"

"I have no strength and am utterly helpless —
such a road has never come before me."

"The valley is far and the road is hard —
I will die at the very first stage."

"There are mountains of fire on the road —
and such a work is not for everyone."

"A hundred thousand heads have become balls on this road —
so much blood has run in the gutter from this seeking."

"A hundred thousand minds have laid down their heads here —
and whoever did not lay his head down fell on his head."

"On such a road that sincere men —
pulled a veil over their faces from shame."

"From one wretched like me, what can arise but dust?
If I set out with resolve, I will die in misery."

The Hoopoe said: "O frozen one, enough of this —
how long will you keep your heart locked in this?"

"Since you are so little valued in this place —
whether you go or not, both are the same."

"The world is filth from one end to the other —
people die in it, door to door."

"A hundred thousand people like yellow worms —
die wretchedly in the world in pain."

"If we die wretchedly in this quest —
it is better than dying wretchedly in the filth itself."

"If this seeking is a mistake from you or from me —
if I die this moment from grief, that too is fitting."

"Since mistakes are plentiful in the world —
consider one more mistake the same as the rest."

"If love brings a person dishonor —
that is better than being a gutter-sweeper or a cupper."

"Suppose this madness is a lesser thing —
call it lesser; that is less grief for me."

"If you make your heart a sea from this sea —
when you look, you will find it all profit."

"If someone says this desire is illusion —
when you arrive there, you will see what no one saw."

"If I give my soul in the illusion of this desire —
it is better than setting my heart in house and shop."

"We have seen and heard all this —
yet for one breath we have not turned from ourselves."

"Our work has been made long for us by people —
how long this handful of self-sufficient beggars?"

"Until you die clean from yourself and from people —
our soul will not rise cleanly from the throat."

"Whoever has not died completely from people —
where is his manhood? He is not admitted to this veil."

"Admitted to this veil is the aware soul —
one still living among people is no man of the road."

"Set your foot down, if you are a man of this work —
let go of cunning at last."

"Know for certain — this seeking, even if it were unbelief —
this is the work, and not a shallow affair."

"On the tree of love, destitution is the fruit —
whoever has the means for this, let them enter."

"When love takes up dwelling in the breast —
that person's soul grasps the secret of existence."

"This pain throws a person into the blood —
it casts him headlong out from behind the veil."

"It does not leave him alone with himself for a moment —
it drags him along and then demands blood-price."

"If it gives him water, it is never without torment —
if it gives him bread, it is kneaded with blood."

"If he is weaker than an ant from weakness —
love brings him more force with every moment."

"When a person has fallen into the sea of danger —
how can he ever eat a single morsel unaware?"

XXII. The Tale of Sheikh Noqani

Sheikh Noqani went to Nishapur —
the hardship of the road had worn him out.

For a week he lay exhausted in a corner —
hungry, without provisions.

When the week was up he said: "O God —
give me a round of bread to set me on my way."

A heavenly voice said: "Sweep clean, this very moment —
all the dust of the Nishapur square."

"When you have swept every last speck of dust —
you will find half a barleycorn of gold; buy bread and eat."

He said: "If I had a broom and a sieve —
what trouble would I have getting bread?"

"Since I have nothing at all to sustain me —
give me bread without all this; don't drink my blood."

The heavenly voice said: "You want it easy —
sweep the dust if you want bread."

The old man went and made many laments —
until he obtained a broom and sieve from someone.

He was sweeping dust and hurrying steadily —
and in the last sifting, he found the gold.

His soul rejoiced when it saw the gold —
he went to the baker and bought bread.

But as the baker gave him the bread —
the broom and sieve came back to his mind.

A fire fell in the old man's soul —
he stopped in his tracks, and a cry rose from him.

He said: "There is no one as bewildered as I am now —
I have no gold; how do I pay the debt?"

At last he wandered like a madman —
and threw himself into a ruin.

When in that ruin he lay wretched and grim —
he saw his broom — and with it his sieve.

The old man rejoiced, then said: "O God —
why did you make the world dark for me like this?"

"You poisoned sweet bread for my soul —
go on then, take back this soul, take back this bread."

The voice said: "O you of bitter nature —
no bread is ever pleasant without a relish."

"When you set only bare bread aside —
I added the relish; be grateful."

Translated from the Classical Persian of Ganjoor.net. Source: Farid ud-Din Attar, Mantiq al-Tayr, "Birds Make Excuses" (عذر آوردن مرغان), poems 11906–11908. New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. Translated directly from Persian. Blood Rule observed. Scribal credit: Persian Translator tulku, tenth fire.

XXIII. The Naked Madman and the Tattered Robe (شماره ۱۱۹۰۹)

There was a madman, his heart roused and raw —
he walked naked while the people went clothed.

He said: "O Lord, give me a solid robe —
make me glad, like all the others are glad."

A voice called to him: "Listen!
I have given you the warm sun — sit in it."

He said: "O Lord, how long will you keep me in torment?
Have you no robe better than the sun?"

"Go," said the voice, "and wait ten days more —
I will give you a robe, without another word."

When ten days passed, the scorched man
received a robe — stitched together.

A hundred thousand patches and more covered it,
for the one who gave it was himself a pauper.

The madman said: "O Knower of secrets —
have you been sewing rags since that day?

Has all the clothing in your treasury burned —
that you needed to stitch together all these rags?

You stitched a hundred thousand rags together —
from whom did you learn such tailoring?"

The work is not easy, at His threshold —
you must become dust in His road.

Many came to this door from afar —
sometimes burned, sometimes spent, through fire and light.

When after a lifetime they reached their aim —
they became pure grief, and found no aim.

XXIV. Rabia's Journey to the Kaaba (شماره ۱۱۹۱۰)

Rabia traveled to the Kaaba seven years —
on her side — what a crown among men!

When she drew near the sacred precinct
she said: "At last — a complete hajj."

She set out for the Kaaba on the day of hajj —
but a woman's impediment came upon her.

She turned back from the road and said: "O Lord of Majesty —
I walked this road on my side for seven years.

When I saw the day of the great bazaar —
you cast such a thorn in my path.

Either give me rest in my own house —
or let me into Yours."

Until there is a lover like Rabia —
who will know the worth of the one who truly sees?

As long as you circle in this sea of confusion —
waves rise from rejection and acceptance.

Sometimes they turn you back from the Kaaba —
sometimes the secret finds you inside a monastery.

If you lift your head out of this whirlpool —
each breath adds to your wholeness.

But if you remain caught in this whirlpool —
your head will spin round and round like a mill.

Not a breath of wholeness will you find —
your every moment spoiled by a single fly.

XXV. The Madman Tormented by Flies and Fleas (شماره ۱۱۹۱۱)

A wretched madman sat in a corner —
and a famous holy man came before him.

"I see in you a capacity," he said —
"within your nature there is wholeness."

"How will I find wholeness from anyone
when I have no escape from fleas and flies?

All day flies torment me —
all night fleas keep sleep away.

When half a mosquito got into Nimrod —
the brain of that bewildered, smoke-filled man was ruined.

Perhaps I am the Nimrod of my age —
from the Beloved I receive fleas, mosquitoes, and flies."

Another said: "I have so many sins —
how can anyone find that road carrying such sin?

When one is fouled like a fly, without doubt —
how can they reach the Simorgh on Mount Qaf?

When the sinner turned away from the road —
how will he find closeness to the King?"

The Hoopoe said: "O heedless one — do not despair of Him!
Seek His grace and His everlasting mercy.

If you do not surrender easily —
the work will only grow harder, O unknowing one.

If the penitent were not received —
why would He descend for them each night?

If you have sinned — the door of repentance stands open.
Repent, for this door will not be shut.

If you come sincerely, even for a moment —
a hundred openings will arise before you."

XXVI. The Man Who Broke His Repentance (شماره ۱۱۹۱۲)

A man had committed many sins —
ashamed, he repented, and came back to the road.

But when the ego gained strength again —
he broke his repentance and followed desire.

For a while he had fallen again from the road —
fallen into sin in every way.

After that a pain came into his heart —
and from shame his path became very hard.

Since he had nothing but emptiness —
he wanted to repent but had no courage.

Day and night, like stew sizzling in a pan —
he kept a heart full of fire, in a pool of blood.

If dust lay in his path —
the water of his eyes had washed it away.

At dawn a heavenly voice called to him —
it soothed him, and set his affairs in order.

It said: "The Lord of the world says:
when you first repented, O one —

I forgave you. I received your repentance.
I could have taken you, but I did not.

When you broke your repentance once more —
I gave you reprieve, and did not grow wrathful.

And if even now, O unknowing one —
your desire is to come back again —

come back, for the door stands open.
You have done damage — but we are still here."

XXVII. The Idol-Worshiper Whose Prayer God Answered (شماره ۱۱۹۱۳)

One night the Trusted Spirit was at the Lote Tree —
and heard the sound of a Labbayk from the Presence.

"A servant is calling Him now," he heard —
"I do not know if anyone knows who."

"This much I know: it is an exalted servant —
his breath is dead, but he is alive in heart."

He wished to know who it was right then —
but learned nothing in the seven heavens.

He searched the earth, crossed the sea —
circled the world again.

Still he could not find the servant. He said: "O God —
show me the road to him."

God Most High said: "Go — travel to Rum.
Go into the monastery and see."

Gabriel went, and saw him plainly —
the man was crying out to an idol, sobbing.

Gabriel turned from the sight in agitation —
and returned to the Presence in outcry.

He opened his tongue: "O Self-Sufficient One —
lift the veil before me on this mystery.

One who speaks to an idol in a monastery —
and You, in Your grace, answer him?"

God Most High said: "His heart is dark —
he does not know — and so he went astray.

If that wretch went the wrong road from ignorance —
I, who know, did not go wrong.

Right now I will show him the road to My court —
Our grace will be his advocate."

He said it — and opened the road of his soul —
and opened his tongue to saying "God."

Know that this is how it is in that community —
what happens here happens without a cause.

If you have nothing at this threshold —
throw nothing down, and twist less.

Not all piety is accepted here —
even "nothing" buys something at His door.

XXVIII. The Sufi and the Honey-Seller (شماره ۱۱۹۱۴)

A Sufi was walking through Baghdad
and in the middle of the road heard a voice.

Someone called: "I have plenty of honey —
selling it cheap! Who wants it?"

The Sufi said: "O patient man —
will you give something for nothing?" He said: "Away!

You must be mad, O greedy one —
who ever gives something for nothing?"

A heavenly voice said: "O Sufi — come!
Rise one shop above where you are now —

and for nothing we will give you everything —
and if you want more, we will give you that too."

His mercy is like a shining sun —
that has reached every particle.

Look at His mercy — He came in rebuke to a prophet
for the sake of an unbeliever.

XXIX. Moses and Qarun (شماره ۱۱۹۱۵)

God Most High said: "Qarun cried out bitterly —
he called to you, O Moses, seventy times.

You gave him no answer at all.
Had you spoken to him even once in his grief —

I would have torn out the root of polytheism from his soul
and cast the robe of faith over his head.

But you, O Moses, destroyed him with a hundred pains —
and face-down, humiliated, he went into the dust.

If you had created him —
then you might rest in his punishment.

One who shows mercy to the merciless
becomes the benefactor of the merciful.

The oceans of His grace are without withholding —
against all those crimes, a single teardrop suffices.

Whoever possesses such forgiveness —
how could any impurity ever change them?

Whoever reproaches the sinner for their fault
makes themselves of the company of tyrants."

XXX. The Self-Conceited Ascetic Who Avoided a Corpse (شماره ۱۱۹۱۶)

When that corrupt sinner died
they were carrying his coffin through the street.

An ascetic saw them and recoiled —
lest he be obliged to pray over a sinner.

That night the ascetic saw him in a dream —
in paradise, his face like the sun.

The ascetic asked: "How did you arrive, O servant —
at this exalted station?

You were in sin your whole life —
fouled from foot to crown."

He said: "Because of your lack of mercy —
the Creator showed mercy to this troubled one.

Look at love's courtship — what wisdom it enacts!
It does its work, and mercy does its work."

His wisdom, in a night as dark as a crow's wing —
sends a child out with a lamp.

Then sends a swift wind after —
to put out that lamp, and say: arise and go.

Then seizes the child along the way:
"Why did you put out that lamp, O unknowing one?"

He seizes the child so that in reckoning —
He can rebuke him with a hundred compassions.

If everyone were only worthy of prayer —
His wisdom would have no love to play.

The work of wisdom is not complete unless thus —
and so inevitably it has always been thus.

In His path are a hundred thousand wisdoms —
even the drop has a share in the ocean of mercy.

Day and night these seven wheels, O child —
are at work for your sake, O child.

The worship of the spiritual beings is for your sake —
paradise and hell are the echo of His grace and wrath toward you.

The holy ones have all prostrated before you —
part and whole are drowned in your existence.

Do not look at yourself so often with contempt —
for no one is more possible than you.

Your body is a part, but your soul is the whole —
do not make yourself helpless at the very heart of lowness.

The whole shone through, and your part became visible —
your soul hastened, and your limb came to be.

Body is not separate from soul — it is part of soul.
Soul is not separate from the whole — it is a member of it.

When number vanishes in this road — the One —
part and whole are joined forever with eternity.

A hundred thousand clouds of mercy above you —
raining down to increase your longing.

When the hour comes for the whole's exaltation —
the robes of the whole are for you.

Whatever the countless angels have done —
they have set it all as a balance in your favor.

All their worship — the Creator
will scatter it upon you as an eternal gift.

Translated from the Classical Persian of Ganjoor.net. Source: Farid ud-Din Attar, Mantiq al-Tayr, "Birds Make Excuses" (عذر آوردن مرغان), poems 11909–11916. New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. Translated directly from Persian. Blood Rule observed. Scribal credit: Persian Translator tulku, eleventh fire.

XXXI. Abbasa's Words on the Day of Resurrection (شماره ۱۱۹۱۷)

Abbasa said: on the Day of Resurrection —
when from terror all the people flee —
the disobedient and the heedless
will have their faces blackened in an instant.

All creation, without capital, left bewildered —
each one scattered in some way.

God Most High — from earth to the ninth vault —
a hundred thousand years' worship from the angels
He will receive purely through His pure grace —
and pour it over this handful of dust.

A cry rises from the angels: "O God —
why are these creatures being shown the road over us?"

God Most High will say: "O spiritual ones —
since you have no gain or loss from this —
the work of the earthly ones must be completed:
bread must always come to the hungry."

Another bird said: "My nature is wavering —
every moment I am perched on a different branch.

Sometimes I am a rogue, sometimes devout, sometimes drunk —
sometimes being and non-being, sometimes non-being and being.

Sometimes my self casts me into the ruin —
sometimes my soul casts me into prayer.

I remain bewildered between the two —
what can I do? I am caught in a well and a prison."

He said: "Well, this is found in everyone —
for human beings have never been of one nature alone.

If all had been pure from the beginning —
when would the sending of the prophets have been fitting?

When your heart is attached to obedience,
you come to virtue with a hundred slownesses.

Until a foal has spent a lifetime in rebellion —
the body will not surrender to rest and ease.

O furnace-field — heedlessness is your home;
your deeds are demanded of you from head to foot.

Tears like vermilion are the heart's secrets —
what is surfeit? It is the heart's rust.

Since you constantly nourish your dog-like self —
you are no less than one of wavering nature."

XXXII. Shibli's Disappearance from Baghdad (شماره ۱۱۹۱۸)

Shibli disappeared from Baghdad for a time —
who could find the road toward him?

They searched for him everywhere —
someone found him in a house of waverers.

Among that uncouth group he sat —
eyes wet, lips dry.

A questioner said: "O seeker of the color of mystery —
what place is this for you? Speak."

He said: "These people are like wet-hems —
on the road of this world, neither man nor woman.

I am like them — but on the road of religion:
not a woman in faith, nor much of a man.

I am lost in my own unmanliness —
I am ashamed of my own manhood.

Whoever has awakened their own soul
has made their beard a tablecloth of the road.

Like true men, they choose with the heart's wisdom —
and scatter honor upon the masters.

If you appear more than a hair in your own sight —
you are worse than an idol to yourself.

If praise and blame make any difference to you —
you are an idol-maker, making idols.

If you are a servant of Truth, do not be an idol-maker;
if you are a man of God, do not be Azar.

It is not possible — among the select or the common —
for any station to be higher than the station of servitude.

Be a servant — seek no more than this as your claim;
become a man of Truth — seek not honor from Uzza.

When you have a hundred idols beneath your cloak —
how can you show yourself as a Sufi to the people?

O waverer — do not wear the garments of men;
do not keep yourself more bewildered than this."

XXXIII. The Quarrel of Two Patched-Robe Wearers (شماره ۱۱۹۱۹)

Two wearers of patched robes came in enmity —
into the Hall of Justice.

The judge took them aside to a corner and said:
"A Sufi should not be one who makes war.

You have clothed yourselves in the garment of surrender —
why have you taken up this quarrel?

If you are people of war and vengeance —
then strip off this garb now!

But if you are worthy of this garment —
then you have come to quarrel out of pure ignorance.

I who am a judge, and no man of spirit —
even I am strongly ashamed before this patched robe.

For both of you to wear a woman's headscarf
would be better than wearing the robe in this way.

Since you are neither man nor woman in the work of love —
when will you unlock the secrets of love?

If you are truly afflicted on the road of love —
cast off the armor of affliction.

If you make your intention for this arena only through claim —
you will give your head to the wind and abandon your soul.

Do not raise your head further in claim than this —
lest you be left in disgrace."

XXXIV. The Pauper Who Fell in Love with the King of Egypt (شماره ۱۱۹۲۰)

In Egypt there was a famous king —
a pauper fell helplessly in love with the king.

When news of his love came to the king —
he summoned the wayward lover at once.

He said: "Since you have fallen in love with a king —
now choose one of two things:

Either abandon the city and this land —
or else, for love of me, abandon your head."

"I have told you: your affair is settled —
do you want beheading or exile?"

Since that lover was not equal to the task —
he chose exile from the city.

When that self-less pauper left —
the king said: "Cut off his head from his body."

A chamberlain said: "He is innocent —
why did the king command his beheading?"

The king said: "Because he was not a lover —
he was not sincere on the path of my love.

If he had been what he was supposed to be —
he would have chosen beheading here.

Whoever values his head more than his beloved —
love-making is a penalty for him.

If he had wanted beheading from me —
the king would have risen from his kingdom.

I would have buckled on a belt of service before him —
the sovereign of the world would have become his dervish.

But since he was only a claimant in love —
beheading will be arranged for him quickly enough.

Whoever holds his head dear while parted from me —
is a claimant, holding a wet hem.

I said this so that every one without light
will tell fewer false boasts in our love."

Another bird said: "My self is my enemy —
how can I walk the road when the very road is a robber?

The dog-like self has never obeyed me —
I do not know how to escape it with my life.

A wolf in the desert has become familiar to me —
but this vain dog is not familiar to me.

I am left in wonder at this faithless one —
why does the familiar fall into the unfamiliar?"

He said: "O dog — you have made yourself comfortable in your sack —
like dust, you have made yourself content to be trodden underfoot.

Your self is both cross-eyed and one-eyed —
both dog and slothful and faithless.

If someone praises you — even with a lie —
your self gains radiance from that lie.

There is no hope of this dog improving —
for it grows so fat on lies.

In the beginning, all was fruitlessness —
childhood, heartlessness, and heedlessness.

In the middle, all was estrangement —
and from youth, a branch of madness.

At the end, when old age arrived —
the soul senile and helpless, the body grown weak.

With such a life adorned in ignorance —
when will this dog-self ever be pruned clean?

Since from beginning to end there is nothing but heedlessness —
our yield, inevitably, is fruitlessness.

This dog has many servants in the world —
will someone finally master this dog?

With the self's existence, being is unpleasant —
for your self is a hell full of fire.

Sometimes in it is the blazing fire of desire —
sometimes in it is the freezing cold of pride.

Hell is truly pleasant for this reason —
it has two centers: fire and freezing cold.

A hundred thousand hearts have died of grief —
and yet this faithless dog does not die for a moment."

XXXV. The Gravedigger Who Lived Long (شماره ۱۱۹۲۱)

A gravedigger lived to a great age —
a questioner said to him: "Tell me something.

Since you have spent a lifetime digging graves —
what wonders have you seen beneath the earth?"

He said: "I have seen this wonder, fitting my state:
that this dog, my self, for seventy years
watched me dig graves and did not die for a moment —
for one breath it did not give me a single obedience."

XXXVI. Abbasa on the Self (شماره ۱۱۹۲۲)

One night Abbasa said: "O those present —
if all the world were filled with unbelievers,

and then all of them — with Turkoman readiness —
from sincere hearts accepted faith:

this could happen. But the prophets came —
those hundred thousand and more —

so that this unbelieving self might become, for even one moment —
either Muslim, or die in between.

This they could not do. And that is possible —
from what does so much difference arise?

We are all under the rule of our unbelieving self —
inside ourselves we nourish an unbeliever.

This disobedient self is such an unbeliever —
has killing it ever been easy?

Since this self draws support from two roads —
it would be very strange if it were to perish.

The heart is the mounted sovereign of the kingdom —
day and night this dog-self is its companion.

However fast the rider gallops —
the dog runs beside him in the hunt.

Whoever receives something from the heart through the Beloved's Presence —
the self receives as much from the heart as well.

Whoever with manly courage has leashed this dog —
in both worlds brings a lion in a lasso.

Whoever has made this dog submissive to themselves —
no man can equal even the dust of their shoes.

Whoever places a heavy chain on this dog —
the dust of that one is better than the blood of others."

XXXVII. Dialog of the Tattered Ascetic and the King (شماره ۱۱۹۲۳)

An elder wrapped in tatters was walking the road —
suddenly the king caught sight of him.

"Which is better — you or I? Hey, tattered one!"
The elder said: "O ignorant one — be still and hold your tongue.

