The Book of Secrets

by Farid ud-Din Attar

The Asrar-nama ("The Book of Secrets," Persian: اسرارنامه) is the earliest major masnavi by Farid ud-Din Attar of Nishapur (~1145–1221 CE), the great Sufi master whose Conference of the Birds is among the supreme masterpieces of world literature. In twenty-two discourses and 3,297 couplets, the poem maps the hidden architecture of reality — from the nature of God and the soul, through the stations of the prophets and the cosmos, to the mysteries of death, resurrection, and annihilation in the divine.

Legend holds that when the aged Attar met the boy Jalaluddin Rumi at Nishapur, he gave him this very book, saying: "He will soon set fire to all the lovers of God in the world." Whether or not the story is historical, the text is real — and for eight hundred years, no freely available English translation from the Persian has existed. The paywalled English by Shackle and Khalid-Hasan (1999) is academic and out of reach. This is the first free English.

This is a Good Works Translation from Classical Persian, produced by the New Tianmu Anglican Church with AI assistance. The source text is from Ganjoor.net, the principal digital archive of classical Persian poetry.

I. The First Discourse — On Divine Oneness

In the name of the One who gave the soul the light of faith
and gave reason certainty in knowing God.

A Lord from whom the world has its renown —
from Him the earth and sky their high and low.

Both worlds received the robe of being from Him.
The heavens their height, the earth its lowliness, from Him.

The sky stands bowing before Him.
The earth falls prostrate before Him.

From foam and blood He raises humankind.
With Kāf and Nūn He raises sky and earth.

From smoke He makes the green dome of the heavens.
From fat He fashions the seeing eye.

From a mosquito's sting He forges Dhulfiqar —
just as from a spider He makes a curtain-keeper.

From a handful of dust He brings forth Adam's meaning.
From a breath He brings forth Jesus, son of Mary.

From blood He shows forth musk, from reed sugar,
from rain pearls, from the mine jewels.

One First who has no beginning.
One Last who has no end.

One Outer whose Inner shines through His appearing.
One Inner more manifest than light itself.

His grandeur has never had a beginning.
His sovereignty has no culmination or end.

A Lord whom only He knows how He is —
for He is beyond whatever I can know.

Since He created our sight and knowledge both,
who has known Him, and who has seen Him?

Of the essence of His nature no one has a trace,
for whatever you say "this is" — that is not it.

Though our soul follows the path,
to His essence it never finds the way.

Since I am unaware of my own soul — what it is —
how shall I know God's essence — what it is?

He has kept the soul so hidden
that He has never told the soul's secret to anyone.

Your body lives by the soul, and the soul is hidden.
You live by the soul, yet you do not know the soul.

O glory — a craft both hidden and manifest,
before which no one has any power but silence.

I have split a thousand hairs
and I have found the way: this silence.

Since you cannot reach His essence,
be content with seeing the beauty of His craft.

If you are honest about nature,
rise above the four walls of the elements.

God has no need of any work of yours.
Why would you make a Creator from the elements?

If water is the origin, pour water on it,
hand it water and laugh a little.

If it is earth, pour it at the threshold.
Beneath the feet of earth, put it on its head.

If it is wind, consider its injustice —
give it to the wind and call it wind.

If fire is the origin, throw water on it.
When you have doused it, set fire to it.

Are you honest about nature? Be free of pretense.
Are you no naturalist? Be a person of God.

Since in both worlds there is one Creator,
what business do you have with the four elements?

Call One. Seek One. Search for One.
See One. Know One. Speak of One.

All this is one — whether first or last —
but the beholder's eye is cross-eyed.

Look: atom by atom, all things run
reciting the sermon of His praise.

O wonder — the grace and kindness of the Maker:
every single atom shares a secret with Him.

O glory of name! O glory of meaning — all You!
I say: O You, O You, O all-that-is-You.

I do not see in the world even a hair's breadth
that does not have a face turned toward Your face.

If we had no face turned toward You,
a single hair of ours would drag us down.

If Your grace did not come to our aid,
not a single atom would endure.

All things endure through You, and You are hidden —
within the soul and outside the world.

All souls remain bewildered by You,
and You remain within the soul among us.

Of Your path no one has seen a limit or an end,
for You are within the soul, and no one has seen the soul.

The world is full of You, and You are not in the world.
All are lost in You, and You are not among them.

Hidden and manifest, always.
Neither in place nor on any ground, always.

Your silence comes from Your own speech.
Your concealment comes from Your own disclosure.

You are the meaning; outside You is only name.
You are the treasure; all the world is the talisman.

O glory — the splendour and presence of that Essence
that shines upon every atom among the atoms.

Upon atom after atom I see Your path.
Both worlds: "Wherever you turn, there is the face of God."

Duality has no way into Your presence.
The entire world is You and Your power.

Bewildered from one to a hundred, lost in You —
both worlds from You, and You, lost in Yourself.