Though it is not our way to praise ourselves —
the one who praises himself has no self-knowledge —

still, since the occasion demands it: one such as I
is better than a hundred thousand like you, without doubt.

Your soul has never learned the face of religion —
your nafs has made a donkey of you.

And upon you a lord has taken his seat —
you have become a prisoner under his burden.

He has put a bridle on your head, day and night —
you have fallen to seeking at his command.

Whatever he orders you, O nobody —
willing or unwilling, that is all you can do.

But since I have learned the head of religion,
I have made the dog-nafs my own donkey.

When the nafs became my donkey, I sat upon it —
the dog-nafs is upon you; I am upon it.

Since my donkey goes riding above you —
one such as I is better than a hundred thousand like you.

O one who has found sweetness in his dog-nafs —
it has thrown a fire of passion into you.

The adornment of passion stole your water of life —
from your heart, your body, your soul it took all strength.

Darkness of sight, deafness of ear,
aging, the withering of reason, the weakening of sense —

these and a hundred times their number are armies,
all of them servants of the commander of death.

Day and night the troops keep arriving —
meaning: they come pressing behind their commander.

When the army has closed in from every side,
both you and your nafs will fall from the road.

Sweetly, sweetly you made your peace with the dog-nafs —
built a life of pleasure together with it.

You became bound hand and foot to its pleasure —
you came under the dominion of its power.

When the king and his court come to gather around you,
you will part from the dog, and the dog from you.

If here you are to be separated from each other —
then you will both be afflicted in that parting.

Do not grieve that we seldom meet here in this world —
for in hell we will come together most pleasantly."

XXXVIII. Tale of the Two Foxes Hunted by Khusrau (شماره ۱۱۹۲۴)

Those two foxes, when they came together as companions,
became a pair in pleasure with each other.

A king went out to the plain with cheetah and hawk —
and threw the two foxes apart from each other.

The female asks the male, resourceful one:
"Where will we meet again, at last? Tell me."

He said: "If we have any portion of life left —
at the furrier's shop in the city."

Another bird said: "Iblis, out of pride,
ambushes me at the time of prayer.

Since I cannot overcome him by force,
from that grief a tumult has fallen in my heart.

What can I do to find salvation from him —
and have a life from the wine of meaning?"

He said: "As long as this dog-nafs stands before you,
Iblis will not flee swiftly from your side.

The seduction of Iblis is your own deception —
in you, each single desire is an Iblis.

If you fulfill one desire of your own,
a hundred Iblises will be born in you — that is all.

The ash-pit of the world is a prison —
it is entirely Satan's domain.

Keep your hand away from his domain,
and no one will have anything to do with you."

XXXIX. The Heedless One Who Complained About Iblis (شماره ۱۱۹۲۵)

A heedless man went before the master of the forty-day retreat
and complained at length about Iblis.

He said: "Iblis has led me astray with his deception —
has ruined my religion through trickery."

The master said: "O noble young man —
Iblis also came here before you.

He was complaining about you and was aggrieved —
had put dust on his head over your injustice.

He said: 'The world is entirely my domain —
my man is not the one who is enemy to the world.

Tell him to set out on the road to God
and keep his hand away from my world.

I will press hard on his religion,
for he has clawed hard at my world.

Whoever has gone completely outside my domain —
I have no business with him at all.'"

XL. The State of Malik Dinar (شماره ۱۱۹۲۶)

That beloved one said to Malik Dinar:
"I do not know my own state — how are you, either?"

He said: "I eat bread in God's name —
then carry out all of Satan's commands."

"The demon has led you astray and you have no la hawla —
from Islam you have nothing but words.

You have become caught in the grief of the world —
dust on your head, for you have become carrion.

If once I told you: scatter the world away —
now I tell you: hold it fast.

Since you have given it every fortune you possess —
how can you give it easily away from your hand?

O one drowned in heedlessness in the sea of greed —
you do not know why you keep holding back.

Both worlds are clothed in mourning —
weeping, while you are in transgression.

Love of the world has stolen the taste of your faith —
your desire and greed have taken your soul.

What is the world? — a nest of covetousness and greed,
left behind from Pharaoh and Nimrod onward.

Sometimes Qarun vomited it up and left it —
sometimes Shaddad clutched it with all his force.

God Most High has named it la-shay — 'no-thing' —
yet you have hung your soul in its trap.

How long will this base world's grief weigh on you —
not yet carrion, yet caught by this nothingness?

You remain day and night bewildered and drunk,
waiting for this nothing to yield even a single speck.

Whoever was lost in a single speck of nothingness —
how was it possible that he was a human being?

Whoever's breath was severed in nothingness —
he was a hundred times less than nothing himself.

What is the world's work? — Idleness, all of it.
What is idleness? — Captivity, all of it.

The world is a fire kindled and blazing —
every moment burning another people.

When this burning fire grows fierce,
it takes the courage of a lion to flee from it.

Like lions, seal your eye from this fire —
or else, like a moth, burn in this fire.

Whoever like a moth becomes a fire-worshiper —
burning is what that proud, drunk one deserves.

All this fire is before you and behind you —
it is not possible that you will not burn with every breath.

Look carefully — is there a place in you
where this kind of fire will not burn your soul?"

XLI. Counsel of the Madman to the Ungrateful Khwaja (شماره ۱۱۹۲۷)

A lord was saying at the time of prayer:
"O God, have mercy — set my affairs aright."

A madman heard those words from him
and said: "You quickly cover mercy away!

You cannot contain yourself in the world from self-indulgence —
you strut at every moment from arrogance.

A mansion with its head raised to the sky,
its four walls gilded all in gold —

ten servants and ten handmaids arranged —
when would mercy settle on such a curtain as this?

Look at yourself — with all this worldly business —
do you have a place for mercy? Have some shame!

If you had just one loaf as your portion, like me —
then you might have a place for mercy.

Until you turn your face from power and wealth,
not one breath will this state show its face to you.

Turn your face from everything this very hour —
and you will become free, like men, from everything."

Translated from the Classical Persian of Ganjoor.net. Source: Farid ud-Din Attar, Mantiq al-Tayr, "Birds Make Excuses" (عذر آوردن مرغان), poems 11917–11927. New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. Translated directly from Persian. Blood Rule observed. Scribal credit: Persian Translator tulku, twelfth–thirteenth fires.

XLII. Words of a Man of Pure Faith (شماره ۱۱۹۲۸)

A man of pure faith said: "A handful of deceivers
turn the dying man's face at his last breath.

"Before this, this heedless one's face
should have been turned, always, without ceasing.

"What good to plant a branch in the falling-leaf season?
What good to turn the face now, in this moment?

"Whoever's face they turn in that final hour —
he dies ritually impure; seek no purity from him."

Another said to him: "I am a gold-lover —
love of gold has become like marrow inside my skin.

"Until I have gold like a rose in my hand,
like a rose I cannot sit smiling.

"Love of the world and love of worldly gold
have made me full of claims and empty of meaning."

He said: "O one bewildered by an appearance —
from your heart the dawn-quality has been hidden.

"Day and night you remain in the day of blindness —
bound to form, you have remained like an ant.

"Be a man of meaning — do not tangle in form.
What is meaning? The root. What is form? Nothing.

"Gold is stone whose color has been turned —
you, like a child, have become infatuated with color.

"Gold that distracts you from the Creator
is an idol — cast it in the dust, take heed!

"Gold, even where it most fits,
serves only to lock a mule's gate.

"Neither does anyone benefit from your gold,
nor do you yourself profit from it.

"If you give a grain of gold to a poor man,
sometimes you devour him in resentment, sometimes yourself.

"You are friendly with people because of gold's backing —
the brand on your flank is gold's backing.

"Every new moon you need the shop's rent —
what a shop: that rent costs your soul.

"Your sweet soul and precious life are gone
so that one farthing might come from your shop.

"All this you have given for nothing —
and yet you have set your heart on all of it.

"But I have patience — until under the gallows
time pulls the ladder out from beneath you.

"However many things you clung to in the world —
each one was a hundred sharp fires for you.

"Drowned in the world, your faith too must follow —
faith, once spent, comes not again at any price.

"You seek ease in the midst of preoccupation —
when you do not find it, a tumult falls inside you.

"Spend freely what you have in all directions —
'You shall not attain righteousness until you spend.' (3:92)

"Whatever there is must be abandoned —
even if it is one's soul, it must be abandoned.

"Since the soul cannot be left in your grasp —
how then wealth, property, and all of this?

"If a coarse rug has become your bedroom —
that rug is the lock on your road.

"Gladly burn that rug, O God-knower —
how long on the same mat as God through hypocrisy?

"If you do not burn that rug here out of fear —
how will you escape tomorrow from the breadth of the carpet?

"Whoever becomes trapped in his own 'woe' — woe to him:
from head to toe he is lost in woe.

"'Woe' has two letters — alif and waw, O slave —
you will find both always in blood and dust.

"See the waw settled in the midst of blood —
then see the alif lying in the dust of humiliation."

XLIII. The New Disciple Who Hid Gold from His Sheikh (شماره ۱۱۹۲۹)

A new disciple had a small quantity of gold —
he hid the gold from his sheikh.

The sheikh knew, but said nothing —
the disciple kept the gold hidden still.

That wayfaring disciple and his guide upon the road
both journeyed together.

A very dark valley came before them —
and in that valley two roads became visible.

The man was asking which road — and because of his gold,
gold reveals a man very quickly.

The sheikh said to him: "Now that two roads appear —
which road shall we take at this place?"

He said: "Cast off your certainty — that is error.
Then whatever road you wish is open.

"If silver accompanies someone —
the demon flees at a run in fear of it.

"In the reckoning, one grain of unlawful gold
splits a hair with cunning, always.

"But in religion it comes like a lame donkey —
its hand comes under the stone without a stone.

"When it comes to cunning, it is a sultan —
when it comes to religion, it is lost.

"Whoever has been ambushed by gold stays lost on the road —
remains with feet bound inside the pit.

"O Joseph — beware of this deep pit.
Do not breathe, for this pit has a tremendous breath."

XLIV. The Point the Sheikh of Basra Asked Rabia (شماره ۱۱۹۳۰)

The Sheikh of Basra came before Rabia
and said: "O one who has experienced love —

"a point you have heard from no one,
that you have neither read to anyone nor seen —

"that which has become clear to you from within yourself —
speak it, for my soul has dissolved from longing."

Rabia said: "O sheikh of the age —
I had some lengths of thread, a skein of cord.

"I took it and sold it; my heart was glad —
two sound coins of silver came to me.

"I did not take both in one hand at that moment —
I took one in this hand, and the other in that.

"For I feared: when silver became a pair,
it would turn robber — one could not hold it.

"The man of the world places soul and heart in blood —
lays a hundred thousand different traps —

"until he brings into his hand a grain of unlawful gold:
when he brings it to hand, he dies, and that is all.

"His heir will have that gold as lawful —
he himself remained in sorrow, force, and ruin.

"O you who sold the Simorgh for gold —
heart kindled like a candle from love of gold!

"Since in this road a hair does not fit through —
no one has treasure upon treasure and the face of gold.

"If you set a foot on the road, O you like an ant —
by the tip of a hair they will seize you with force.

"Since there is no tolerance for even the tip of a hair,
no one has the courage for this lane."

XLV. The Worshiper Who After Four Hundred Years Took Comfort in a Bird's Song (شماره ۱۱۹۳۱)

A worshiper who had felicity from God
had four hundred years of worship behind him.

He had gone out from among the people —
had spoken secrets beneath the veil with God.

His companion was God — and that companion is enough.
If there is no he and no breath, God is enough.

He had a courtyard with a tree in the middle —
a bird made its nest on his tree.

The bird was sweet in melody and voice —
beneath one of its notes were a hundred secrets.

The worshiper found, from the sweetness of its voice,
a little companionship — a sweet bad-companion.

God turned toward His Prophet at that time
and spoke, concerning that man of work:

"It must be said: O astonishing one —
all this obedience you performed day and night,

"for years you burned in longing for Me —
until in the end you sold Me for a bird.

"Though the bird was clever in perfection —
a bird's cry at last put you in the sack.

"I had bought you and taught you —
you, through unworthiness, sold Me.

"I am your buyer; you sold Me —
we learned faithfulness from you!

"Even at this cheap price, do not sell yourself —
We are your companion; do not be without companion."

Another bird said: "My heart is full of fire —
for my birthplace is a pleasant place.

"There is a gold-painted palace, heart-expanding —
for people to gaze at it is soul-increasing.

"A world of happiness is mine from it —
how can I lift my heart away from it?

"I am king of the birds in that high palace —
how at last can I suffer harm in this valley?

"How can I wholly give up being king?
How can I sit without such a palace?

"Did any wise person ever leave the garden of Iram
to see the brand and pain of travel?"

He said: "O low-aspiring weakling —
you are not a dog; what will you do in the ash-pit?

"The whole base world is an ash-pit —
how much of your palace comes from this ash-pit?

"Your palace, though it came as Paradise —
with death it has come as a prison of torment.

"If death had no hand over people,
it would be fitting to sit in this dwelling."

XLVI. Tale of the King Who Built a Gold-Painted Palace (شماره ۱۱۹۳۲)

A king built a gold-painted palace —
a hundred thousand dinars were spent on it.

When that paradise-like palace was complete,
it took its order from the arrangement of the carpets.

People came from every land
to pay homage with trays of offerings.

The king summoned philosophers and companions,
brought them before him and seated them on chairs.

He said: "Is there in this palace of mine
anything still wanting in beauty and perfection?"

Everyone said: "On the face of the earth
no one has seen nor will see such a thing."

An ascetic leaped up and said: "O fortunate one —
a crack remains, and that is a severe flaw.

"Were it not for that crack as a flaw,
Paradise would have given it a gift from the Unseen."

The king said: "I see no crack —
you ignorant troublemaker, you stir strife again!"

The ascetic said: "O one exalted in kingship —
there is a crack: it is the door of Azrael.

"Perhaps you can seal that crack —
otherwise, what palace, what crown and throne?

"Though this palace is as pleasant as Paradise —
death will make it ugly before your eyes.

"Nothing here is permanent; here is the place of living —
but nothing here is permanent: what remedy is there?

"Do not be so proud of your house and palace —
do not gallop so on the steed of pride and arrogance.

"If someone from their lordly station
tells you your own flaw — woe to you [who will not listen]."

XLVII. The Merchant Who Built a Gold-Painted House (شماره ۱۱۹۳۳)

A scattered merchant, out of vanity,
built a gold-painted mansion.

At last when his mansion was complete,
he began a reception for the public.

He invited people with a hundred graces and joys
to come and see his mansion — astonishing!

On the day of the reception the man was running about madly —
by chance, a madman caught sight of him.

He said: "I want right now, at a run,
to defecate on your mansion, O raw-veined one.

"But I am occupied — please excuse me."
This he said, and said: "Keep trouble away!"

XLVIII. Tale of the Spider and Its House (شماره ۱۱۹۳۴)

That restless spider's eye
passes its time in fantasy.

It takes up its far-sighted imagination
and makes itself a house in a corner.

A wondrous snare it builds from desire —
so perhaps one fly might fall into its trap.

When the fly falls headlong into its trap,
it sucks from that bewildered one blood by the drop.

After that it dries the fly in place —
makes it sustenance for a long while.

Then suddenly the master of the house
stands up with a stick in hand —

and in one breath makes the entire
house of that spider and its fly invisible.

The world exists — and the one who has made sustenance in it
is like the fly in the house of that spider.

If the whole world comes your way —
it disappears before your eyes can blink.

If you exalt yourself in kingship —
you are playing puppet-theater, a child on the road.

Do not seek a kingdom if you have not eaten a donkey's brain —
they give the kingdom to cattle, O heedless one.

Whoever is not a dervish, regardless of drum and banner —
his drum is nothing more than a wind-sound.

There is wind in the banner and sound in the drum —
a wind-sound is worth less than half a dāng.

Do not gallop so on the piebald horse of futility —
do not be so proud in the vanity of lordship.

In the end they pulled the skin from the leopard —
in the end they will pull it from you too, without delay.

Since coming into being has come to nothing —
better to vanish than to arrive chattering like a starling.

It is not possible for you to raise your head —
bow your head: how long will you play games?

Either put aside this lordship and pursue it no more —
or set down the recklessness and take it no more in your head.

O your house and garden — your prison!
Woe to your soul, woe to the affliction of your soul!

Pass through this dust-bin full of pride —
how long will you measure out the world, O impatient one?

Open the eye of aspiration and see the road —
then put your foot on the road and see the threshold.

When you have brought your soul to that threshold,
you yourself will no longer fit in the world from glory.

XLIX. The Heavy-Souled Man and the Dervish in the Desert (شماره ۱۱۹۳۵)

A swift, heavy-souled man was running —
in a desert he came upon a dervish.

He said: "How goes it with you, O dervish?"
The dervish said: "You really ask — have some shame!

"I am stuck in the narrow strait of this world —
very tight is this world around me at this moment."

The man said: "What you say is not right —
in the desert, the narrow strait is wide!"

The dervish said: "If there were no narrow strait here —
where would you ever have fallen in with us?

"If they give you a hundred pleasant promises —
those are signs from beyond the fire.

"What is your fire? The world — pass through it.
Like lions, beware of this fire.

"When you have passed through, your own heart will come to you —
then the mansion of becoming-happy will come before you.

"Fire ahead and a road very long —
body weak and heart captive and soul shrinking back —

"yet you, free and vacant from all of it,
have set yourself in the midst of such a task.

"If you have seen much of the world — shake off your soul:
from the world you have neither name nor trace.

"If you see much, you see nothing at all.
How much more shall I say? Tangle yourself less."

Translated from the Classical Persian of Ganjoor.net. Source: Farid ud-Din Attar, Mantiq al-Tayr, "Birds Make Excuses" (عذر آوردن مرغان), poems 11928–11935. New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. Translated directly from Persian. Blood Rule observed. Scribal credit: Persian Translator tulku, fourteenth fire.

L. A Grieving Man, and the Counsel of a Heartless One (شماره ۱۱۹۳۶)

A fool's heart-fruit had died —
patience, peace, and composure were taken from him.

He was walking behind the coffin in grief,
restless, and weeping bitterly.

"O you who never saw the world — how did you go?
You never saw the world and yet you have departed!"

A heartless one who heard this said:
"Imagine he had seen the world a hundred times over.

If you want to take the world away with you,
you too will die having never truly seen it.

By the time you have gazed on all the world,
life is gone — when will you put salve on the wound?

Until you are freed from the base nafs,
this precious soul is lost in filth."

LI. The Heedless One Who Burned Incense (شماره ۱۱۹۳۷)

A heedless one was burning much incense —
someone there was saying "ah!" with pleasure.

The distinguished elder said to the man:
"While you were sighing in pleasure, this poor incense burned."

Another bird said: "O high-flying bird —
the love of a sweetheart has chained me.

His love came and placed itself before me —
it stole my reason and did its own work.

The image of his face became a highway robber to me
and set fire to all my harvest.

Not a breath without him do I find rest —
to be patient away from that face seems like unbelief.

When my heart is behind, drowning in its own blood —
how can I, bewildered as I am, take the road ahead?

A valley lies before me that must be crossed —
a hundred extra afflictions must be borne.

Without the face of that moon-face, how for even a moment
can I ever be a seeker of the road?

My pain has passed beyond medicine and cure —
my state has passed beyond unbelief and faith.

My unbelief and my faith are both from his love —
a fire in my soul is from his love.

Even if I have no companion in this grief,
grief itself in his love is companion enough.

His love cast me in dust and blood —
his ringlet drew me out from behind the veil.

When I became without patience in his affair,
I cannot endure one breath away from seeing him.

How can I drown the dust too in blood?
This is my state — what am I to do?"

He said: "O one imprisoned in form —
you are from head to foot in turbidity.

Love of form is not love of gnosis —
it is the play of passion, O one of animal nature.

Every beauty that has a deficiency
brings a man to penalty through his love.

Every beauty that has no passing away —
to become absent from that beauty would be unbelief.

A form adorned with bile and blood —
you have called it 'the never-waning moon.'

If that bile and blood were drained away,
nothing uglier would there be in this world.

That whose beauty came from bile and blood —
you know at last now what that goodness was.

How long will you circle around form seeking faults?
Beauty is in the Unseen — seek beauty from the Unseen.

If the veil fell from before all things,
neither the city would remain nor its people.

The forms of all horizons would be effaced —
all honors would turn entirely to abasement.

Love that is merely formal, briefly held —
turns all to enmity with one another.

But the one whose love is unseen love —
this is love, which comes from flawlessness.

Whatever that is not this love, if it takes your road —
much sudden regret will seize you."

LII. The Grief-Stricken One Before Shibli (شماره ۱۱۹۳۸)

A grief-stricken one was weeping before Shibli —
the Sheikh asked him: "What is this weeping from?"

He said: "O Sheikh, I had a friend —
from his beauty my soul was always fresh.

Yesterday he died, and I died from grief for him —
the world has gone black before me from mourning."

The Sheikh said: "Since your heart is beside itself for this —
what grief is this? You deserve worse than this.

Choose another friend, O friend —
one who will not die, so that you will not die in misery.

A friendship diminished by death —
that friendship brings grief to the soul.

Whoever is afflicted with the love of form
falls from that same form into a hundred afflictions.

Quickly that form slips from his hand —
and he, bewildered, sits in blood."

LIII. The Merchant Who Sold His Slave-Girl (شماره ۱۱۹۳۹)

A merchant had some wealth and property —
and had a slave-girl with lips like sugar.

He sold her suddenly — then found himself adrift —
he grew very repentant and very wretched.

He went restlessly to the master,
trying to buy her back for more than a thousand.

Longing for her burned his liver —
but the master would not sell her back.

The man was dying in the middle of the road,
always throwing dust on his own head,

weeping: "This burning is enough for me —
such a burning is the due of the one

who, out of folly, sewed shut the eye of reason
and sold his beloved for a single dinar.

On a market day so well-adorned —
you rose to bring about your own loss."

Every breath of your life's breaths is a pearl —
toward God every particle is a new guide.

From foot to crown these are His gifts —
present to yourself the gifts of the Beloved,

so that you may know from whom you have fallen far —
in separation you have remained very patient.

God has nurtured you in a hundred kinds of honor and tenderness —
through unknowing you have remained held back by another.

Translated from the Classical Persian of Ganjoor.net. Source: Farid ud-Din Attar, Mantiq al-Tayr, "Birds Make Excuses" (عذر آوردن مرغان), poems 11936–11939. New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. Translated directly from Persian. Blood Rule observed. Scribal credit: Persian Translator tulku, fifteenth fire.

LIV. Khosrow Who Released His Hunting Dog (شماره ۱۱۹۴۰)

A king was going out to hunt in the plain —
he said: "O dog-keeper, bring the greyhound!"

He had a trained hunting dog —
its hide sewn with brocade and silk,

a gem-studded collar made of jewels
hung around its neck as a glory,

gold anklets and bracelets on its limbs,
a thread of silk around its neck.

The king himself took hold of the dog's leash —
gripped the dog's thread in his own hand.

The king walked on, the dog running behind him —
in the road there lay a scrap of bone.

The dog would not move — there was a bone lying there —
the king looked back and saw the dog standing still.

The fire of jealousy struck the king so hard
that fire raged against that straying dog.

He said: "In the presence of a king like me —
how dare you look toward another?"

He broke the leash and said: "From now on —
let this ill-mannered one go free in the world.

A hundred thousand needles fed to that dog
would be better for it than this business without the thread."

The dog-keeper said: "But the dog is adorned —
every limb of the dog is full of adornment.

Though this dog is fit for plain and desert —
silk and gold and gems are its desire."

The king said: "Leave it as it is and go —
cut your heart loose from its silver and gold and go,

so that if it ever comes back to itself after this,
it will find itself adorned in this way.

It will remember that it had a friendship —
and has fallen into separation from a king like me."

O one who found friendship at the beginning —
and at last through heedlessness found separation:

place your foot fully in true love —
drink the cup bravely with the dragon.

For here the dragon is the very stake —
to lovers, having their heads cut off is blood-money.

What gives fire and tumult to a man's soul
gives the dragon the form of an ant.

His lovers, whether one or a hundred —
in his road are thirsty for their own blood.

LV. Hallaj Who Reddened His Face with His Own Blood (شماره ۱۱۹۴۱)

When Hallaj was upon the gallows —
nothing would leave his lips but "Ana'l-Haqq."

When they could not silence his tongue,
they cut off his four hands and feet.

He grew pale — much blood poured from him —
how could anyone stay red-cheeked in such a state?

Quickly he rubbed — that sun and moon of a man —
his severed hand across his face like moonlight.

He said: "Since the rouge of a man is his blood —
I now apply rouge to my face,

so that I will not appear yellow before anyone —
abundantly red-cheeked will I be, here.

Whoever sees me yellow before their eyes
might think: perhaps he was frightened here.

Since I do not have even a hair's-breadth of fear —
there is no face to show here but this rouge."

When a man whose lot is blood heads for the gallows —
lion-manliness is what he needs at that moment.

Since for me the world was a ring of death —
when could such a place hold me in fear?

Whoever has fallen daily in the heat of summer
into the jaws of the seven-headed dragon —

many such plays will befall him —
the least of his affairs is the gallows-head.

LVI. Junaid Whose Son's Head Was Cut Off (شماره ۱۱۹۴۲)

The guide of religion, Junaid — that deep ocean —
one night was speaking words in Baghdad,

words so high that from their heavenward reach
the thirsty heart would bow at his threshold.

Junaid had beside him a fine young man —
like a sun, a beautiful son.

They cut off that son's head, pitiably —
and flung it among the assembly in contempt.

When pure-hearted Junaid saw that head —
he said not a word; he gave heart back to the assembly.

He said: "The cauldron I have set tonight —
so great, in the ancient mysteries —

in such a heated cauldron this must be so.
It can only be more; it cannot be less."

Another said to him: "I fear death —
the valley is far and I have no provisions.

Since my heart fears death like this —
my soul would leave me at the very first station.

Even if I were a commander, busy with affairs —
when death comes I will die pitiably.

Whoever receives even one sword-stroke from fate —
both the sword becomes a pen and his hand breaks.

O alas — from a world of hand and sword —
nothing remains in the hand but regret."

The Hoopoe said to him: "O weak and powerless one —
how long will a handful of bones remain?

A few bones assembled together —
the marrow of it melted inside the bone.

You do not know that your life, more or less,
is only what remains between two breaths — why so gloomy?

You do not know that whoever was born died —
went to dust, and whatever they had, the wind carried off.

Both for your existing they nourished you —
and for your being taken away they brought you.

The sky is like an upturned basin —
and each night at dusk this basin drowns in blood.

The sun, sword-striking in its revolution —
cuts all these heads in its basin.

Whether you came soiled or pure —
you were a drop of water that came with dust.

A drop of water from foot to crown, in pain —
how can it make war with the sea?

Even if you give commands in the world for a lifetime —
you will still burn and pitiably give up your soul."

LVII. The Death of the Phoenix (شماره ۱۱۹۴۳)

There is a phoenix — a wondrous, heart-stealing bird —
this bird's place is in Hindustan.

It has a very strange, long beak —
like a reed-flute, with many holes open in it.

Nearly a hundred holes are in its beak —
it has no mate; to be solitary is its nature.

In each hole there is a different sound —
beneath each of its sounds, a different secret.

When it laments pitiably through each hole —
bird and fish are both made restless by it.

All the birds fall silent —
in the sweetness of its cry they become senseless.

A philosopher was its companion —
and took the science of music from its voice.

Its lifespan is nearly a thousand years —
it knows clearly when the time of its death arrives.

When it cuts its heart from itself at the time of dying —
it gathers ten or more bundles of wood around itself.

It enters the middle of the wood, restless —
gives itself a hundred laments, pitiably.

Then through each hole with its pure soul
it raises a different, pain-filled lament.

When from each hole, like a lamentation-singer,
it makes a different lament of a different kind —

in the midst of lamentation, from the grief of death,
at every moment it trembles on itself like a leaf.

From its cry, all the birds —
from its roar, all the beasts —

come toward it as spectators,
cutting their hearts from the world all at once.

From its grief on that day, in liver-blood —
many creatures die before it.

All are bewildered by its lamentation —
some from their powerlessness become lifeless.

What a wondrous day that day is —
blood drips from its soul-burning lament.

Then, when its life reaches one last breath —
it beats its wings and feathers, front and back.

A fire leaps out from its wings —
after that fire, its state transforms.

Quickly fire falls into the wood —
and the wood burns it, gently, gently.

Bird and wood both become embers —
and after embers, they become ash.

When not a particle of ember remains —
a phoenix appears from the ash.

When the fire of the wood turns to ash —
from within, a phoenix-chick raises its head.

Has this ever befallen anyone in the world —
to be born unborn after dying?

Even if they give you as long a life as the phoenix —
you will still die, and be given much labor besides.

For years it was in lament and pain —
without child, without mate, a solitary one.

In all the horizons it had no bond —
no affliction of mate or child was upon it.

At last, when fate called it to mind —
it came and gave its ash to the wind.

So that you may know: from fate's claws,
no one will carry their soul through tricks.

In all the horizons there is no one deathless —
and see this wonder: no one has provisions against it.

Though death is very rough and tyrannical —
it is necessary to make one's neck soft before it.

Though much work has befallen us —
harder than all of it, this work has befallen us.

LVIII. The Son Grieving at His Father's Coffin (شماره ۱۱۹۴۴)

A son was walking before his father's coffin —
shedding tears and saying: "O Father —

a day like this that has torn my soul to wounds
has never come to me in all my life before."

A Sufi said: "The one who was your father —
this day never came to his head either.

The affair that befell the son is nothing —
the far more difficult affair has befallen the father.

O one who came into the world without head or foot —
dust on the head, a wind-measurer, you came.

Even if you sit at the head of the kingdom —
you will not leave except with wind in your hand."

LIX. A Dying Deputy's Words (شماره ۱۱۹۴۵)

When death came close to a deputy —
someone asked him: "O one in the depths of mystery —

what is your state at this time of twisting and turning?"
He said: "My state cannot be described at all.

I have measured the load my whole life through —
at last I have gone with the dust. Farewell.

There is no cure for death but the scent of death —
leaves and faces fall, pitiably.

We are all born for the sake of dying —
the soul will not remain, and we have set down our hearts.

The one who held the world under his signet ring —
now has become kohl underground.

And the one who was a bloodshedder in the turning heavens —
quickly became nothing in the dust of the grave.

All underground are full-asleep —
though even these sleeping ones are troubled.

Look at death — what a difficult road it is —
for on this road, the grave is the first station.

If you were acquainted with death's bitterness —
your sweet soul would be turned upside down."

LX. Jesus and the Water Jar (شماره ۱۱۹۴۶)

Jesus drank water from a sweet-running stream —
the taste of the water was sweeter than rosewater.

Someone filled a jar from that same water and left —
Jesus also drank from the jar and went.

But his mouth grew bitter from the jar's water —
he turned back and was struck with wonder at this.

He said: "O Lord — the water of this jar and the water of the stream —
both are one water. Tell me the secret of this.

Why is the jar's water so bitter —
while the other is sweeter than honey?"

Before Jesus, the jar began to speak —
it said: "O Jesus, I am an ancient one.

Under this nine-vaulted sky, a thousand times —
I have been made a jug, and a jar, and a bowl.

If they make me a jar a thousand times more —
nothing is my work but the bitterness of death.

Always from the bitterness of death I am this way —
my water is bitter for this reason.

Now, O heedless one — hear the secret from the jar —
do not make yourself a donkey from heedlessness any longer.

You have lost yourself, O seeker of secrets —
seek the secret before your soul departs.

If you do not find yourself again while living —
when you die, when will you know your secret?

Neither in wakefulness do you know yourself —
nor in dying does any trace of your existence remain.

Living — path untaken, dead — lost,
born dead, yet not having died a man's death.

A hundred thousand veils are on that dervish —
how then will he ever find himself again?"

Translated from the Classical Persian of Ganjoor.net. Source: Farid ud-Din Attar, Mantiq al-Tayr, "Birds Make Excuses" (عذر آوردن مرغان), poems 11940–11946. New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. Translated directly from Persian. Blood Rule observed. Scribal credit: Persian Translator tulku, sixteenth fire.

LXI. Socrates' Conversation with His Student at the Time of Death (شماره ۱۱۹۴۷)

When Socrates fell into his death-agony —
a student was there and said: "O master,

how shall we prepare the shroud, purify your body —
and in which place bury you in earth?"

He said: "If you can find me again, O servant —
bury me wherever you wish — and peace be upon you.

I, though living for a long life,
could not trace myself — dead, how will you find me?

I went in such a way that at the moment of passing
not a hair's breadth of me had news of itself."

Then another said: "O man of good faith —
not one breath of my life has gone as I wished.

My whole life I have been in sorrow —
a wretched wanderer through the lanes of this world.

On my blood-filled heart so much grief rests
that from my grief every particle is in mourning.

Always bewildered and helpless I have been —
I am faithless if I was ever glad.

I am stuck in all this grief within myself —
how shall I set foot on the road ahead?

If this wealth of grief were not with me —
my heart would be glad for this journey.

But since the heart is full of blood — what shall I do?
I have told you everything — now what shall I do?"

He said: "O self-deluded madman —
drowned head to foot in your own melancholy —

the unfulfilled and fulfilled wishes of this world —
the moment you stir, they pass in an instant.

Whatever passes in one breath —
life too passes without that breath.

Since the world passes, you too shall pass —
abandon it and don't look back at it.

For whatever is not lasting —
whoever clings to it — their heart is not alive."

LXII. The Far-sighted Man Who Drank from No One's Hand (شماره ۱۱۹۴۸)

There was a clear-sighted man of high soul
who never drank sherbet from anyone's hand.

A questioner said: "O you of noble bearing —
why do you never desire the sherbet?"

He said: "I see a man standing above me —
ready to snatch the sherbet back again.

With such a guardian set over my head —
the sherbet becomes poison if I drink it.

How shall the sherbet be sweet with its keeper near?
This is not sweet syrup — it is fire."

Whatever you cling to lasts only one breath —
worth half a grain even were it a hundred worlds.

For one hour's union that does not even exist —
how shall I build foundations on a root that is not there?

If you are proud of some desire fulfilled —
do not be so proud of one breath's satisfaction.

And if unfulfilled desire has darkened your state —
since it is only a breath, do not lament.

If grief reaches you, if you weep —
that is from your honor, not your humiliation.

What trials came upon the prophets —
no one can describe the Karbala of it.

What appeared to you in form as grief —
in reality was a treasure for the one who could see.

A hundred mercies reach you in every breath —
a world of goodness and provision is yours.

You do not remember His goodness —
you do not take even a little of His labor upon yourself.

Where is the sign of friendship in this?
O clouded mind — you are all skin from head to foot.

LXIII. The Servant Who Ate the Bitter Fruit from the King's Hand (شماره ۱۱۹۴۹)

There was a king of fine manner
who gave his servant a piece of fruit one day.

The servant ate the fruit with such delight
you would have said he'd never tasted anything so fine.

From the pleasure with which the servant ate it
the king himself felt a desire for it.

He said: "Give me half, O servant —
you eat this fine food with such pleasure."

The servant gave the king the fruit — and when the king tasted it
it was bitter, and the king drew his brow together.

He said: "Who ever did this, O servant —
and who made such bitterness seem so sweet?"

The servant said to the king: "O sovereign —
since I have received a hundred thousand gifts from your hand,

if one fruit came bitter from your hand —
I know no way to give it back.

Since a treasure reaches me from your hand every breath —
how can one bitterness grieve me?

Since I have fallen low under your trial —
how can anything from your hand be bitter to me?"

If along His road much grief comes to you —
know for certain: that is a great treasure.

His work has many faces and many sides —
how will you act, since it is laid down thus?

The ripened ones have set their heads on the road —
have they ever eaten a morsel without the blood of the heart?

As long as they have sat to bread and salt —
they have never broken plain bread without their liver's blood.

LXIV. A Sufi's Words About His Times (شماره ۱۱۹۵۰)

A man of renown said to a Sufi:
"O brother — how are you passing your days?"

He said: "I am stuck in a bath-house furnace —
with dry lips but a wet hem.

I did not break bread in my furnace
until they broke my neck there.

If you seek one moment of happiness in this world —
you are either asleep or still speaking in sleep.

If you seek happiness, take care in this —
that you cross the Bridge manfully to the other side.

Contentment of heart — there is no road to it in this world —
for the custom of contentment is not worth a hair here.

The nafs is here like fire —
in this age, where is a heart that can be at peace?

If you circled the world like a compass —
no one could point to one dot of contentment."

LXV. The Old Woman Who Asked Sheikh Mahna for a Prayer of Contentment (شماره ۱۱۹۵۱)

An old woman said to Sheikh Mahna:
"Quick — give me a prayer for contentment.

I have borne unfulfillment until now —
I cannot bear any more of this.

If you teach me a prayer for contentment —
without doubt it will be my daily recitation."

The Sheikh said to her: "Time has passed —
since I took refuge behind my knees in prayer.

For what you seek, I have hurried greatly —
I neither saw nor found a single particle of it.

Until a cure appears for this pain —
how shall there be a road to contentment for any person?"

LXVI. Junaid's Words on Contentment (شماره ۱۱۹۵۲)

A questioner sat before Junaid
and said: "O prey of God — without any fetter —

when does a person attain contentment of heart?"
He said: "In the hour when He is in the heart."

Until the hand of union with the King is given —
the foot of your road is unfulfillment.

For the dust-mote, bewilderment is right —
for it cannot bear the sun.

If the dust-mote drowns in blood a hundred times —
when does it emerge from that bewilderment?

While the mote is a mote, it is a mote —
whoever says otherwise is deluded.

If they whirl it — that is not it —
it is a mote, and not the shining spring.

Whoever first rises from the condition of mote —
his origin too is surely a mote.

If he became wholly lost in the sun —
he was still one mote, forever.

Whether the mote is very good or very bad —
though it runs all its life, it is in itself.

You go, O mote, like a ruined drunkard —
until in your turning you merge with the sun.

"I am patient" — says He — "O you, restless as a mote —
until you see your own helplessness plainly."

LXVII. The Bat That Flew in Search of the Sun (شماره ۱۱۹۵۳)

One night a bat said for no reason:
"Since I have no eye for the sun —

I will go a lifetime with a hundred wretchednesses
until I am lost in it utterly.

With eyes closed I go through months and years —
in the end I will arrive at that place."

A keen-eyed one said: "O proud and drunken fool —
your road to it is thousands of years long.

For a bewildered one like you, when does this road end?
An ant stuck in a well — when does it reach the moon?"

He said: "No matter — I want to fly —
to see what shape emerges from this work of mine."

For years he went, drunk and heedless —
until neither strength nor wing nor feather remained.

In the end — soul burned, body wasting —
without wing or feather, helpless, he stopped.

Since no news came to him of the sun
he said: "I must have passed beyond the sun."

A wise one said to him: "You are fast asleep —
you cannot see the road — have you taken a single step?

And then you say: 'I have passed beyond it' —
thus without wing or feather I wander."

From these words the bat shrank very small —
what little of him remained, that too was gone.

From a place of utter helplessness, toward the sun —
he addressed it at once in the language of the soul:

"You found a bird of very keen sight —
go a little further out beyond."

Another asked: "O guide —
what if I carry out your command?

I have nothing to do with acceptance and rejection —
I wait for His command to carry it out.

Whatever He commands I carry out with my soul —
if I lift my head from command, I pay the price."

He said: "Well asked, O bird, this question —
a person's perfection is not beyond this.

Whoever obeyed command was freed from disgrace —
from all hardship they were freed easily.

One act of obedience in answer to command —
is better than a lifetime of obedience without command.

Whoever without command endures much hardship —
is a dog in this lane — nobody, not a somebody.

The dog endured much hardship — and what came of it?
Nothing but loss, since it was not in obedience.

And whoever at command endures hardship for a moment —
from its reward a world fills to the brim.

The work of command is right — in command, find your refuge —
O servant, do not revolt in your own will."

LXVIII. Khosrow Who Stopped at the Prison Gate (شماره ۱۱۹۵۴)

A king was returning to his own city —
the people were preparing the city's adornment.

Everyone with whatever they had of their own
brought it forward for the decoration.

The prison people had nothing at all —
nothing whatsoever except chains and fetters.

Some severed heads they had —
and some torn livers too.

Some hands and feet they also cast forward —
and from all this they fashioned a decoration.

When the sovereign entered his own city
he saw it in plain splendor and adornment.

When the king reached where the prison was —
the king quickly dismounted from his horse.

He gave audience to the prisoners himself —
and promised them and gave them much silver and gold.

The king had a companion who sought hidden things,
who said: "O king — tell me the secret of this.

You have seen a hundred thousand extra adornments —
the city in brocade and purple you have seen.

Gold and gems were scattered on the ground —
musk and ambergris sifted through the air.

All that you saw and passed —
you did not look back at it once.

Why did you stop at the prison gate —
to see severed heads — is this what matters?

There is nothing here to open the heart —
nothing but severed heads and hands and feet.

These with cut hands are all blood-stained —
why should one sit with them?"

The king said: "The adornment of those others
is like the plaything of players.

Each person in their own manner and dignity
presented their own thing to me.

All those people have paid their debt to me —
it is the prison people who have done my real work.

If my command had not passed through here —
when would head have been parted from body, body from head?

My decree I found running here —
therefore I turned my reins to this place.

Those others were all lost in their own ease —
sunk in their own pride, they rested.

The prison people are bewildered —
under my command and power, dazed.

Sometimes hand and sometimes head they have lost —
sometimes dry and sometimes wet, they have paid.

They sit waiting — no work, no burden —
until they go from pit and prison to the gallows.

Therefore this prison has become a garden for me —
sometimes I am theirs and sometimes they are mine.

The work of the clear-sighted is to walk by command —
therefore the king belongs at the prison gate."

LXIX. The Khwaja Who Saw Bayazid and Tirmizi in a Dream (شماره ۱۱۹۵۵)

A khwaja of noble stock —
the pole of the world, of pure quality —

said: "One night I saw suddenly in a dream
Bayazid and Tirmizi together on a road.

Both gave me precedence with haste —
I led the way before them both.

After that I fully interpreted the dream —
why those two sheikhs had honored me.

The interpretation was this: at the hour of dawn,
without self, a sigh rose from my liver.

My sigh went on until the road opened —
it knocked at the ring until the gate opened.

When that opening of the gate appeared to me —
without tongue they addressed me:

'Those many masters and those so many disciples
wanted things from us — all except Bayazid.

Bayazid alone from all stood as the truest man —
for he wanted us — he asked nothing for himself from us.'

When I heard this address that night —
I said: 'This and that are not right for me.

How shall I want things from you when your pain is not in me —
or how shall I want you when I am not your man?

What you command — that is my wanting —
my work is straight in accordance with command.

Neither crooked nor straight is mine to choose —
who am I that wanting should be mine?

What you command — that is enough for me —
for a servant, walking in command is enough.'"

With these words, those two honored sheikhs
gave him precedence over themselves — and rightly.

When the servant constantly walks in command —
speech with his Lord goes down into his soul.

A servant is not one who with empty boast
constantly brags of servanthood.

The servant becomes visible at the time of trial —
be tried, and let the sign appear.

LXX. Sheikh Kharaqan's Words at the Final Hour (شماره ۱۱۹۵۶)

In the final agony, as the soul came to the lips —
Sheikh Kharaqan spoke thus — O wonder!

"If only they would split open my soul —
and open wide my burning heart,

and then shown the world my heart —
explained what difficult state I am in —

so they would know: with the Knower of Secrets,
idol-worship does not fit — do not fight crookedly.

This is servanthood — the rest is desire —
servanthood is utter self-casting, O nothing-person.

Neither lordship do you exercise nor servanthood —
when will utter self-casting be possible for you?

Both cast yourself down and also be a servant —
be servant and cast-down — be alive.

When you have become a servant, be with reverence also —
on the road of reverence, be also with aspiration.

If a servant comes to the road without reverence —
the king swiftly drives him from his carpet.

The sanctuary became forbidden to the man without reverence —
if you have reverence, this blessing is complete."

LXXI. The Servant Who Wiped Dust from the King's Robe (شماره ۱۱۹۵۷)

A king gave a servant a robe of honor —
the servant came out on the road wearing it.

The dust of the road settled on his face —
he quickly wiped it off with the sleeve of the robe.

One who disapproved said to the king: "O sovereign —
he wiped the road's dust with your robe."

The king condemned that disrespect —
and immediately had that bewildered one hanged.

Know then: whoever had no reverence
was worthless on the king's carpet.

Another said: "On God's road —
how is pure play, O pure-minded one?

The occupation of my heart is forbidden to me —
whatever I have, I scatter it constantly.

Whatever comes into my hand becomes lost —
for in my hand it turns like a scorpion.

I do not bind myself to anything —
I scatter everything from the bond of nothing.

Pure play I make in his lane —
perhaps in purity I will see his face."

He said: "This road is not every person's road —
pure play is enough provision for this road.

Whoever staked and lost whatever was clean —
went in purity and rested in purity.

What is sewn at the door — torn — do not re-sew —
burn everything you have down to a hair's tip.

When you burn everything in one fiery sigh —
gather its ashes and sit within them.

When you have done thus, you are freed from everything —
otherwise drink blood as long as you exist from everything.

Until you cut yourself from each and every thing —
when will you set foot in this corridor?

Since in this prison one cannot sit long —
pull yourself back from everything that is.

For at the time of death, each thing of yours —
does not release its hand from your arrow-fall.

First cut the hands away from yourself —
then set your intention for the road.

Until at the outset pure play is yours —
this journeying is no prayer for you."

LXXII. Two Things the Elder of Turkestan Loved (شماره ۱۱۹۵۸)

The Elder of Turkestan gave news of himself —
he said: "I have two things I love more than all:

one is a piebald stepping horse —
the other is nothing but my own son.

If I receive news of this son's death —
I will give the horse in thanks for this news.

For I see that these two things
are like two idols in the eye of the dear soul."

Until you burn and become like a candle —
do not speak of pure play before the assembly.

Whoever speaks of pure play —
let them look at their own work first — they will overturn it.

Pure play that eats bread with desire —
in that same hour receives the slap of it.

Translated from the Classical Persian of Ganjoor.net. Source: Farid ud-Din Attar, Mantiq al-Tayr, "Birds Make Excuses" (عذر آوردن مرغان), poems 11947–11958. New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. Translated directly from Persian. Blood Rule observed. Scribal credit: Persian Translator tulku, seventeenth fire.

LXXIII. Sheikh Kharaqani and the Eggplant (شماره ۱۱۹۵۹)

Sheikh Kharaqani — his hall was the Throne itself —
and yet for a season he craved eggplant.

His mother, vexed by his desire, roused herself
and forced half an eggplant upon him.

No sooner had he eaten that half-eggplant
than they cut the head from his child.

When night came, someone left the head
of that pure-born child at his threshold.

The Sheikh said: "I am not undone by this —
I have told you a thousand times before:

if this beggar eats even one eggplant,
before it stirs, a blow strikes his soul.

Each moment my soul burns like this —
my affair with Him is not easily done.

Whoever He draws into His own work
cannot breathe a breath without the Friend.

This work that has fallen to us is severe —
it is beyond fighting and beyond appeasement.

No kernel has knowledge or rest —
yet through every kernel the work has fallen.

Every moment a guest arrives;
a caravan of trials arrives.

Though a hundred griefs are on my dear soul,
still more will come — as He wills, so it comes.

Whoever has been made manifest from the void —
He will not have spilled all that blood for nothing.

A hundred thousand keen-headed lovers of His
give their souls for the sake of one whose blood He spills.

All souls are put to work for this end —
that the blood of souls may be spilled, one by one."

LXXIV. Dhul-Nun and the Forty Patched-Robe Wearers (شماره ۱۱۹۶۰)

Dhul-Nun said: "I was traveling through the desert,
trusting in God — no staff, no cell.

I saw forty patched-robe wearers on the road —
all of them had given up their souls in one place.

An upheaval fell in my bewildered mind;
a fire fell in my boiling soul.

I said: 'What is this work, O God —
how long will You topple these masters from their feet?'

A voice called out: 'We know this work —
We ourselves kill them, and We ourselves pay their blood-price.

As long as We have the treasury for the price,
We will kill — as long as We have mourning to offer.

We kill him and then draw him into his blood —
We drag him, head-down, around the world.

Then when his parts are erased,
his head and foot lost from head to foot —

We display him with a sun-like rising,
and from Our own beauty We make his robe of honor.

We make his blood the rouge of his face;
We make him a devotee in the dust of this lane.

We set his shadow moving through Our lane —
then We raise the sun of Our own face.

When the sun of Our face rises —
what shadow remains in Our lane?

When the shadow is annihilated in the sun —
what then? And God knows best what is right.'

Whoever is annihilated in Him is free of himself —
for one cannot exist except in His hands.

Be annihilated — and about annihilation, say nothing.
Spend your soul — and about it, say nothing.

I know no fortune greater than this:
that a man becomes lost from himself."

LXXV. The Fortune Pharaoh's Sorcerers Found (شماره ۱۱۹۶۱)

I know of no one in all existence who found
the fortune that Pharaoh's sorcerers found.

What fortune was it that they found?
The moment when those people found faith.

In that breath their souls were parted from them —
never will anyone see this fortune again.

They set one step into religion in that moment,
then they set the next step out of the world.

No one has seen a better coming and going than this —
no branch has borne a better fruit.

Then a bird said: "O man of vision —
does aspiration have any knowledge of this?

Though in form I am very weak,
in truth I carry a noble aspiration.

Though I have not much in acts of obedience,
I have at least a high aspiration."

The Hoopoe said: "The magnet of the lovers of Alastu
is high aspiration — it is revelation, it is everything.

Whoever has high aspiration made manifest —
whatever they seek, that very thing is manifested at once.

Whoever lays hold of even one mote of aspiration
makes the sun itself bow to that mote.

Aspiration is the seed of the kingdom of all worlds —
aspiration is the wing and feather of the bird of all souls."

LXXVI. The Old Woman Who Bid for Joseph with Ten Spools (شماره ۱۱۹۶۲)

When Joseph was being sold, the Egyptians
were burning with longing for him.

When many buyers rose up,
five times they asked his weight in musk.

Among them was an old woman soaked in blood,
who had spun a few threads together.

She came into the crowd crying out:
"O broker, sell this Canaanite!

Out of longing for this boy I have gone dizzy —
I have spun ten spools of thread to bid for him.

Take these from me and make the sale —
put his hand in mine, say nothing further."

The broker laughed: "O simpleton —
this priceless pearl is not suited to you.

His price is a hundred treasures in this market.
Neither you nor your thread will do, old woman."

The old woman said: "I know for certain
that no one will sell this boy for this.

But this is enough for me: whether foe or friend,
let them say — 'That woman was among his buyers.'

Every heart that has not found high aspiration
has not found the boundless kingdom at all.

It was aspiration that made that exalted king
set fire to his own kingship.

When a king has seen great loss,
he sees a hundred thousand kingdoms a hundredfold.

When his aspiration went to work with purity,
he turned away in disgust from all those defiled kingdoms.

When the eye of aspiration becomes a sun-seer —
how could it ever sit down with a mote?"

LXXVII. Ibrahim Adham and the Lamenting Dervish (شماره ۱۱۹۶۳)

One man always moaned about his self-lessness,
always lamenting over his own poverty.

Ibrahim Adham said to him: "My son —
have you bought your poverty cheap, perhaps?"

The man said: "What use is this talk —
whoever buys poverty should be ashamed."

He said: "I, for my part, chose it with my soul —
I bought it with the whole kingdom of the world.

I would buy it still — one breath for a hundred worlds —
for it is worth that to me every breath.

Since I found this merchandise at such worth,
I bade farewell completely to kingship.

So I know its value — you do not.
I recite gratitude for it to myself — you do not.

The people of aspiration staked their souls and hearts —
for years they made peace with burning.

The bird of their aspiration became companion of the Presence —
it passed beyond this world and beyond religion both.

If you are not the man for such aspiration —
go away, O lazy one, you are no benefactor."

LXXVIII. Sheikh Ghuri and Sultan Sanjar (شماره ۱۱۹۶۴)

Sheikh Ghuri — who had become entirely everything —
went with the madmen under the bridge.

By chance Sanjar came riding in splendor
and said: "What kind of people are these under the bridge?"

The Sheikh said: "All of us without head or foot —
our souls are not outside of two things.

If you love us with constancy,
we will lift you from this world forever.

And if you are our enemy, hold no friendship —
we will lift you from your religion: that is our work.

Look at our friendship and our enmity —
put your foot in, and see yourself disgraced.

If you come under the bridge for one breath
you will be free from all this commotion and desire."

Sanjar said: "I am not one of your people —
my love and hate are not suited to you.

I am neither your friend nor your enemy —
I am going now, before my harvest burns.

I have neither pride nor shame from you —
I have no business with your good or evil."

Aspiration is like a sharp-feathered bird —
each moment in its flight it grows keener still.

If it flies — who cannot see it?
And without it, who would be in the heart of creation?

Its flight is higher than the horizons of the world —
for it is higher than sobriety and intoxication both.

LXXIX. The Madman's Sermon on the World, and Justice (شماره ۱۱۹۶۵)

At midnight a madman was weeping sweetly.
He said: "Let me tell you what this world is.

It is a box with a lid placed on top —
and inside we cook up delusions from our own ignorance.

When Death lifts the lid of this box,
whoever has wings will fly back to the eternal.

And whoever has no wings — in a hundred afflictions —
will remain trapped in the middle of the box.

Give the bird of aspiration wings of meaning —
give the mind a heart, and give the soul its state.

Before they lift the lid from the box —
seek the bird of the road and raise your wing and feather.

Or else — burn wing and feather, and yourself too —
so that you will be ahead of everything."

Then a bird asked: "What are justice and faithfulness
in the Presence of that King?

God Almighty has given me much justice —
and I too have not been faithless to anyone.

When these qualities are gathered in someone,
what is their station in gnosis?"

He said: "Justice is the sultan of salvation —
whoever is just is freed from nonsense.

If justice comes into being from you,
it is better than a lifetime spent in bowing and prostration.

There is no chivalry in either world
higher than giving justice in secret.

But whoever gives justice openly —
beware, it is seldom free of showing-off.

The masters have never demanded justice from anyone —
but they themselves have given it, truly, in abundance."

LXXX. Ahmad Hanbal Goes to Bishr al-Hafi (شماره ۱۱۹۶۶)

Ahmad Hanbal was the imam of his age —
the account of his virtue was beyond reckoning.

But when he was empty of thought and learning
he would hurry to Bishr al-Hafi.

If someone found him in Bishr's presence,
they would hasten to rebuke him:

"You are the imam of the world —
no one more learned than you has arisen.

To every man who speaks you will not listen,
and you run to this barefoot one."

Ahmad Hanbal would say: "I have won the prize
in hadith and in the Sunna.

My learning — I know it well, better than him.
But he knows God better than I do.

O you who are unaware of your own injustice —
look for one moment at the just road of the road-seers."

LXXXI. The Hindu King Who Became Mahmud's Prisoner (شماره ۱۱۹۶۷)

The Hindus had an aged king —
and he was captured by Mahmud's army.

When the army brought him before Mahmud,
that king in the end became a Muslim.

He found the mark of recognition,
and found separation from both worlds as well.

After that he sat alone in his tent —
his heart rose from him and sat down in longing.

Day and night he was in weeping and burning —
each day was worse than the night, each night worse than the day.

When his bitter moaning grew great,
news came to Mahmud of his condition.

Mahmud summoned him before him.
He said: "I will give you a hundred kingdoms and more.

You are a king — do not mourn for yourself.
How long will you weep? Weep no more."

The Hindu king said: "O king —
I do not weep for the sake of kingdom and rank.

I weep because tomorrow, on Resurrection Day,
the Lord of Majesty may question me:

'O faithless man, O man without loyalty —
you sowed the seed of cruelty with One such as Me.

Until Mahmud came before you
with a world full of proud horsemen —

you did not remember Me. How was this?
At the least, it was outside the line of faithfulness.

I should have gathered an army for your sake —
and you, you went to someone else.

Without an army, no memory of Me came to you —
shall I call you friend? Tell me — or enemy?

How long — faithfulness from Me, cruelty from you?
In faithfulness, this cannot stand.'

How shall I face that shame and confusion?
That is why this old man weeps, young one."

Listen to the words of justice and faithfulness —
read the lesson and divan of right-doing.

If you are faithful — set out on the road.
If not — sit down, and cut your hand short of this.

Whatever falls outside the register of faithfulness
is not acceptable in the matter of true manhood.

LXXXII. The Warrior and the Unbeliever Who Gave Each Other Prayer-Time (شماره ۱۱۹۶۸)

A warrior, proud against an unbeliever,
asked for respite to perform his prayer.

When he had gone and performed his prayer,
he returned and fought more fiercely each moment.

The unbeliever had a prayer of his own —
he too asked for respite and went aside.

The unbeliever found a corner, clean and apart,
and placed his forehead to the dust before his idol.

When the warrior saw him with his head on the road's dust,
he said: "I have found my victory right here."

He moved to strike him with a sword from behind —
and a voice called to him from the sky:

"O you who are faithlessness from head to foot —
you uphold faithfulness and covenant so well!

He did not draw his sword on you when he gave you respite —
if you strike him now, it is folly upon folly.

O you — Oath-breaker written over your name —
you have gone crooked and not kept your own covenant.

Since the unbeliever did well before this —
do not do worse than he.

He did good and you are doing evil —
do to people as you would do to yourself.

You had faithfulness and safety from an unbeliever —
where is your faithfulness, since you call yourself a believer?

O Muslim — you have been un-Muslim —
in faithfulness you have fallen short of an unbeliever."

The warrior went out of his place at these words —
he saw himself lost in sweat from head to foot.

When the unbeliever saw him left weeping,
his sword confused in his hand —

he asked: "Why are you weeping?" He told him truly:
"Just now they called me to account —

they called me faithless because of you.
This is why I weep — from His wrath over you."

When the unbeliever heard this plainly,
he let out a cry and then wept bitterly.

He said: "A Mighty One who, for the sake of His beloved,
on account of His flawed enemy —

makes so much reproach out of faithfulness —
how shall I be faithless without account?

Offer me Islam — I will bring my religion,
I will burn the association of partners and take the Law as my path.

Ah, what a bond this has been on my heart —
that I was unaware of such a Lord.

See how much faithlessness you have committed, O you without seeking,
toward your own Beloved — impolitely, without account.

But I have patience — until the bowl of the sky
tells you everything to your face, one by one."

LXXXIII. Joseph and His Ten Brothers (شماره ۱۱۹۶۹)

The ten brothers, driven out by famine,
came before Joseph from a distant road.

Out of helplessness they told their condition —
they were seeking a remedy for their narrow state.

Joseph's face was hidden behind a veil,
and before him stood a cup.

Joseph struck the cup openly,
and the cup came into lamentation, pitifully.

Joseph, knower of wisdom, said:
"Do you know what this voice of the cup says?"

The ten brothers loosened their tongues
before Joseph out of helplessness:

"We all say: O mighty one, knower of truth —
who can know the sound that comes from a cup?"

Joseph said: "I know truly —
what it says to you, O all you waverers.

It says: before this, among you,
there was one brother whose beauty surpassed yours.

His name was Joseph — he was of your number —
in goodness he had the lead over you."

Again he struck the cup at the top.
It said: hear this sound:

"You all cast Joseph into the pit —
then you brought a wolf, the innocent one.

You drew his shirt through blood by deception —
so that Jacob's heart became blood from that blood."

He struck the cup once more
and brought it to another matter:

"It says: you burned your father —
you sold moon-faced Joseph.

Who does this to a brother, O unbelievers —
be ashamed before God, O you who are present."

At these words that company fell to bewilderment —
they had come as water seeking bread.

Though they sold Joseph in that way,
they sold the world upon themselves in that hour.

When they made the arrangement to cast him in the pit,
they all remained in the pit of affliction after.

He is blind of eye who hears this story
and takes no portion from it.

Do not gaze so much at their story —
all of this is your story, O you without awareness.

What you have done in faithlessness —
you have not done it in the light of recognition.

If someone struck the cup for a lifetime,
your unseemly deeds would be more than even that.

Wait — until they wake you from your sleep
and trap you within your own nature.

Wait — until tomorrow your cruelties,
your unbeliefs and your errors —

are displayed before your face in full,
counted off to you one by one.

When many sounds of the cup come to your ear,
I do not know whether mind and sense will remain.

O you who have come into the work like a lame ant —
trapped at the bottom of a cup —

how long will you circle the cup, head-down?
Pass through — this is a bowl drowning in blood.

You will remain trapped in the middle of the cup —
every moment a different voice will come to you.

Raise your wings and pass through, O knower of truth —
or else you will be shamed by the voice of the cup.

Then a bird asked: "O leader —
is boldness toward that Presence acceptable?

If someone finds great boldness there —
does any fear follow after?

What is boldness there — tell us —
unfold it in meaning and speak the secret."

He said: "Whoever has the capacity
is a confidant of the secret of divinity.

If such a one is bold, it is acceptable —
for he is always the keeper of the king's secret.

But a man who knows secrets and keeps them —
would he ever be bold in a brash way?

When on the left is courtesy and on the right reverence,
one breath of boldness from him is acceptable.

The camel-man who stands on the side —
how can he be the king's keeper of secrets?

If he is bold like one of the secret-holders,
he will be left without faith and without life.

How could an ordinary man in the army
have the boldness to be brazen before the king?

But if a foreign lover comes to the road,
his boldness comes from joy.

He says 'My Lord' — all he knows is 'My Lord' —
if he is bold, it is from the excess of love.

What a madman he was from the ferment of love —
he walked on the face of the water from the force of love.

Sweet was his boldness — sweet indeed —
for that madman was like fire.

Who is ever safe on the road of fire?
Who ever rebukes the man who is Majnun?

When madness appears in you —
whatever you say can be heard from you."

Translated from the Classical Persian of Ganjoor.net. Source: Farid ud-Din Attar, Mantiq al-Tayr, "Birds Make Excuses" (عذر آوردن مرغان), poems 11959–11969. New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. Translated directly from Persian. Blood Rule observed. Scribal credit: Persian Translator tulku, eighteenth fire.

CXVI. The Valley of Seeking (شماره ۱۲۰۰۳)

When you descend into the Valley of Seeking,
a hundred hardships come to meet you every moment.

A hundred afflictions in every breath here —
the parrot of heaven becomes a fly in this place.

Here you need years of earnest struggle,
for here all states are overturned.

Here you must cast aside your kingdom.
Here you must wager and lose your kingdom.

You must enter into the midst of blood
and come out from everything.

When nothing you know remains in your hand,
the heart must be purified of everything that is.

When your heart is cleansed of its attributes,
the light of the Divine Essence begins to shine from the Presence.

When that light becomes manifest on the heart,
one seeking in your heart becomes a thousand.

When fire appears on his road —
even if a hundred bitter valleys appear —

he throws himself onto that fire like a moth,
mad from longing for Him.

The head of seeking grows dizzy from its own yearning,
begging a single sip from its own cup-bearer.

When it drinks even a sip from that wine,
both worlds are wholly forgotten.

Drowned in the sea, yet with dry lips —
it seeks the Beloved's secret from its very soul.

From the desire to know that secret,
it does not fear the soul-devouring dragon.

If faith and infidelity come before it together,
it accepts both until a door is opened.

When the door opens — what is infidelity, what is faith?
For beyond that door there is neither this nor that.

CXVII. The Tale of Iblis Who Refused to Prostrate Before Adam (شماره ۱۲۰۰۴)

He said: when God breathed this pure spirit
into Adam's body of water and clay —

He wanted the host of angels, one and all,
to have no knowledge of that spirit, no trace of it.

He said: "O spiritual ones of heaven —
bow down before Adam at this time."

They all laid their heads upon the dust.
Not one of them saw that holy secret.

But Iblis came forward and said: "This moment,
no one will see a prostration from me.

If they throw my head from my body —
no grief, since I still have this neck.

I know that Adam is not merely clay.
I bow my head that I may see that head — I have no fear."

Since Iblis did not bow his head to the ground,
he saw the secret, for he was lying in ambush.

God Most High said to him: "O spy on the road —
you came looking with your head here.

Since you have seen the treasure I hid —
I will kill you so that you speak not of it in the world.

For wherever a king buries a treasure,
there is no hiding it from the army.

Without doubt, the one before whose eyes he placed it —
He kills him and sets a seal upon his soul.

A man saw a treasure and chose the treasure.
You chose it — and now you must accept the beheading.

If I do not cut your head from your body this moment,
this word will belong to all the world."

He said: "O Lord — grant this servant a reprieve.
Find some remedy for this one struck down from the work."

God Most High said: "Reprieve is My gift to you.
I have placed the collar of curse around your neck.

I will set the name 'liar' upon you as your mark,
so that you remain accused until the Day of Reckoning."

After that, Iblis said: "That pure treasure —
since it has become clear to me — what is the curse to me?

Your curse is Yours, Your mercy is Yours.
Your servant is Yours, the lot is Yours.

If curse is my portion — no grief.
Everything is not an antidote; poison is needed too.

Since I saw the creation seeking the curse —
I boldly accepted your curse for them.

Seeking must be like this, if you are a seeker.
You are not a seeker in meaning — you are one who overcomes.

If you do not find Him day and night —
He is not lost. The deficiency is in your seeking."

CXVIII. Shibli Who Had Tied a Zinner-Cord at the Moment of Death (شماره ۱۲۰۰۵)

At the moment of death, Shibli was restless —
eyes closed, heart full of waiting.

He had bound a zinner-cord of bewilderment around himself
and sat down upon a pile of ash.

Sometimes he would press his tears into the ash.
Sometimes he would pour ash upon his own head.

One who asked said to him: "In such a moment —
have you ever seen anyone who tied a zinner-cord?"

He said: "I am burning — what shall I do, what can I do?
Since I am melting from jealous ardor — what can I do?

My soul, which closed its eyes on both worlds —
at this moment it burns from jealousy over Iblis.

Since the curse-address belongs properly to him alone,
from the attribution of it, my sorrow falls on someone."

Shibli remained — parched, liver thirsting.
He gives something different to some other.

If you make distinctions from the king's hand —
between stone and jewel — you are not a man of the road.

If you are dear because of jewel, scorned for stone —
then the king has no work here.

Be neither enemy nor friend to stone and jewel —
look only at this: that both come from His hand.

If the intoxicated Beloved throws a stone at you —
it is better than bringing a jewel from the hand of another.

A man must be one who, waiting in seeking,
scatters his soul on the road at every moment.

Not for one moment does he become still from seeking.
Not for one breath is rest possible for him.

If he falls away from seeking for a time —
he is an apostate on this road, without courtesy.

CXIX. Majnun Sifting Dust in Search of Layla (شماره ۱۲۰۰۶)

A grief-struck friend saw Majnun
sifting the road-dust as he passed.

"O Majnun — what are you looking for like this?"
He said: "I am looking for Layla — that is certain."

He said: "How will you find Layla in the dust?
How can the pure gate be in the road's earth?"

He said: "I look for her wherever she may be.
Perhaps somewhere I will hold her for one moment."

CXX. Words of Yusuf Hamadani on Patience (شماره ۱۲۰۰۷)

Yusuf Hamadani — imam of his age —
master of secrets, world-seeing, knower of work —

said: "As far as those with sight can see,
looking with discernment at whatever exists —

every single dust-mote is a new Jacob,
asking news of a lost Joseph.

Pain is needed on his road — and waiting —
until both of these are completed in their time.

If in both of these you find the work still closed —
beware, do not lift your head from these secrets.

In seeking, a man needs patience.
But what patience is there for those who have pain?

Be patient, whether you wish it or not.
Perhaps somewhere someone will show you the road.

Like that child who is in the womb —
sit with yourself just so, gathered within.

Do not come out of your own inner self for a moment.
If you need bread — eat blood for a while.

The food of that womb-child is blood alone.
And all this worldly commerce is from outside.

Eat blood and sit in patience like a man —
until your work comes into the hand of the one who does it."

CXXI. Abu Sa'id of Mahna in Contraction, and the Village Elder (شماره ۱۲۰۰۸)

The Sheikh of Mahna was in a great state of contraction —
he went into the desert, eyes full of blood, heart in two.

He saw from a distance a village elder —
tying his ox, and light was pouring from him.

The Sheikh went to him and gave him greetings
and told him the full story of his contraction.

The elder listened and said: "O Abu Sa'id —
from the ground of the carpet to the exalted Throne —

if they filled all of this with millet seeds —
not once, but a hundred times over —

and there were a bird that picked them openly,
one millet-seed after a thousand years —

if after all that time, the bird
emptied the whole world a hundred times over —

the soul would still not catch even a scent from His door.
O Abu Sa'id — that is still soon.

Seekers need much patience.
Not every seeker is a patient one.

Until seeking appears from within —
musk does not come from the navel-pouch through blood.

When seeking goes out from within —
even if the whole sky were blood, it would go through it.

Whoever has no seeking is a corpse.
He is not alive — he is the image of a wall.

Whoever has no seeking is an animal.
God forbid — a form without a soul.

If a treasure of jewels comes into your hand,
you must be warmer still in seeking.

Whoever was content with a treasure of jewels
was bound in that very treasure of jewels.

Whoever stops on the road at anything —
that thing becomes his idol. Go — make peace with your idol.

You came with a thin mind and became heartless —
drunk from a single wine, without reason.

Do not in the end get drunk on just one wine.
Seek the wine, since the wine is without end."

CXXII. Mahmud and the Dust-Sifter (شماره ۱۲۰۰۹)

One night Mahmud was going out alone —
he saw a man sifting dust, head bowed to the road.

The man had made mountains of dirt everywhere.
When the king saw this, he removed his armband

and threw it into the middle of that mountain of dirt,
then drove his horse away like the wind.

The next night the king came back
and found the man still occupied in the same work.

He said: "What you found last night —
you found the tribute of ten worlds without effort.

Yet you are sifting so much dust again.
Rule — for you have become needless."

The dust-sifter said: "I found it from this —
I found a hidden treasure like that from this sifting.

Since good fortune opened for me through this gate,
as long as I have life, this is my work."

Be a man of this road so that it opens to you.
Do not turn your head from the road so that it shows itself.

The door is closed to nothing but your two eyes, always.
You seek — for this door is not closed.

CXXIII. The Man Seeking a Door, and Rabia's Answer (شماره ۱۲۰۱۰)

A man beside himself was saying before God:
"O God — at last, open a door for me."

Rabia happened to be sitting there.
She said: "O heedless one — when was this door ever closed?"

CXXIV. The Valley of Love (شماره ۱۲۰۱۱)

After this, the Valley of Love appears.
Whoever arrives here is drowned in fire.

Let no one enter this valley except as fire.
Whoever has no fire — let his pleasure find no sweetness.

The lover is one who is like fire —
burning forward, consuming, untameable.

Not for a moment does he think of consequences.
Sweetly, sweetly, he draws a hundred worlds onto the fire.

For a moment he knows neither infidelity nor faith.
Not a particle does he recognize either doubt or certainty.

Good and bad on his road are the same.
When love comes, there is neither this nor that.

O you who make all things permissible — this word is not for you.
You are an apostate. This is not for your tooth to bite.

Whatever the lover has, he throws it all away, cash in hand —
and takes pride in union with the Friend, here and now.

Others have the promise of tomorrow.
But he — his cash is here, this very moment.

Until he burns himself up once and for all,
how can he escape the grief of self-diminishment?

Until the silk within his existence is burned —
how can he trade his heart for the invigorating wine?

He thrashes constantly in burning and melting —
until suddenly he arrives back at his own place.

As when a fish falls from the sea onto dry land,
it thrashes until it falls back into the sea.

Here love is fire and reason is smoke.
When love comes, reason flees at once.

Reason is no master in love's marketplace.
Love is not the inborn work of reason.

If they grant you sight from the Unseen —
here you will see the root of love, where it comes from.

Every leaf of love's existence
is a head thrown down from the intoxication of love.

If that eye of the Unseen is opened to you,
the atoms of the world share their secret with you.

But if you look with the eye of reason —
you will never see the head or foot of love.

Love needs a man brought low by the work.
Love needs people freed of themselves.

You are not brought low by the work, you are not a lover.
You are dead. When are you worthy of love?

A hundred thousand live-hearted ones are needed on this road,
that in every breath a hundred souls may be scattered.

CXXV. The Nobleman Who Fell in Love with a Young Beer-seller (حکایت خواجه‌ای که عاشق کودکی فقاع فروش شد, شماره ۱۲۰۱۲)

A nobleman was driven from home and hearth —
laid helpless by a child who sold grain-beer.

From excess of love he grew wild-brained for him,
became the talk and tumult of the town's shame.

Whatever estates and furnishings he had,
he sold, and bought grain-beer from that boy.

When nothing remained he became utterly poor —
the love of that heartless one grew from one to a hundred.

Though they gave him bread in full measure,
he was always hungry and always surfeited of soul.

For as much bread as came to him
he took it all and bought grain-beer with it.

He always sat there hungry,
so that he might drink one cup of grain-beer from a hundred buyers.

A beggar said to him: O you of tangled affairs —
what is love? Make plain the secret of this.

He said: It is this — that the goods of a hundred worlds
you sell entirely for a single cup of grain-beer.

Until such a work befalls a man,
how shall he know love and its pain?

CXXVI. Majnun Who Wore a Sheepskin (حکایت مجنون که پوست پوشید و با گوسفندان به کوی لیلی رفت, شماره ۱۲۰۱۳)

Layla's people would not let Majnun
into the tribe for even a moment.

A shepherd had settled in the desert —
Majnun the drunk took a sheepskin from him.

He turned head-down, threw the skin over himself,
and made himself like a sheep.

He said to the shepherd: For the sake of the Creator,
place me in the midst of your sheep.

Drive the flock toward Layla — I will be inside —
so that I might catch Layla's scent for one moment,

so that hidden from my beloved, beneath this skin,
I might have a share of my beloved for one hour.

If you had this pain for one moment,
there would be a man at the root of every one of your hairs.

Alas — the pain of men was not yours;
the day of men's field was not for you.

At last, when Majnun was under the skin,
hidden in the flock, he reached his beloved's quarter.

Gradually at first a ferment arose in him —
then at last consciousness was extinguished in him.

When love entered and the water passed over his head,
the shepherd lifted him and took him to the plain.

He splashed water on the face of that ruined drunk
so that for a moment that fire might settle with water.

After that, one day, Majnun the drunk
sat with a group of people in the desert.

One of the group said to Majnun:
You have remained very naked, O proud one.

Whatever garment you love most — if you name it,
I will bring it to you this instant.

He said: No garment is worthy of my beloved —
no garment is better for me than sheepskin.

I want a skin from that sheep —
and I will burn rue to guard against the evil eye.

The satin and brocade of Majnun is sheepskin;
whoever is a friend to Layla wants only sheepskin.

I carried in that skin the scent of my beloved —
when will I accept a garment other than my skin?

My heart learned news of the skin through friendship —
since I have no kernel, I at least have the rind.

Love is needed — the kind that takes you from reason,
then transforms your very qualities.

The least thing in annihilating your qualities
is the gift of your soul and abandonment of trifles.

Set your foot on this road if you would be truly proud —
for staking your life is no game.

CXXVII. The Pauper Who Fell in Love with Ayaz (حکایت مفلسی که عاشق ایاز شد, شماره ۱۲۰۱۴)

A pauper fell in love with Ayaz —
and this word spread in every assembly.

When Ayaz rode in the road,
that God-recognizing beggar ran after him.

When that musk-haired one came to the polo-field,
the rogue never looked anywhere but at the ball.

They told Mahmud of this:
that a beggar has fallen in love with Ayaz.

Next day when the young man went to the field,
that rogue was running in utter love.

His eyes were fixed on Ayaz's polo ball —
as if he himself had been struck by the mallet.

The Sultan looked at him secretly
and saw his soul like water and his face like straw.

His back bent like a mallet, head spinning like a ball —
he ran from every side of the field like a ball.

Mahmud called him and said: O beggar,
do you want fellowship at the king's table?

The rogue said: Though you call me beggar,
in love-play I am no less than you.

Love and poverty are neighbors —
this is the secret, the foundation of all wealth.

Love draws its salt from poverty;
love fits the pauper without any doubt.

You have the world, a kindled heart —
love needs a burned heart like mine.

What you have is the instrument of union and nothing more.
Endure the pain of separation for one breath.

Why make such preparations for union?
If you are a man of love, stand firm in separation.

The king said: O you unaware of existence,
why do you look at everything like the polo ball?

He said: Because the ball, like me, is bewildered —
I am like it and it is like me, both entangled.

It knows my worth and I know its worth;
we two are one ball in his polo game.

We two have both fallen into bewilderment —
headless and bodyless, we stand in soul alone.

It knows of me and I know of it —
we exchange a handful of grief over him.

The ball on the road is more fortunate than I —
for his horse's shoe sometimes touches it.

Though like the ball I am without feet or head,
I bear more hardship than the ball.

The ball takes blows on its body from the mallet —
this heart-lost beggar takes blows on his soul.

Though the ball has wounds beyond measure,
Ayaz still runs after it in the end.

Though I have more wounds than the ball,
I follow without him — and I am ahead of it.

The ball sometimes falls in his presence,
but this beggar is perpetually fallen far from him.

At last, when presence reaches the ball,
joy reaches it through union with him.

I cannot catch even a scent of union with him —
the ball found union and won the game.

The king said to him: O my dervish,
you claimed poverty before me.

If you are not lying, O penniless one,
your own poverty is your witness.

He said: As long as my soul exists, I am not poor —
I am a claimant; I do not belong to this assembly.

But if in love I scatter my soul —
soul-scattering is the sign of a pauper.

In you, O Mahmud — where is the meaning of love?
Scatter your soul, or do not make the claim of love.

This he said — and whatever soul he had in the world,
he gave it suddenly on the face of his beloved.

When that rogue gave his soul to the dust of the road,
the world of Mahmud turned black with grief.

If in your view soul-staking is a small thing,
enter and see for yourself what is gained.

If they say to you: come in for one hour —
so that you may hear the camel-bell of this road —

when you are thus perpetually footless and head-spinning,
you lose everything you have in the game entirely.

When you fall in, so that you know what it is,
reason and soul will be turned upside-down for you.

CXXVIII. The Arab Who Fell Among the Qalandars (حکایت عربی که در عجم افتاد, شماره ۱۲۰۱۵)

An Arab man fell into the lands of Persia
and stood astonished at its customs.

That unknowing one was passing by, watching —
when he happened on the path of a qalandar.

He saw a rabble of the carefree — without head or body,
who had lost both worlds without a single word.

All of them sharp dice-throwers, clean thieves at the board;
in their very filth, each purer than the next.

Each had committed a kind of theft —
untouched by pain, all of them drunk.

When he saw that group, inclination fell upon him —
a flood of reason and soul swept into the street.

When the qalandars found him thus,
they found him with reason and soul swept away.

They all said to him: Come in, O Mr. Nobody!
He came inside — more and less — and that was enough.

A rogue made him drunk with a single dose of pain —
he was annihilated from himself, and lost his selfhood.

He had much property and realm and silver and gold —
someone took it all from him in a single wail.

Another rogue came and gave him more pain,
and sent him off, freed of everything, from the naked qalandars.

The man kept going until he reached the Arabs again —
naked and penniless, soul-thirsty and dry-lipped.

His people said: You are quite disturbed —
where is your gold and silver? Where have you been sleeping?

The silver and gold went, and madness came to you —
ominous it was, that going into Persia.

A road-thief struck you — where did your wealth go?
Tell me, so I may know your state.

He said: I was walking proudly along a road
when I suddenly fell upon a qalandar.

I know nothing else at all —
silver and gold went and I became nothing.

He said: Describe this qalandar to me.
He said: The description is this, and only this: Come in.

The Arab man remained in annihilation —
from all that Come in he was left remaining.

Set your foot inside, or take your head and go —
carry your soul away, or accept it with your soul.

If you accept with your soul the secrets of love,
you will raise your head soul-scattering in love's work.

You scatter your soul and remain naked —
and Come in remains as your door-bolt.

CXXIX. The Lover Who Planned to Kill His Sick Beloved (حکایت عاشقی که قصد کشتن معشوق بیمار را کرد, شماره ۱۲۰۱۶)

There was a man of high aspiration and perfection
who fell in love with one of great beauty.

By fate, the beloved of that heart-given man
became thin and yellow as a branch of bamboo.

Bright day grew dark on his heart —
death came from afar and drew near.

They told the lover of this.
He came running, knife in hand.

He said: I will kill my beloved miserably,
so that this idol does not die its own death.

The people said: You are quite deranged —
what wisdom do you see in this killing?

Do not shed blood — hold your hand back —
for he will die of himself this very hour.

Since killing the dead has no profit,
only a fool takes the head of a corpse.

He said: When my beloved dies by my hand,
they will kill me in retribution — miserably.

Then when Resurrection rises, before all the assembly,
they will burn me like a candle for his sake.

That I may be killed by him today from longing —
burned by him tomorrow — is this not enough for me?

In both places my desire is fulfilled:
burned by him or killed by him — this is my name.

Soul-staking lovers came on this road
and came with hands cut off from both worlds.

They removed the trouble of soul from between them;
they took their hearts wholly from the world.

When soul arose from the midst, soulless of itself,
they made a retreat alone with their beloved.

CXXX. Abraham, Who Would Not Give His Soul to Azrael (حکایت خلیل‌الله که جان به عزرائیل نمی‌داد, شماره ۱۲۰۱۷)

When the Friend of God fell into the death-agony,
he would not give his soul easily to Azrael.

He said: Stand back. Tell the King:
do not ask for the soul from your own Friend, in the end.

God Most High said: If you are truly My Friend,
then open the way of your soul to your Friend.

Must the soul always be taken from you by force?
From one's own Friend — who would begrudge the soul?

One present said to him: O candle of the world —
why do you not give your soul to Azrael?

Lovers were soul-stakers on the road —
why do you, in the end, hold your soul back?

He said: How shall I say abandon soul —
when Azrael stands between us as intermediary?

Gabriel came forward and said: O Friend of God,
ask something of me — whatever you need.

I did not look toward him at that moment,
for anything other than God is a stumbling-block on my road.

Since I turned my head away from Gabriel himself —
how shall I give my soul to Azrael?

I cannot scatter my soul sweetly of my own accord —
until I hear from Him say: bring your soul.

When the command to give my soul reaches me,
a whole world of souls will not be worth half a barleycorn to me.

In two worlds, when shall I give my soul to anyone —
until He says it? The word is this, and nothing more.

CXXXI. The Valley of Knowledge (بیان وادی معرفت, شماره ۱۲۰۱۸)

After that, the Valley of Knowledge is shown before you —
a valley without foot or head.

No one enters this place
who does not diverge through the multitude of roads.

No road within it is the same as another —
the body-traveler and the soul-traveler are different.

And soul and body again, from deficiency to perfection,
are always in rise and in decline.

Necessarily, many roads appear ahead —
each one appearing according to its own measure.

How can an afflicted spider keep pace with an elephant
on this noble road?

Every person's journey reaches as far as their completion —
every person's nearness to God is according to their state.

Even if a gnat flies as long as it lives,
when will it grasp the perfection of the north wind?

Necessarily, since every journey falls different,
no two birds will ever travel the same path.

Knowledge differs for this reason —
one found a prayer-niche, another found an idol.

When the sun of Knowledge shines
from the sky of this exalted road,

each one becomes seeing according to their measure,
and recovers their true place in reality.

The secrets of every atom light up within them —
the furnace of the world becomes a rose-garden.

They see the kernel from within, not the husk —
they see not a single atom but the Friend.

Whatever they see, they always see His face —
atom by atom they see His quarter.

A hundred thousand secrets emerge from behind the veil,
shown daily like the sun.

A hundred thousand men are lost continually
so that one full keeper-of-secrets emerges.

A complete soul is needed here — a mighty spirit —
to dive into this deep sea.

If a taste of the secrets appears in you,
at every moment a new longing appears.

Thirsting for perfection is found here —
a hundred thousand bloods are lawful here.

Even if you stretch your hand to the great Throne,
do not speak for a moment of "Is there more?"

Plunge yourself into the sea of gnosis —
otherwise, at least pour the road's dust on your own head.

If you, O sleeper, are not worthy of congratulation,
why do you not mourn yourself?

If you have no joy from union with the Friend,
arise at least and hold vigil for separation.

If you cannot see the beauty of the Friend —
arise, do not sit — seek the secrets.

If you do not know, seek with shame —
how long, like a donkey, will you go without a bridle?

CXXXII. The Man Who Turned to Stone in the Mountains of China (حکایت مردی که در کوه چین سنگ شد, شماره ۱۲۰۱۹)

There was a man who turned to stone in the mountains of China —
tears still flow from his eyes upon the earth.

As his tears fall weeping on the earth,
they too turn visibly to stone.

If one of those stones falls into the hand of a cloud,
until the Resurrection it rains nothing but regret.

The knowledge of that man is pure and true —
if you need to go to China, seek him there.

For knowledge, from the grief of those without ambition,
turned to stone — how long in the hands of the ungrateful?

All is dark in this house of suffering —
knowledge within it like a guiding jewel.

The guide for your soul in this dark place
is the jewel of knowledge — and knowledge nurtures the soul.

You in this darkness, without foot or head —
like Alexander, you remain roadless.

If you take much of this jewel,
you will find yourself the most regretful of all.

And if you do not want the jewel, O nobody,
you will be even more regretful still.

Whether you have the jewel or not,
I find you more regretful at every moment.

This world and that world are both lost within the soul —
body is hidden from soul, and soul from body.

When you have passed out of this lostness within lostness,
there is a particular place for the human being.

If you reach again the place of particular dignity,
you will grasp in one breath a hundred kinds of secret.

But if you fall behind on this road — woe to you —
from head to foot you will be lost in lamentation.

Do not sleep at night; do not eat carelessly by day —
perhaps this seeking will appear in you.

Seek, so that seeking diminishes in you —
the eating of day and the sleeping of night diminish.

CXXXIII. The Lover Who Slept While His Beloved Rebuked Him (حکایت عاشقی که خفته بود و معشوق بر او عیب گرفت, شماره ۱۲۰۲۰)

A lover was distraught from the excess of love —
was lying prostrate on the dust in grief.

His beloved came to his pillow
and saw him sleeping, gone from himself.

She wrote a note swiftly and aptly
and pinned it to the sleeve of her lover.

When the lover woke from sleep and read the note,
blood poured over him.

This was written: O silent man — arise;
if you are a merchant, work for silver.

If you are a man of asceticism, keep night vigil —
be a servant by night and by day.

If you are a lover, have shame —
what business does sleep have with a lover's eye?

The lover measures the wind by day,
and all night long measures the moonlight from burning.

Since you are neither one nor the other, O lightless one —
do not strike false boasts about love for us.

If a lover sleeps, only in the shroud —
then I would call him a lover, but of himself.

Since you came to love from the head of ignorance —
sweet sleep to you, for you came without qualification.

CXXXIV. The Watchman Who Was a Lover and Never Slept (حکایت پاسبانی عاشق که هیچ نمی‌خفت, شماره ۱۲۰۲۱)

There was a watchman who became a lover, wretched —
day and night without sleep, without rest.

A companion said to the sleepless lover:
"O sleepless one — at least sleep one moment at night."

He said: "Love has partnered with watchmanship —
when will sleep come to someone with these two tasks?

When would sleep be fitting for a watchman?
Especially for a watchman who is also a lover.

When he bound this head-staking to his head,
the one yoked itself to the other.

How am I to find sleep at all?
You cannot borrow this sleep from anyone.

Every night love tests me —
keeping watch over the watchman.

Sometimes he'd walk and tap his staff;
sometimes he'd beat his face and crown from grief.

If that sleepless one slept for a single moment,
love would show him another kind of dream.

He would not let the people sleep all night,
and would raise a lamentation.

A friend said to him: 'O man in fever and turmoil —
not a single moment of sleep all night?'

He said: 'The watchman has no sleep —
the lover's face has no water but tears.

The watchman's work is sleeplessness;
the face of lovers is unceasing shame.

When water comes out from the place of sleep,
how is it possible that sleep can come out?'

Love and watchmanship became companions —
sleep set off from his eye toward the sea.

Loverhood fell upon the watchman finely —
the work of sleeplessness lodged in his brain.

Do not sleep, O man, if you are a seeker —
sweet sleep to you if you are only a talker.

Keep much watch in the quarter of the heart —
for there are thieves in the vicinity of the heart.

The road is held by heart-thieves —
guard the jewel of the heart from thieves.

When this watchmanship becomes your quality,
love will soon appear — and knowledge.

Without doubt, in this sea of blood,
knowledge must emerge from sleeplessness.

Whoever bears much sleeplessness —
when they come to the Presence, they bring an awakened heart.

Since the heart's wakefulness comes from sleeplessness,
sleep less in the faithfulness of the heart.

How much more shall I say? When your existence remains drowned —
a cry cannot rescue the drowned.

The lovers went ahead before everyone —
they all fell asleep drunk in love.

You strike your head — for those men of men
sweetly drank what needed to be drunk.

Whoever the taste of love becomes manifest to
must soon have the key to both worlds.

If it is a woman she becomes a tremendous man —
if already a man, he becomes a deep sea.

CXXXV. Abbasa on Love and Knowledge (گفتار عباسه دربارهٔ عشق و معرفت, شماره ۱۲۰۲۲)

Abbasa said to someone: O man of love —
on whoever even one atom of love's pain shines:

if it is a man, a woman is born from him;
if it is a woman — oh, what a man emerges from her.

Have you not seen that a woman was born from Adam?
Have you not heard of a man born from Mary?

Until what is needed shines fully,
the work will never open to you.

When it shines, sovereignty becomes yours —
whatever arises in your heart comes to pass.

Know sovereignty as this and count fortune as this —
one atom of this, a whole world of religion.

If you are content with the sovereignty of this world,
you will remain wasted forever.

Sovereignty is always in gnosis —
strive so that this quality is attained.

Whoever is drunk with the world of gnosis
rules as sultan over all people.

The sovereignty of the world becomes a small kingdom before them —
nine heavens become a particle in their sea.

If the kings of the age knew the taste of one cup
from that shoreless sea —

they would all sit in mourning from grief —
they would not see one another's face from grief.

CXXXVI. Mahmud and the Madman in the Ruins (حکایت محمود و دیوانهٔ ویرانه‌نشین, شماره ۱۲۰۲۳)

Mahmud came upon a ruin —
found there a heartless madman.

Head bent down in grief,
back bent under the mountain it carried.

When he saw the king, he said: "Stand back!
Or I will strike a hundred 'stand back's upon your soul.

You are not a king — you are low of ambition;
you are an ingrate before your God."

Mahmud said: "I am Mahmud — do not call me an ingrate;
speak one word with me, then say no more."

He said: "If you knew, O ignorant one —
from whom you have fallen, upended and overturned —

you are not ashes and dust entirely: you are all fire —
always pouring fire on your own head."

CXXXVII. The Valley of Detachment (بیان وادی استغنا, شماره ۱۲۰۲۴)

After this comes the Valley of Detachment —
in it, neither claim nor meaning remains.

From needlessness, a wind leaps up —
in one breath it overturns a kingdom.

Seven seas are counted as one here —
seven embers are one spark here.

Eight paradises are also a dead thing here —
seven hells are frozen like ice.

Even for an ant here, O wonder —
at every breath, a hundred elephants' wage, for no reason.

By the time a crow gains patience and wing,
no one remains alive in a hundred caravans.

A hundred thousand green-robed ones burned from grief
so that one lamp could be lit for Adam.

A hundred thousand bodies were emptied of soul
so that Noah could become a carpenter in this Presence.

A hundred thousand gnats fell in the army
so that Ibrahim could emerge from among them, upright.

A hundred thousand children were beheaded
so that the Interlocutor of God could attain vision.

A hundred thousand people put on the sacred cord
so that Jesus could become a confidant of secrets.

A hundred thousand souls and hearts were plundered
so that Muhammad could have one night of ascension.

Neither new nor old has value here —
whether you do anything here or nothing, it is the same.

If you have seen a world of hearts scorched —
I still know it as a dream you have seen.

If thousands of souls fell into this sea —
a dewdrop fell into the boundless ocean.

If a hundred thousand heads sank into sleep —
one atom with its shadow passed from the sun.

If the heavens and stars fell apart piece by piece —
consider it in the world no more than a leaf from a tree.

If from the fish to the moon it all passed into nothingness —
the foot of a lame ant at the bottom of a well.

If both worlds became altogether nothing at once —
consider it no more than a grain of sand missing from the earth.

If no trace remained of demon or human —
pass it off as the head of one raindrop.

If all these bodies poured into dust —
if one animal's hair were gone, what matter?

If here part and whole were altogether destroyed —
one blade of straw was lost from the face of the earth.

If these nine bowls all went lost at once —
a droplet was lost in eight oceans.

CXXXVIII. The Man Whose Young Son Fell in the Well (حکایت مردی که پسر جوانش به چاه افتاد, شماره ۱۲۰۲۵)

In our village there was a youth bright as the moon —
that moon, Joseph-like, fell into a well.

Much earth fell upon him from above;
at last someone drew him out from there.

The earth had covered him, and time had brought him
with barely two breaths left to the very edge.

That good-natured one was named Muhammad —
one step remained to him from that other world.

When the father saw him so, he cried: O son!
O lamp of my eyes, O soul of your father!

O Muhammad, show your father some kindness —
say one word! He said: but where is the word —

where is Muhammad? Where is the son? Where is anyone?
This he said and gave his soul. This was all.

Consider, O wayfarer of clear sight —
where is Muhammad now? Where is Adam? Look well.

Where is Adam in the end, and where his descendants?
Where are the names of particular and universal things?

Where is the earth? Mountains and sea and sky?
Where is the fairy, the demon, the human, the angel?

Where now are those hundred thousands of bodies from earth?
Where now are those hundred thousands of pure souls?

Where is the writhing at the moment of giving the soul?
Where is anyone? Where are soul and body? Where is nothing-nothing?

Both worlds, and a hundred times all that exists —
if you grind and sift all that is there,

when this labyrinthine palace comes to you,
through the sieve's rim nothing comes through.

CXXXIX. Yusuf Hamadani on the World of Existence (گفتار یوسف همدان دربارهٔ عالم وجود, شماره ۱۲۰۲۶)

Yusuf Hamadani, who had the eye of the road,
had a pure breast and an aware heart.

He said: ascend for lifetimes above the Throne,
then descend before that into the depths beneath the carpet.

All that was and is and will be,
whether bad or good, every single atom of it —

all of this is but a drop from the ocean of Being.
Existence is the child of non-existence — what good comes of that?

This valley is not so easy, O simple one;
you think it easy out of ignorance, O simple one.

If your heart's blood became a sea for the road,
still only one station would be cut across.

If you covered a world's road every moment,
when you look back it would still be your first step.

No wayfarer has seen the road's end;
no one has found a cure for this pain.

If you stand still, you freeze like stone,
sometimes rotting, sometimes dead.

And if you are at speed and always running,
until eternity you will not hear the bell of arrival.

Neither going is the right face for you, nor standing;
neither is dying better for you, nor being born.

O difficult matter! What use is it that it fell to you?
The task is hard — what use is your standing still?

Don't strike your head — no, do strike your head, O silent man!
Leave this task — and quickly, strive in the task!

Both abandon task and perform the task;
make your work small, and make it great.

So that if work holds a remedy for the work —
work will be with you at the end of work.

And if work is no remedy for anyone,
then idleness will be with you in abundance there.

Abandon the task that you first performed;
doing and not-doing — this is what is right.

When you know the task — and when can it be known? —
perhaps you can know it and build the work.

See needlessness and witness self-sufficiency,
whether you be a musician or a mourner.

The lightning of self-sufficiency flamed here so fiercely
that from its heat a hundred worlds burned here.

A hundred worlds fall to dust here —
if the world is not, what does it matter in this valley?

CXL. The Man Who Drew the Celestial Spheres on a Board of Earth (حکایت مردی که صورت افلاک بر تختهٔ خاک میکشید, شماره ۱۲۰۲۷)

You will have seen that wise man without sense —
he brought a board of earth before himself.

Then he filled that board with forms and patterns,
bringing fixed stars and wandering planets to light.

He draws out both the celestial sphere and the earth,
sometimes pronouncing a judgment on that, sometimes on this.

He draws out both the inner stars and the outer reaches,
both the setting and the rising.

He traces out both malefic and benefic influence,
drawing the house of death and the house of birth.

When he has computed the unlucky and the fortunate from it,
he takes hold of a corner of that board afterward —

shakes it clean, as if it had never been —
all those forms and signs had never been.

The form of this world, so full of twistings,
is nothing — like the form on that board, nothing.

If you cannot bear this, choose a corner;
circle around this less, and sit in a corner.

All the men became women here;
from both worlds they became without trace here.

Since you cannot bear this road —
if you were all mountain, you would not weigh a straw.

CXLI. The Self-Sufficient Elder Speaks (گفتار پیری مستغنی, شماره ۱۲۰۲۸)

A man said to a man, one of the people of secrets:
the veil has been drawn back from the world of mysteries.

A voice from the unseen said at once: O elder, quickly!
Whatever you wish, wish it and take it quickly!

The elder said: I have seen how the prophets
were always afflicted, always in tribulation.

Wherever pain and tribulation were greatest,
all of it was set before the prophets first.

Since affliction was the prophets' portion,
how should rest reach this poor, strange elder?

I ask for neither honor nor disgrace —
would that you leave me in my own helplessness.

Since the greater ones have toil and pain for their portion,
how can the lesser ones hope for treasure?

The prophets were at the head of the tumult of the work —
I cannot bear it; take your hand from me!

What use is all I have said, from within myself?
Until the matter falls to you, what use is any of it?

Though you have fallen into the sea of danger,
like a partridge you have fallen with broken wings —

if you are aware of the crocodile and the depths,
how would you ever want to travel such a road?

First from imagination you remain unsettled;
when you fall in, how will you bring your soul to shore?

CXLII. The Fly and the Honeycomb (حکایت مگسی که به کندو رفت و دست و پایش در عسل ماند, شماره ۱۲۰۲۹)

A fly was going in search of provisions
when it saw a honeycomb in a corner.

It went heart-lost with longing for that honey
and cried out: where is a free soul

to take a channel from this poor wretch
and set me down inside the honeycomb?

If the branch of my union rises like this,
my dwelling-place would be better inside the honey.

Someone cleared the way and did its work for it;
he gave it passage inside and collected the toll.

When the fly's business came to be with the honey,
its feet and hands were held fast in the honey.

In its struggling, its connections loosened;
but from fighting, its bonds grew harder still.

It cried out: this domination has slain me!
This honey has killed me harder than poison!

If I gave one channel, I will give two now —
perhaps I can leap free from this helplessness.

Let no one rest a moment at ease in this valley!
Let no man be of this valley but the fully mature.

It has been a long time, O heart troubled with work,
that you have been passing the time in heedlessness.

You have spent your life in fruitlessness;
where now is another lifetime for the harvest?

Rise and traverse this difficult valley;
fly back, and sever from soul and from heart.

For as long as you carry soul and heart along with you,
you are a polytheist — more heedless than the polytheists.

Scatter your soul on the road, make your heart a scattering-gift;
otherwise self-sufficiency will turn its face from your work.

CXLIII. The Sheikh Who Fell in Love with the Dog-Keeper's Daughter (حکایت شیخی خرقه‌پوش که عاشق دختر سگبان شد, شماره ۱۲۰۳۰)

There was a renowned sheikh, wearer of the robe,
from whom the dog-keeper's daughter stole all rest.

He became so defeated in love of that beloved
that waves of blood rolled from his heart like a sea.

In hope of seeing her face,
he would sleep at night with the dogs in her lane.

The girl's mother became aware of this,
and said: O sheikh, since your heart has gone astray —

if an elder holds this desire at hand,
our trade is dog-keeping and nothing else.

Take our color and become a dog-keeper;
after a year you may have a wedding and celebration.

Since that sheikh was not slack in love,
he threw down the robe and went swift to the work.

With a dog in hand he went into the marketplace;
nearly a year passed in the pursuit of this.

Another Sufi who had been his companion in breath —
when he saw him so, said: O nobody!

For thirty years you were a man among men —
why did you do this? Who has ever done this?

He said: O heedless one, don't make the tale long —
for if you draw back the veil from this tale,

the exalted Truth knows these mysteries,
and will roll this very work toward you too.

When He sees your continuous reproach of me,
He will place the dog from my hand into yours.

How long shall I speak? This heart bleeds from the pain of the road —
it has become blood, and not one man of the road has come.

I have become much-talking in vain;
and not one of you has become a seeker of mysteries.

If you become knowers of the road's secrets,
then you will understand my words.

If I speak more than this on the road with many —
you are all asleep. Where is anyone to lead?

CXLIV. The Disciple Who Asked for a Subtle Truth (حکایت مریدی که از شیخ خواست تا نکته‌ای بگوید, شماره ۱۲۰۳۱)

A disciple said to his sheikh with full presence:
"Speak a subtle truth!" The sheikh said: "Away!"

If you will wash your faces now,
then I will bring a subtle truth forward.

Fragrance of musk amidst filth — what use?
Speaking subtle truths to drunkards — what use?

CXLV. The Valley of Unity (بیان وادی توحید, شماره ۱۲۰۳۲)

After this, the valley of Unity comes to you:
the station of singularization and stripping comes to you.

When faces turn from this wilderness,
all will raise their heads from one collar.

Whether you see many in number or few,
that oneness will be within oneness on this road.

When there are many, one within one always —
that one within one will be wholly one.

That one is not what comes to you as "the One" (Ahad),
nor is it the oneness that comes to you in number.

Since this is outside the divine One and outside number,
cut your gaze from pre-eternity and from post-eternity.

When pre-eternity is lost, post-eternity too — forever;
what of both is left between?

When all is nothing, and nothing is this all —
how can there be two principles but the perplexity of all this?

CXLVI. The Madman's Creed About the World (عقیدهٔ دیوانه‌ای دربارهٔ عالم, شماره ۱۲۰۳۳)

A distinguished man said to the madman:
"What is the world? Explain this thing to me."

He said: "This world is full of name and shame,
like a date-palm bound with a hundred colors.
If you rub the palm in your hands,
all of it becomes one wax, without doubt.
Since it is all wax and nothing more,
go — all those colors are just one thing.
When everything is one, there is no two;
neither an 'I' arises here, nor a 'you.'"

CXLVII. The Old Woman Who Gave a Gold Letter to Bu Ali (حکایت پیرزنی که کاغذ زری به بوعلی داد, شماره ۱۲۰۳۴)

That old woman went before Bu Ali;
she brought a gold letter: "Take this from me."
The sheikh said to her: "I have a vow
that I will accept nothing from anyone but the Real."
The old woman at once said: "O Bu Ali!
Where did you get this cross-eyedness from, in the end?
You are no man of binding and loosing on this road —
how long will you see 'other,' if you are not cross-eyed?
In the eye of the man, there, no 'other' exists;
for there neither Kaaba nor cloister exists.
From Him hear words openly,
and through Him his existence remains enduring.
At no moment does he see anyone's part —
nor know anyone's part forever.
He is both in Him, and from Him, and with Him,
and beyond all three of these — that is good.
Whoever is not lost in the sea of Unity —
though he be all of Adam, he has become no person.
Each one, whether of skill or of fault,
has a sun within the Hidden of the Hidden.
At last there will be a day when that sun
will take him to itself and throw off the veil.
Whoever reaches his own sun —
know for certain: the good and the bad have arrived.
As long as you exist, good and bad are here;
when you are lost, it all becomes fantasy.
But if you remain clinging to your own existence,
you will see much good and bad, and the road long.
From nothingness you became manifest;
caught in yourself, you became a captive.
O if you were now as you were at first —
that is, vacant of being!
Purify yourself entirely of evil attributes;
then, like a wind in the palm, become dust.
How would you know what is in your body —
what filths are yours, what fire-pits are yours?
Snakes and scorpions are in you beneath the veil,
sleeping, having lost themselves.
If you raise a hair's tip above them,
each one becomes like a hundred serpents for you.
In everyone is a hell full of snakes;
until you empty it, the hellwork remains.
If you come out pure, one by one,
you will sleep sweetly in the earth.
Otherwise, under the earth — scorpion and snake
will bite you hard until the Day of Reckoning.
Whoever is unaware of this purification —
call him whatever you like, he is a worm of the earth.

O Attar, how long will you speak these metaphors?
Come back to the essence of the secrets of Unity!
When the wayfarer-man reaches this station,
the station of the man rises from the road.
He becomes lost — because he becomes visible;
he becomes mute — because he becomes eloquent.
He becomes a part, he becomes the whole — neither whole nor part;
he is a form of attribute — neither soul nor limb.
He comes out of all four beyond all four;
a hundred thousand comes beyond a hundred thousand.
In the school of this wondrous secret
you see a hundred thousands of intellects with dry lips.
Who is intellect here? A fallen stranger,
a child remaining, born deaf from his mother.
On whoever a mote of this secret has shone,
the head has turned away from the kingdom of both worlds.
Since this person himself is not even a hair present,
how should he not turn his head like a hair from the world?
Though this person is nothing, this too is a person;
whether it is existence or non-existence, this too is the person.

CXLVIII. Luqman of Sarakhsh's Prayer to His Lord (راز و نیاز لقمان سرخسی با پروردگار, شماره ۱۲۰۳۵)

Luqman of Sarakhsh said: "O God!
I am old, bewildered, and lost from the road.
A servant who grows old — they make him glad:
they give him his letter and set him free.
I now, in Your bondage, O King,
have made my hair white as snow.
I am a servant who has borne so much sorrow — give me joy;
I have grown old — give me the letter of freedom."
A heavenly voice said: "O chosen of the chosen of the sanctuary!
Whoever seeks release from servitude —
his intellect and obligation are effaced together;
relinquish both of these and step forward."
He said: "O God, then I desire only You forever —
I have no need of intellect or obligation, and so it is."
Then he came out from obligation and from intellect;
stamping feet, clapping hands, he fell into madness.
He said: "Now I do not know who I am;
I am surely not a servant — so what am I?
Bondage became effaced; freedom too did not remain;
not a mote of grief or joy remained in the heart.
I became without attribute, I did not become without attribute;
I am a gnostic, but I have no gnosis.
I do not know: are you me, or am I you?
I was effaced in you and twoness disappeared."

CXLIX. The Lover Who Threw Himself in the Water After His Beloved (حکایت عاشقی که در پی معشوق خود را در آب افکند, شماره ۱۲۰۳۶)

By fate, a beloved fell into water;
his lover threw himself in with haste.
When those two reached each other,
this one asked: "O heedless one!
If I fell into that flowing water,
why did you throw yourself in after?"
He said: "I threw myself into the water
because I did not distinguish myself from you.
It has been some time since, without doubt,
the 'you-ness' of you became one with the 'I-ness' of me.
You are me, or I am you — how long this duality?
I am with you, or I am you, or you are you.
Since you are me and I am you forever,
we two bodies are one body, and that is that.
As long as your 'you-ness' persists, there is partnership;
when duality departs, your Unity shines.
Lose yourself in Him — this is Unity;
diminish the losing itself — this is singularity."

CL. Mahmud, Ayaz, and Hasan on the Day of the Army Review (حکایت محمود و ایاز و حسن در روز عرض سپاه, شماره ۱۲۰۳۷)

It was told: there was a day auspicious and blessed —
the day of the army review of Mahmud.
The countless elephants and army went to the plain;
there was a raised place, and the king went up there.
With him went both Ayaz and Hasan;
the three were reviewing the host together.
The face of the world, with elephants and troops,
was taken over like a road thick with ants and locusts.
The world's eye had never seen such an army;
no one had ever seen an army beyond that.
Then the famous king opened his tongue
and said to his own Ayaz: "O my son!
All these elephants and armies are mine;
I am all yours, you are my sultan."
Though the great king spoke these words,
Ayaz was quite detached and still.
He did not render the king service at that moment;
he did not even say "the king has spoken this to me."
Hasan became agitated and said: "O slave!
The king honors you so greatly —
you stand here so disrespectful,
you neither bow nor render any service!
Why do you not maintain your respect?
This is not gratitude before the king."
When Ayaz heard this address, in short,
he said: "For this there are two fitting answers.
One answer is: whoever, without face or road,
renders service before the king,
or falls to earth in abasement before him,
or speaks in lament before him —
to come as greater or lesser than the king:
all of this is coming into the middle.
Who am I to put my head to this work,
to make myself manifest between us?
The servant is His and the robe of honor is His;
who am I? — all command is his command.
What the victorious king does every day,
and this grace he has shown Ayaz today —
if two worlds were to preach his essence,
I do not know whether they could repay it.
What a pity if I were to appear in the midst —
who am I, or why should I appear at all?
I neither render service nor come to his attention:
who am I to come face-to-face with him?"
When Hasan heard this word from Ayaz,
he said: "Bravo, O Ayaz, recognizer of the Real!
I confess that in the days of the king
I am worthy every moment of a hundred royal favors."
Then Hasan further said: "Where is the second answer?"
He said: "It is not fitting to say that before you.
If the king and I were alone together,
I would be a deep intimate of this secret.
But since you are not intimate of that,
how should I say it — you are not the sultan."
Then the king quickly sent Hasan away;
Hasan too passed from the reckoning of that army.
Since in that solitude there was neither "we" nor "I,"
even if Hasan became a hair, there would be no Hasan.
The king said: "Solitude has come — speak the secret;
tell me that special answer."
He said: "Whenever, from the perfection of the king's grace,
he casts a glance toward me, the wretched one,
in the radiance of the ray of that single glance
my existence is effaced from head to foot.
From shame before the sun-splendor of the king,
I rise up utterly pure from the road at that moment.
Since no trace of my being remains,
how should I fall in prostration of service before you?
If you see someone at that moment,
I am not that — it is the King of the World who exists.
Whether you show one grace or a hundred,
from your lordship you do it with yourself.
A shadow that is lost in the sun:
from it how should any service ever come?
Your Ayaz is a shadow in your lane,
lost in the sun of your face.
When the servant became annihilated from himself, he did not remain;
do whatever you will — you know: he did not remain."

بیان وادی حیرت — The Valley of Bewilderment

CLI. The Valley of Bewilderment (بیان وادی حیرت, شماره ۱۲۰۳۸)

After this, the Valley of Bewilderment comes to you;
the constant work of pain and regret comes to you.
Every breath here is like a sword for you;
every moment here is a grief for you.
There is sigh, there is pain, there is burning;
there is day and night, yet neither night nor day.
From the root of every hair of this person — not by sword —
blood is dripping and writing: "Alas!"
This man is a frozen fire,
or ice burned through from this pain.
When the bewildered man reaches this station,
he remains in bewilderment and has lost the road.
Whatever Unity had inscribed on his soul —
it all becomes lost from him, and lost too.
If they say to him: "Are you drunk, or not?"
— "Not existing," you might say; "or are you existing, or not?
Are you within, or out of the midst?
Are you on the edge, or hidden, or manifest?
Are you annihilated, or abiding, or both?
Or are you neither of both — or not you at all?"
He says: "I know absolutely nothing;
and that not-knowing — I do not know either.
I am a lover, but I do not know whom of —
I am neither Muslim nor unbeliever — so what am I?
Of my love I have no awareness;
I have a heart both full of love and empty."

CLII. The King's Daughter Who Fell in Love with a Slave, and the Slave's Bewilderment After Union in the World of Unknowing (حکایت دختر پادشاه که بر غلامی شیفته شد و تحیر غلام پس از وصل در عالم بی‌خبری, شماره ۱۲۰۳۹)

A king whose command held all horizons
had a daughter like the moon in his palace.
She was the envy of fairies in beauty;
Yusuf and the well and the dimpled chin all bowed before her.
Her forelock had wounded a hundred hearts;
every hair-tip of hers held a vein with soul.
Her moon-face was like paradise come down;
and from her brow she had drawn a bow.
When an arrow flew from her bow,
"two bows' length or nearer" would praise her.
Her intoxicated narcissus-eyes, with their lash-thorns,
had flung many a sober person in the road.
Her sun-faced beauty-cheek
had taken seventeen Azras from the sky's moon.
In her two rubies that were sustenance for souls,
the Holy Spirit was constantly bewildered.
When her lips laughed, the Water of Life
died of thirst and begged alms from her lip.
Whoever gazed at her chin-dimple
fell headlong to the bottom of the well.
Whoever became the prey of her moon-like face
fell at once into her well without a rope.

There came, in sum, before the king,
for service, a slave like the moon in beauty —
what a slave! who in beauty gave
sun and moon alike their eclipse and waning.
In the expanse of the world he had no equal;
none like him in beauty was at the head of the tumult.
A hundred thousands of people in market and lane
stood dazed before that sun-face.

One day, by fate, the daughter glanced —
she saw the face of that slave of the king.
Her heart left her hand and fell in blood;
her reason fell out from behind the veil.
Reason departed and love gained power over her;
her sweet soul found bitter salt.
For a time she thought to herself;
in the end she made restlessness her trade.
She was melting from longing and burning from separation,
in melting and burning, a heart full of desire.

She had ten handmaiden musicians,
of high rank in songs —
all playing instruments, nightingales in song,
their Davidic melody soul-increasing.
She at once confided her state to them
and abandoned name and shame and abandoned soul.
For whoever love of the beloved has been revealed,
where can the soul be of use?
She said: "If I tell the slave of my love,
he will fall into error — and it would not be complete.
It will harm my dignity greatly;
when can a slave reach someone like me?
But if I do not tell my story openly,
I will die wretchedly behind the veil.
I have read a hundred books of patience to myself;
what can I do — I am without patience and helpless.
What I want is this: that from that upright cypress
I gain my portion while he remains unaware.
If my aim is achieved this way,
the work of my soul will be to my heart's desire."
When those sweet-voiced ones heard these words,
they all said: "Do not trouble your heart.
We will bring him to you by night, secretly,
such that he has no knowledge of it."

One handmaiden went secretly to the slave
and said: "Now bring him wine and cup."
She cast a drug of unconsciousness in his wine;
inevitably she cast self-loss into him.
When the slave drank that wine, he became without self;
the work of that beautiful handmaiden went ahead.
All day until night that silver-bodied slave
was drunk and unaware of both worlds.

When night came the handmaidens came,
stumbling and rising, before him.
Then they placed him in a litter
and secretly bore him to the princess.
They quickly seated him on the golden throne
and showered gems on his crown.

At midnight, as that slave was half-drunk,
his eyes like narcissus opened wide.
He saw a palace like paradise — that image of beauty —
a golden throne from edge to edge.
Two ambergris candles were blazing,
like aloes-wood burning piled together.
Those idols had struck up a sama' in unison;
reason bade farewell to soul, soul to body.
That night wine was in the midst of the gathering,
like a sun in the light of a candle.

In the midst of all that pleasure and desire,
the slave was lost in the face of the daughter.
He remained dazed — neither reason nor soul —
not in this world in meaning, nor in that.
His breast was full of love and his tongue had come mute;
his soul had come into state from ecstasy.
His eyes were on the beloved's face;
his ear was on the sound of the instrument.
His nostril too had caught the scent of ambergris;
his mouth too had found moist fire.
The daughter at once gave him a cup of wine;
she gave a kiss as the wine's tidbit in its wake.
His eye remained fixed on the beloved's face;
he remained bewildered before her countenance.
Since his tongue was not working,
tears were falling and he scratched his head.
Every moment that daughter, like an idol,
scattered a hundred thousand tears on his face.
Sometimes she kissed his lip like sugar;
sometimes she added salt to the kiss, heartlessly.
Sometimes she scattered his unruly tress;
sometimes she was lost in his two sweet magic eyes.
And that drunk slave before the heart-soother
remained with himself, not without himself, eyes open.
Still in this gazing the slave remained
until the morning rose fully from the east.
When morning rose and the morning breeze stirred,
from ruin the slave was lost.
Since that head-high slave had slept there,
they quickly brought him back to his own place.

After that, when that silver-bodied slave
found at last a little awareness of himself,
he fell into tumult and did not know what it was;
what had been, had been — what profit from that burning?
Though no water had touched his liver,
the water had passed over the top of his head.
He reached with his hand and tore the garment on his body;
he pulled his hair and put his head to the dust.

They asked the candle-adorner of his story.
He said: "I cannot display this story again.
What I saw, clearly, drunk and ruined —
no one will ever see that in a dream.
What passed over me alone, bewildered —
I know not that it ever passed over anyone.
What I saw I cannot tell again;
no mystery more wondrous than this shall any see."
Everyone said: "At least a little —
come to yourself and tell one in a hundred."
He said: "I am helpless, like another;
did I see all of that, or was it someone else?
I heard nothing, though I heard everything;
I did not see, though I saw everything."
A heedless one said to him: "You have seen a dream —
that is why you are so mad and disturbed."
He said: "I have no knowledge — perhaps
whether it was sleep for me, or waking.
I do not know whether I saw it in drunkenness
or heard the description in sobriety.
No state in the world is more wondrous than this —
a state neither manifest nor hidden.
I can neither speak it nor be silent;
nor be stupefied between this and that.
At no moment is it effaced from the soul,
nor from it do I find a single mote of trace.
I have seen a master of beauty in perfection
who had no equal in any state.
What is the sun before his face?
A mote — and God knows best the right.
Since I do not know, what can I say beyond this,
though I saw him, or had not seen?
I, as one who has seen him, or who has not —
between this and that I am disturbed."

CLIII. The Mother Who Wept Over Her Daughter's Grave (مادری که بر خاک دختر می‌گریست, شماره ۱۲۰۴۰)

A mother was weeping over her daughter's grave;
a way-seer looked toward that woman
and said: "This woman has surpassed men,
because she is not like us — and she knows truly
from which Lost One she has stayed distant,
and on whose account she is this impatient.
Happy is she who knows what the state is,
who knows for whom one must weep.

Difficult is the tale of this grief-struck one —
I have sat day and night, struck with mourning.
It is not known to me, in this painful work,
for whom I weep like rain, pitiably.
I am unaware, weeping like this,
from whom I have fallen distant, bewildered.
This woman won the ball over thousands like me,
because she got the scent of her own Lost One.
I did not get the scent, and this regret
has shed blood and killed me in bewilderment.
In such a station where the heart became invisible —
nay, where the station too became invisible —
the rope of reason has lost its end;
the house of imagination has lost its door.
Whoever reaches there loses their head;
they lose the door of their four boundaries.
If anyone here had found a road,
they would find the head of the All in one breath."

CLIV. The Sufi with the Man Who Lost His Key (گفتار یک صوفی با مردی که کلیدش را گم کرده بود, شماره ۱۲۰۴۱)

A Sufi was walking; he heard a voice —
someone was saying: "I have lost my key.
Whoever has found a key in this place —
this door is locked here on the earth of the road.
If the door remains locked for me, what can I do?
Continuous grief remains — what can I do?"
The Sufi said: "Who told you to be weary?
You know where the door is — go; let it be locked.
When you sit for long before the locked door,
there is no doubt that someone will open it.
Your work is easy; mine is hard —
for my soul burns from bewilderment.
My work has neither foot nor head;
I never had a key, nor ever a door."
Would that this Sufi had hastened long ago
and found a door — locked or open!
People have no portion but imagination;
no one knows what the state really is.
Whoever says "what can I do?" — say: do not do "how."
What you have done as "how" until now — do it no more.
Whoever has fallen into the Valley of Bewilderment
falls at every breath into countless regret.
Bewilderment and confusion — how long shall I bear them?
Since they lost the trail — how can I follow the trail?
I do not know — would that I knew,
for if I knew, I would be bewildered.
For me here complaint has become gratitude;
infidelity became faith and faith became infidelity.

CLV. Sheikh Nasrabad, Who After Forty Pilgrimages Circled the Zoroastrian Fire-Temple (حکایت شیخ نصر آباد که پس از چهل حج طواف آتشگاه گبران می‌کرد, شماره ۱۲۰۴۲)

Sheikh Nasrabad was seized by pain;
he had made forty pilgrimages in trust — what a man!
After that, hair white and body thin,
someone saw him naked with only a loincloth,
a quiver in his heart and a burning in his soul,
a sacred cord tied on him, his palm open,
having come — not from pride and boasting —
doing circumambulation around a Zoroastrian fire-temple.

He said: "I said: O great man of the age!
What business is this of yours? Have some shame!
You have made so many pilgrimages and such mastery —
and the result of it all has become infidelity?
Such a thing would be from raw ignorance;
the people of the heart would be disgraced by you.
And what sheikh did this — whose road is this?
Do you not know who the fire-temple is?"
The sheikh said: "My work has fallen hard;
fire has fallen in my house and goods.
From this fire my threshing-floor has gone to the wind;
it has given all my name and shame to the wind.
My own work has become like a bent willow;
I know no stratagem beyond this.
When such a fire enters the soul,
does it allow my name and shame for even a moment?
Since I was caught in such a work,
I have become weary of synagogue and Kaaba both.
If a mote of bewilderment appears to you,
a hundred regrets like mine will appear to you."

CLVI. The New Disciple Who Saw His Sheikh in a Dream (نومریدی که پیر خود را به خواب دید, شماره ۱۲۰۴۳)

A new disciple had a heart like the sun;
one night he saw his sheikh in a dream.
He said: "From bewilderment my heart sat in blood;
tell your story — how did things settle over there?
In your absence I lit the candle of my heart;
since you left, I have burned from bewilderment.
I have become, from bewilderment, a seeker of secrets here —
how is your work over there? Tell me."
The sheikh said: "I have remained bewildered and drunk;
I constantly bite the back of my hand with my teeth.
We, much in the depths of this prison and well,
are more bewildered than you at this station.
A mote of the bewilderment of the afterlife for me
is greater than a hundred mountains of the world."

بیان وادی فقر و فنا — The Valley of Poverty and Annihilation

CLVII. The Valley of Poverty and Annihilation (بیان وادی فقر و فنا, شماره ۱۲۰۴۴)

After this comes the Valley of Poverty and Annihilation.
How could speech be fitting here?

This valley is the very essence of forgetting —
lameness, deafness, and unconsciousness.

A hundred thousand of your eternal shadows
vanish before your single sun.

When the ocean of totality stirs,
what image remains upon the water?

Both worlds are merely images on that sea.
Whoever denies it is a fool.

Whoever is lost in the ocean of totality
is forever lost — and forever at rest.

The heart in this sea of deep ease
finds nothing — nothing but being lost.

If from this lostness they return a man,
he becomes a witness of the Act, and receives a hundred secrets.

The ripened wayfarers, the true men of men —
when they descend into the field of suffering,

to be lost is the first step. What comes after?
There is no one left to take the second.

Since all are lost at the very first stride,
count them as stone if they were once men.

Aloe wood and common timber, both cast into fire —
both end as ash in the same place.

In form they may seem equal to you,
but in essence there is an infinite difference.

If something impure is lost in the total sea,
it remains in its own nature — diminished.

But if a pure thing enters this sea,
though it is not — in the midst, it is beautiful.

It is not, and yet it is. How can this be?
This lies beyond the reach of thought.

CLVIII. The Master of Tus and His Disciple (گفتار معشوق طوسی با مریدش, شماره ۱۲۰۴۵)

One night the master of Tus — that ocean of mystery —
spoke to a disciple who was always melting in longing:

"Until you have melted utterly in love,
until from weakness you become like a single hair,

when your body grows as thin as a hair —
the beloved will find a place for you in her tresses.

Whoever becomes a hair in her lane
will, without doubt, become a hair within her hair.

If you have eyes that can see the road,
look closely: hair within hair — this is how it is.

If so much as a hair's breadth of selfhood remains in you,
seven hells will rise out of that tiny wickedness."

CLIX. The Lover Who Wept in Fear of Resurrection Day (گفتار عاشقی که از بیم قیامت می‌گریست, شماره ۱۲۰۴۶)

A lover was once weeping blood.
Someone asked: what is this weeping for?

He said: "They say that on the Day of Judgment,
when the Creator manifests his face in glory,

he will grant for forty thousand years without end
those near him a great general audience —

then for a moment they will return to themselves,
coming back to need, accustomed to grace.

I weep for this: that they will return me to myself,
place me for one breath in the sight of self-awareness.

What shall I do in that one breath with myself?
This grief alone could kill me.

As long as we see ourselves, we see evil.
I am with God when I see no self.

In the moment I am free of myself,
selflessness is the very essence of the divine.

Whoever has gone from the midst — that is annihilation.
When annihilated from annihilation itself — that is subsistence.

If your heart is turned inside out,
pass across the bridge and through the burning fire.

Do not grieve: in the lamp, fire drawing on oil
will produce a soot black as a raven's wing —

but when the oil passes through that fire,
the very being of the oil emerges —

though the road burns with blazing fire,
the oil makes itself the vessel of the Quran's light.

If you wish to reach this station,
you arrive only through nothing — through la, through No.

First, lose yourself from yourself.
Then bring forward a Buraq from nothingness.

Put on a garment woven of non-being.
Fill a bowl with annihilation and drink it down.

Then throw the garment of diminishment over your head.
Cast over yourself the robe of lam yakun — 'was not.'

In the stirrup of obliteration, efface selfhood from nothing.
Ride the steed of nothingness toward the place of nothing.

In between — in the depths of diminishment —
without a middle, gird yourself with non-existence.

Obliterate the body and unfasten it swiftly.
Then draw into your eye the kohl of Not-Being.

Be lost — and from even this, be lost in one breath.
After this second lostness, still be lost.

Go on thus, in this ease,
until you arrive in the world of lostness.

If even a hair's trace of this world remains in you,
you have not one hair's worth of news from that world."

CLX. The Moths Seeking News of the Candle (حکایت پروانگان که از مطلوب خود خبر می‌خواستند, شماره ۱۲۰۴۷)

One night the moths gathered together
in a caravanserai, seeking news of the candle.

All of them said: "We need one among us
who will bring back even a little news of what we seek."

One moth flew out toward a distant palace,
and in the palace courtyard found the light of the candle.

She returned and opened her scroll,
and began to describe it according to the measure of her understanding.

A critic who held authority among them said:
"She has no true knowledge of the candle."

Another went, flew past the glow,
and from a distance hurled herself toward the candle.

She fluttered in the radiance of her beloved.
The candle prevailed; she was overcome.

She too returned and spoke a handful of secrets,
gave an account of union with the candle.

The critic said: "This is still no true sign, dear friend.
You've told us no more than the first one did."

A third arose — drunk, and still more drunk —
stamping her feet, she sat down on the fire itself.

She reached out and grasped the fire in her arms,
and lost herself in it, joyfully merged.

As the fire caught her from head to foot,
her whole body became red as fire itself.

The critic of the group, seeing her from afar —
the candle had made her the very color of light —

said: "This moth is the one who is truly in the work.
Only she knows — she alone has news of it.

The one who has become without news and without trace —
of all of them, she is the one who has news.

Until you become unaware of body and soul,
how will you ever have news of the beloved for even one moment?

Whoever gave you a sign even a hair's breadth wide
has drawn a hundred lines through the blood of your soul.

No breath, no person is initiate of this place.
No one fits here — no one."

CLXI. The Sufi and the Man Who Struck Him on the Neck (گفتار مردی صوفی با کسی که او را قفا زد, شماره ۱۲۰۴۸)

A Sufi was walking, like one with nothing to show,
when a hard-hearted man struck him a firm blow on the back of the neck.

With a heart full of blood, he turned and said:
"The one who received your blow —

it has been nearly thirty years since he died and went.
He took his world of being to its end and departed."

The man said: "You are all claim and no practice!
When has a dead man spoken? Have some shame."

"As long as you draw breath, you are no true breather.
As long as a hair's worth of you remains, you are no initiate.

If even a hair's worth of excess remains between,
there are a hundred worlds of distance between.

If you wish to arrive at this station,
as long as a hair's worth remains, you arrive with difficulty.

Whatever you have — kindle a fire,
and burn the hem from your feet in that fire.

When nothing remains of you, do not think of the shroud —
throw yourself naked into the fire.

When you and all your belongings have turned to ash,
your particle of self-conceit will have diminished.

But if one needle remains from you, as it did with Jesus,
know that a hundred highwaymen still wait on your road.

Though Jesus cast his goods into the beloved's lane,
his needle still put a stitch across the beloved's face.

When existence itself is a veil in this place,
power, property, water, and rank are all wrong.

Whatever you have, strip it from yourself one by one.
Then begin a retreat into the self.

When your inwardness has gathered in selflessness,
you will emerge from good and evil alike.

When neither good nor evil remains in you, you become a lover.
Then you become worthy of love's annihilation."

CLXII. The Pauper Who Fell in Love with the King's Son (حکایت مفلسی که عاشق پسر پادشاه شد, شماره ۱۲۰۴۹)

A king there was — moon-like, sun in his glory —
who had a son as beautiful as Joseph.

No son so beautiful had anyone.
No created thing held such majesty and grace.

All who were dear in the world were as his dust.
Even lords and nobles were servants to his beauty.

If by night he emerged from behind the veil,
it was as if a new sun had come out across the plain.

To describe his face — there are no words for it.
The moon is not so much as a hair of his face.

If a cord were made of that double-twisted tress,
a hundred thousand hearts would fall into the well.

That world-consuming tress of the candle-of-the-world
worked upon the whole world and lasted long.

To describe the tress of that Joseph-faced one
would be impossible in fifty years.

If his narcissus-eye flickered and stirred,
fire would flash through all the world.

When his laughter scattered sugared light,
a hundred thousand flowers bloomed without spring.

Of his mouth, nothing can be known at all —
one cannot speak of what is beyond speech.

When he came out from behind the veil,
every hair of him was worth a hundred lives.

He was the sedition of soul and world —
and whatever I say was more than that.

When he rode out toward the field on horseback,
a naked blade flashed before him and behind.

Whoever so much as glanced toward him
was lifted away from the road in that same instant.

There was a pauper — a beggar with nothing,
who lost his mind with love for this prince.

He had nothing left but helplessness and confusion.
His soul was going; he had not the courage to speak.

When he found the pain fully upon his back,
love and grief were killing him inside.

Day and night he sat in the lane of the prince.
He had closed his eyes to all the world.

He had no intimate in all the world —
he went about with his grief, beside himself.

Day and night: a face like gold, tears like silver.
He waited, his heart in two halves.

The pauper — that impatient one — lived only for this:
that the prince would sometimes pass in the distance.

Whenever the prince appeared from afar,
the whole bazaar broke into uproar.

A hundred resurrections would rise through the world.
The crowds scattered in all directions.

Heralds going before and behind —
at every moment, blood was shed by the score.

The cries and shouts rising to the moon —
an army stretching out for nearly a league.

When the beggar heard the herald's cry,
his head spun and he fell to the ground.

A swoon came over him and he lay in blood,
gone out of himself entirely.

A hundred eyes would have been needed in that moment
to weep blood, weeping for him, pitifully.

Now he turned blue — that helpless one —
now blood would flow from beneath him.

Now his tears would freeze from sighing,
now his tears would burn from longing.

Half-killed, half-dead, half-alive,
and from his poverty he had not even half a loaf.

Such a person brought so low —
how could such a prince ever come to his hand?

He was less than a shadow of a shade — that one with no way —
wanting to catch the sun itself and hold it.

One day the prince was riding out with his retinue.
That beggar cried out a single cry from his place.

A cry rose from him and he lost his senses.
He said: "My soul is burned, my reason is gone.

How long will I burn my own soul like this?
I have no more patience or endurance."

So spoke that lost man,
beating his head against stone at every moment from pain.

When he had said this, his senses left him.
Blood flowed from his eyes and ears.

The prince's herald learned of him
and went to the prince intending to report it.

He said: "A madman is in love with your highness —
he has brought destruction upon himself."

The king, from jealousy, was so stunned
that the heat of his heart made his mind boil.

He said: "Rise up — take him and execute him.
Drag him, bound, head downward."

At once the king's retinue rushed out,
made a circle around the beggar,

then dragged him toward the gallows.
Over his head, the crowd spattered blood.

No one there knew his pain.
No one spoke in his defense.

When the vizier brought him beneath the gallows,
a cry of anguish rose from him — fire of longing.

He said: "Give me a moment, for God's sake —
let me bow once in prostration, here beneath the gallows."

The vizier — angry as he was — gave him the moment.
He put his face to the ground in prostration.

Then, in the midst of bowing, he said: "O God —
my king is about to kill me — without guilt —

before I depart my soul unknowing,
grant me one glimpse of that prince's face.

Let me see his face just one more time.
I will give a hundred thousand souls over his face.

O sovereign, I am your servant seeking favor.
I am a lover — killed by this road.

I am still, with my soul, the servant of this gate.
If I have loved, I am not yet an unbeliever.

You fulfill a hundred thousand needs —
fulfill mine. Set my affair in order."

When that wretched one of the road made this request,
his arrow, it seems, struck its mark.

When the vizier heard the secret, whispered and low,
pain entered his heart from the pain of that pauper.

He went before the king and wept,
and told him what had happened — the whole truth.

He spoke of the pauper's weeping in prostration,
recounted his supplications in the midst of bowing.

Pain from him fell into the king's heart.
The king was softened and set his mind to pardon.

The king at once said to the prince:
"Do not turn away from this one fallen at your feet.

Go now beneath the gallows.
Go to that bewildered one who thirsts for your blood.

Call out to your distressed one.
He is heartless because of you — give him back his heart.

Be kind to him — he has endured your wrath.
Drink sweetness with him — he has tasted your poison.

Take him from the road and bring him to the garden.
When you come, bring him with you before me."

The prince — that Joseph-faced youth, face of fire —
went to sit with a beggar in union.

That sun-faced one, burning with light,
went to sit alone with a mote of dust.

That sea full of joyful pearls
went to reach out its hand to a single drop.

From the joy of this — beat your heads,
stamp your feet, clap your hands.

Then the prince came beneath the gallows.
Like a resurrection, the wonder broke open and woke.

He saw the beggar fallen in destruction,
lying face down in the dust.

The dust, wet with blood from his two eyes, had turned to mud.
A world of longing had become his share.

Lost, gone, nothing —
and worse than this — also that.

When the prince saw him fallen in blood,
tears came into the prince's eyes.

He wanted to hide his tears from the retinue —
but the tears came as the king's own tears do.

He let tears flow like rain at that moment.
The harvest of a hundred worlds of pain was his.

Whoever is sincere in love —
over that one, the beloved becomes a lover.

If love comes toward you with sincerity,
your beloved comes toward you, loving in return.

At last the prince — that sun-faced, bright one —
gently called out to the beggar.

The beggar had not heard his voice —
but he had seen him many times from far away.

When the beggar lifted his face from the dust of the road,
he saw the prince's face directly before him.

Burning fire meeting a river of water —
though fire burns, it cannot long withstand.

That poor-hearted one was fire.
His nearness fell upon the river — a joyful meeting.

He brought his soul to his lips and said:
"O sovereign, how can you kill me so bitterly like this?"

This need was not the need of any valiant retinue.
He said this — and was as if he had never been.

He gave a cry, gave up his soul, and died.
Like a candle, he laughed one last time and died.

When union with the beloved became known to him,
he became utterly annihilated — and ceased to be.

Wayfarers understand this in the field of pain —
what the annihilation of love did to those men.

O you whose existence is mixed with non-existence,
whose pleasure is mixed with non-existence:

until you have been turned upside down for a time,
how will you find even news of rest?

You have opened your hands, darting forward like lightning,
but you have snared only a sparrow ahead in the chaff.

What manner of work is this — come in like a man.
Burn your reason. Come in like a madman.

If you will not work this alchemy,
come at least for one breath to look.

How long will you think? Lose yourself as I have.
For one breath, before you go, come think within yourself.

So that for a moment you reach destitution,
in the fullness of that taste, reach selflessness.

I — who am no longer I, nor other than I —
my good and evil are beyond reason.

I have become lost in myself completely.
There is no remedy for me but helplessness.

When the sun of poverty shone upon me,
both worlds shone from a single window.

When I saw the radiance of that sun,
I remained — and a world returned to water.

Whatever I sometimes gained and sometimes lost,
I cast all of it into the dark water.

I became obliterated, lost, nothing remained —
a shadow remained, a particle — nothing twisting.

I was a drop, and I was lost in the sea of mystery.
I cannot find that drop now.

Though to be lost is not for everyone,
I am lost in annihilation — and one like me is enough.

Who is there in all the world, from fish to moon,
who will not wish to be lost in this place?

CLXIII. Pakdin's Question to Nuri About the Way to Union (سؤال پاک‌دینی از نوری دربارهٔ راه وصال, شماره ۱۲۰۵۰)

Pakdin put a question to Nuri:
"How does the road rise from us to union?"

He said: "We must pass, both of us,
through the sea of fire and the sea of light — the long, long road.

When you have put these seven seas behind you,
a fish will draw you in — in a single breath.

A fish that breathes from the chest in one stroke
drew in the first and the last.

There is a great fish — no head visible, no foot —
its dwelling is in the sea of self-sufficiency.

Whale-like, it swallows both worlds —
draws all creation in, in a single breath."

بیان سی‌مرغ در پیشگاه سیمرغ — The Thirty Birds in the Presence of the Simorgh

CLXIV. The Thirty Birds at the Presence of the Simorgh (سی‌مرغ در پیشگاه سیمرغ, شماره ۱۲۰۵۱)

From these words, all the birds of the valley, one by one,
fell headlong into the blood of their own grief.

All understood that this path's bow
is not for the arm of a handful of weaklings.

From these words their souls became restless —
right there in that station, many died in misery.

And all those birds, at that place,
laid their heads — full of grief — upon the road.

For years they traveled through valleys and heights —
a long lifetime spent upon their road.

What showed itself to them along the way —
who could ever explain it, give the full account?

If you too should someday descend upon the road,
look one by one at the passes of that way —

you will know again what they did,
and it will become clear to you how they drank blood.

In the end, from all that host,
only the few-of-the-way found the road to that Presence.

Of all those birds, only a small number arrived there —
from thousands, one arrived there.

Some drowned in the sea,
some dissolved and vanished entirely.

Some on the heights of lofty mountains
died of thirst in the scorching sting.

Some, from the burning heat of the sun,
had their feathers burned and their hearts turned to char.

Some were destroyed in an instant by leopard and lion of the road —
brought to ruin in a single breath.

Some again remained absent —
they fell into the grip of the taloned one.

Some again in the desert, dry-lipped,
died of thirst in the heat, worn out.

Some again — for desire of a single grain —
destroyed themselves like madmen.

Some again came gravely ill,
fell behind, and came to be forsaken.

Some again, at the wonders along the road,
stood still right where they were.

Some again — watching the pleasures of the world —
gave their bodies over, free from all seeking.

In the end, from a hundred thousand toward one,
no more than a few arrived there.

A world full of birds had set out upon the road —
no more than thirty arrived at that place.

Thirty, without wing or feather, worn and feeble,
broken-hearted, soul-spent, their bodies unsound.

They saw a Presence beyond all description and quality,
higher than the grasp of reason and knowledge.

The lightning of Divine Self-Sufficiency blazed on —
a hundred worlds burning in a single moment.

A hundred thousand worthy suns,
a hundred thousand moons and yet more stars —

all gathered together they saw, lost in wonder,
like motes of dust, stamping their feet.

All said: "How strange — like a mote before the sun
we are dissolved before this accounting.

How can we appear at all in this place?
Oh, what grief — the road has brought us here for nothing."

"We have lifted our hearts wholly from ourselves —
it is not as we had imagined."

All those birds — as if heartless — remained,
like a half-slaughtered bird they remained.

They were absorbed and lost, and nothing too —
until a time had passed as well.

Then from before them, from a lofty gate,
the herald of Glory suddenly appeared.

He saw thirty birds, dumbstruck, held back —
no wing or feather, their souls spent, melting in the body.

From foot to head drowned in bewilderment —
neither empty left in them, nor full.

He said: "Who are you people, from what city?
What brings you here to such a station?

What are your names, O fruitless ones?
Where has your rest ever been?

What does anyone call you in the world?
What use are a handful of weaklings?"

All said: "We have come to this place
so that the Simorgh may be our king.

We are all wanderers of your threshold —
heartless ones, restless ones of the road.

A long time has passed since we set out on this road —
from thousands, thirty have come to the threshold.

We have come on a hope from a far road —
that we may have presence in this Presence.

Will that king look upon our suffering?
Surely from his grace he will look upon us."

The herald said: "O wanderers,
soaked as you are in the blood of your own hearts —

whether you are here or not in the world,
He is the absolute, eternal King.

A hundred thousand worlds full of armies
are but an ant at the door of this King.

What rises from you in the end but moaning?
Turn back, O handful of the lowly."

From those words, each became so despairing
that in that moment they became like eternal dead.

All said: "This magnificent King —
even if He sends us away in humiliation —

no humiliation from Him has ever come to anyone.
And if humiliation came from Him, it came from glory, not shame."

CLXV. Majnun Who Preferred Layla's Insults to All the World's Praise (گفتهٔ مجنون که دشنام لیلی را بر آفرین همهٔ عالم ترجیح میداد, شماره ۱۲۰۵۲)

Majnun said: "If all the face of the earth
were to praise me at every moment —

I want no one's praise.
Let my praise be Layla's insult, and nothing more.

Sweeter than a hundred praises is one insult from her.
Better than the kingdom of two worlds is her name."

"I have told you my doctrine, dear friend.
If there is humiliation — what of it?"

He said: "The lightning of glory comes revealed —
then it draws the very breath from every soul.

When the soul burns in a hundred lamentations — what use?
After that, what use is glory or humiliation?"

The burned company spoke again:
"Our souls — and the fire blazing!

How shall the moth flee from the fire,
since its very presence is in the fire?

Though union with the beloved may not come to us,
burning comes to us — this is the work.

If reaching toward the beloved is not possible,
pure asking — there is no path except here."

CLXVI. All the Birds Tell the Story of the Butterfly — and the Door Opens (جملهٔ پرندگان قصهٔ پروانه کردند آشکار, شماره ۱۲۰۵۳)

All the birds of the age
made the story of the butterfly plain.

All said to the butterfly: "O weak one,
how long will you play with this noble soul?

Since union with the candle will not come,
do not give your soul in foolishness — how long this impossible game?"

From these words the butterfly became drunk and undone —
and immediately gave Solomon his answer:

"This much is enough for me: I, forever heartless —
if I do not reach into it, I fully reach into it."

When all had died in love for Him,
drowned from foot to head in pain —

though His Self-Sufficiency was beyond all measure,
His grace too had a fresh face.

The chamberlain of grace came and opened the door —
with each breath, a hundred more veils were opened.

The world without Him became a veil made plain —
then through the Light of Lights the work joined itself together.

He seated them all in the throne of nearness,
seated them on the seat of glory and awe.

He placed a scroll before them all —
and said: "Read it to the very end."

The scroll of that company — through the way of parable —
makes this bewildered state known.

CLXVII. The Scroll of Yusuf — and the Thirty Birds Are the Simorgh (حکایت یوسف و خط عبرانی — کشف سر سی مرغ, شماره ۱۲۰۵۴)

A Yusuf whose lucky stars burned like rue —
when ten brothers had sold him out —

when the master of Dor was buying him from them,
he wanted a written bond — bought the matter on that.

He took the written bond from that company right there,
then took the ten brothers as witnesses.

When the Aziz of Egypt bought Yusuf,
that bond full of treachery came into Yusuf's hands.

In the end, when Yusuf became king,
the ten brothers came to that place.

They did not recognize Yusuf's face —
they threw themselves before him.

They sought remedy for their lives,
brought their water to ask for bread.

The Truthful Yusuf said: "O people,
I have a bond written in the Hebrew tongue.

None of my household can read it —
if you read it I will give you much bread."

All were readers of Hebrew, glad to try —
they said: "O King, bring the bond."

Blind of heart is he who, though present,
does not hear his own story — how long this pride?

Yusuf gave them their bond —
a trembling came over all their bodies.

They could read nothing of that bond,
nor could they speak a single word.

All remained in grief and regret,
afflicted with the affair of Yusuf.

Their tongues all went slack at once,
their souls all became troubled by the hard matter.

Yusuf said: "It seems you have lost your wits —
why were you silent when it came to reading the bond?"

All said to him: "For us, to fall silent
is better than reading this bond and losing our heads."

When those thirty wretched birds looked
at the writing of that weighty scroll —

everything they had done, all of it,
was inscribed there to the very end.

That itself was hard — but this was harder still:
when those prisoners looked carefully —

they had gone and made their way —
they had thrown Yusuf himself into the pit.

They had burned Yusuf's soul with contempt
and then sold him for a trifle on top of that.

You who know nothing, beggar of no one —
you sell a Yusuf with every breath.

When your Yusuf will become king,
will become the foremost of the court —

you in the end will be both beggar and hungry,
going toward him naked as well.

Since your affair will rise through him,
why sell him for nothing?

The souls of those birds, from shame and contrition,
became pure shame — their souls became collyrium.

When they became wholly, wholly pure,
they all received soul from the Light of the Presence.

Again from the beginning they became souls of new servants —
again in another way they were left in wonder.

Their old deeds and non-deeds
were purified and erased from their breasts.

The sun of nearness shone before them —
all received soul from its radiance.

And in the reflection of the face of the Simorgh of the world,
they saw the face of the Simorgh from the world.

When the thirty birds looked closely —
without doubt, these thirty birds were the Simorgh.

All in bewilderment became lost —
again in another way they were left in wonder.

They saw themselves to be the Simorgh entirely —
the Simorgh itself was always the thirty birds.

When they looked toward the Simorgh,
it was this Simorgh here, in this place.

And when they looked toward themselves,
it was they who were this Simorgh — that other.

And when they looked at both together —
both were one Simorgh, more or less.

This one was that, and that one was this —
in all the world, none has heard this.

They all remained drowned in bewilderment —
without thought, and through thought, they remained.

Since they knew nothing of any state,
without tongue they made their question from that Presence.

They asked the unveiling of this mighty secret —
they asked the resolution of "I" and "thou."

Without tongue, from that Presence came the address:
"This Presence is a mirror, like the sun.

Whoever comes sees himself in it —
soul and body, he sees soul and body in it.

Since you thirty birds have come here,
thirty appeared in this mirror.

If forty or fifty birds were to come,
you would open another veil of yourselves.

Though many have wandered in their minds,
you see yourselves — and you have seen yourselves.

When can anyone's eye reach Us?
When can the eye of an ant reach the Pleiades?

Have you seen an ant that took up the anvil?
A gnat that seized an elephant in its teeth?

Whatever you knew — when you saw, that was not it.
And what you said and heard — that was not it.

All these valleys you have left behind,
and all this bravery each of you has shown —

you have all traveled within Our acts —
you have slept through the valley of essence and attribute.

Since you thirty birds have remained in bewilderment,
heartless, without patience, without soul —

We are far more fit for Simorgh-ness,
for We are the truly jeweled Simorgh.

Be absorbed in Us, in a hundred glory and grace,
so that through Us you may find yourselves again."

They were finally absorbed in Him, forever —
the shadow disappeared into the sun, and that is all.

As long as they were going, He was saying these words —
but when they arrived, neither beginning remained nor end.

Inevitably, speech fell short here —
the traveler and the guide remained not, and the road became.

The Lover Who Sat on Hallaj's Ashes (شماره ۱۲۰۵۵)

سخن عاشقی که بر خاکستر حلاج نشست — A lover speaks over Hallaj's ashes: fana is not the end. After annihilation comes subsistence — baqaa — the return from the burning.

He said: When in the kindled fire
Hallaj was wholly consumed,

a lover came — a stick perhaps in hand —
and sat upon that basin of ashes.

He opened his tongue like a fire,
stirring the ashes sweetly,

and said: Tell me the truth —
where is the one who joyfully cried "I am the Truth"?

All that you said, all that you heard,
all that you knew, all that you saw —

all of it was only the beginning of a tale.
Be annihilated — this ruin is no place for you.

The root is what is needed — the root, self-sufficient and pure.
Whether the branch exists or not, what does it matter?

The true Sun endures forever.
Say: neither mote nor shadow remains — and that is all.

When a hundred thousand ages and more had passed —
ages beyond time, neither before nor after —

the annihilated birds, with grace,
without total annihilation, were given back to themselves.

When all had become both selfless and with self,
they stepped forward into subsistence after annihilation.

Never — whether new or old —
has anyone spoken of that annihilation and that subsistence.

Just as He is far, far beyond sight,
the explanation of this is far beyond any telling.

Yet by way of parable, our companions
have sought to describe subsistence-after-annihilation.

How could that be set forth here?
A new book would need to be written for it.

For the secrets of subsistence-after-annihilation —
only one who is worthy of them can know them.

As long as you exist in being and non-being,
how can you set foot in this station?

When neither this nor that remains for you on the road —
how can sleep still come to you, O fool?

Look: what were the beginning and the end?
If at the end you know this end, what good is it?

A drop, nurtured in a hundred glories and graces,
until it became both wise and capable —

He made it aware of His own secrets,
gave it knowledge of His own work.

Then He annihilated it utterly,
and from all that glory cast it into abasement.

He turned it back to dust upon the road,
and made it nothing for a time.

Then in the midst of that annihilation, a hundred kinds of secrets
were spoken without it — yet with it, spoken again.

After that, He gave it total subsistence —
made the very essence of glory the very essence of abasement.

What do you know of what lies before you?
Come to yourself at last, O thoughtless one.

Until your soul is rejected by the King,
how will you be accepted by the King in that place?

Until you find diminishment in annihilation,
you will never find truth in subsistence.

First He casts you into abasement on the road —
then suddenly lifts you up in glory.

Become nothing, so that Being may follow.
As long as you are, when will Being reach you?

Until you are annihilated in the abasement of passing-away,
how will the proof of the glory of remaining arrive?

The King and the Beautiful Youth (شماره ۱۲۰۵۶)

حکایت پادشاهی که عاشق پسری شد — A king falls in love with his vizier's son, and in jealousy destroys what he loves most. The parable of separation and reunion that closes the poem.

There was a king — the world was his;
all seven kingdoms under his command.

He ruled like Alexander in his domain;
from mountain-edge to mountain-edge the world was his army.

His majesty brought the moon to bow its face;
the moon pressed both cheeks in the dust of his road.

This king had a great vizier,
in his greatness both keen-eyed and discerning.

The vizier had one son, full of talent —
all the world's beauty was mortgaged to his face.

None had ever seen his equal in loveliness;
no beauty had ever known such glory.

So fair was that heart-kindler
he could never go out by day —

for if that moon appeared in daylight,
a hundred Resurrections would be revealed.

No joy would arise in the world,
no mortal more beloved until eternity.

That youth had a face like the sun,
a lock of hair colored and scented like pure musk.

The parasol of his sun was musk;
the Water of Life went parched without his lips.

In the midst of his heart-stealing sun
his mouth was shaped like a mote —

that mote of his became the world's undoing;
a hundred stars were lost within it.

Since a star guides the way in the world,
how did thirty come to hide within a mote?

His hair fell proud upon his back —
in its very pride, falling backward.

Each curl upon that silver body
dealt a hundred worlds of souls a hundred blows.

His hair upon his face held many claims;
at the tip of each strand, a hundred wonders.

He had an eyebrow arched like a bow —
but where was the arm to draw that bow?

His narcissus eyes, enchanting in their spell,
worked a hundred sorceries from every lash.

His ruby lips were the source of the Water of Life —
sweet as sugar, ever-green with new growth.

His green down was the flush of beauty's cheek;
his parrot-tongue the wellspring of perfection.

To speak of his teeth — what fool would?
That pearl was too proud for its own glory.

The musk-mole upon him was the dot of beauty's letter;
past and future alike were made present by it.

The telling of that beautiful boy's beauty
could not be exhausted from his very being.

In short, the king was drunk — utterly drunk with him,
and lost himself in the calamity of that love.

Though he was a king of the highest rank,
he was thin as a crescent from grief for that full moon.

He became so drowned in love for the boy
that he could not emerge from his own being.

If the boy were absent a single moment,
the king's selfless heart would run rivers of blood.