The existence of all things is the shadow of Your presence.
All effects are the work of Your power.

The world of reason and soul remains bewildered,
and You behind the veil remain so hidden.

The world is full of Your name, yet of You there is no trace.
Reason sees by You, yet You are not visible.

Visible to reason, hidden from imagination —
God be exalted! O what a light beyond exalting.

I see nothing but You, not one thing more.
Since You exist, what else could there be?

Well spoken — well has it been said of the Essence:
"Oneness is the stripping away of all relations."

In that Oneness, why should I seek connection?
You are the Sought, and I the seeker — how long shall I speak?

When I weave the silk of Your Oneness,
I wish to tear my very soul apart —

A hundred thousand bodies may arise from dust,
but when they reach You, they arrive from You, pure.

A whole world of creation came and went.
Whether fair or foul, they slept in dust.

Of so many, not one became aware
of how they appeared and how they passed.

Though all existed in mere assumption,
they existed as He held them all.

The soul has no news of the soul — what the soul is.
The body has no knowledge of the body — who the body is.

The ear is unaware of its own hearing.
The eye has no news of its own seeing.

Your tongue has no knowledge of its own speaking.
Your body has no knowledge of its own power.

Neither the heavens are aware of their own turning,
nor jinn, nor human, nor Satan, nor angel.

Many have gone down into this lane.
Many others have arrived from the other side.

Neither the one who goes knows the secret,
nor the one who comes has news of this road.

They have so lost this headless secret
that not a hair's breadth does anyone come back.

A gate has become so worn it cannot be opened —
not a finger can be laid upon it.

One must hold the neck beneath the command,
for there is no remedy but patience and silence.

Who has the nerve, in the valley of surrender,
to let a breath pass from their lips for fear?

We have no path but silence, all of us,
for not one of us has the nerve for a sigh.

From Adam He chose a single drop.
From that one drop He created a whole creation.

Over that drop they pondered long
and remained, heads spinning, baffled by its nature.

Reason sank into a drop of water.
All in the drop became drowned.

Thousands of thirsty ones rise from this valley
and come to this threshold on their knees.

From your own helplessness you say, O Pure One:
"You are the Known, and the knower — we have not known You."

Both worlds remain stuck in talk.
All remain behind the veil of assumption.

They say: "We are in seeking and searching.
We have long been travellers of His road."

Wonder — a drop of water has come
to carry off a sea full of fine pearls.

More wondrous still — a speck of dust has come
to reach, if it can, the sun of the heavens.

Your capacity is less than a mosquito's —
how do you drink down both worlds?

Your liver has churned in blood so many times.
It is not as you have imagined.

Go — do not measure out empty fancies.
Do not set your foot beyond your own limit.

Pull the blanket of helplessness over your head in bewilderment.
Like rain upon the face, scatter tears of sorrow.

For nothing befits God but God, my friend.
What can come from this handful of vein and skin?

God is pure. You are the road of dust.
What relation can dust ever have with the Pure?

If an ant departs from the world into nothingness,
what is added to the world, and what is lost?

Like a door-ring, keep striking your head on this door,
for this door will not lose by such a head.

The sky wore blue for this reason:
because, like a door-ring, it remained outside that door.

God has no friend like God.
No one is worthy of God but God alone.

If someone asks you, what do you say?
"You have lost nothing — so what are you seeking?"

First you must find. Then, when you find —
when it is lost, hasten toward the search.

It is futile. So many have reached their end from this sorrow.
So many souls have been consumed by this sorrow.

The hearts of all the truthful ones are full of blood,
for who knows how the secret of His work is?

Consider: for so many thousands of years, Iblis —
his only work was praise and glorification.

All his obedience they piled together
and from His self-sufficiency, gave it to the wind.

His heart became a pool of affliction.
His body became the tablecloth of the feast of damnation.

If we remember God's self-sufficiency,
we stand at the head of the valley of no rescue.

The liver turns to blood from this remembering.
From God's self-sufficiency: our cry for help.

If by His self-sufficiency the command should come,
all hope of the innocent would be finished.

When tomorrow, before that lofty pavilion,
they beat the drum of the Everlasting —

who in all creation has the nerve
to present this debased coin?

God possesses the grandeur of needing nothing.
You have nothing but nothingness — what game is this?

You wish, with prayer and praise,
to make the Self-Sufficient pleased with you.

Your prayer is provision for the long road,
but He has no need of your prayer.

Young man, know this with certainty, in truth:
if He charged you with a duty, He gave the grace to do it.

If God's grace were not your helper,
no one would ever be brought to yield.

O what rank — from the moon to the fish,
before Him it is like a black hair.

O what power — by power's display
from a single hair He shows a hundred crafts.

O what glory — such self-sufficiency
that so much reason and soul are at stake there.

O what majesty — if it should fall upon the soul,
in every atom a hundred floods would rise.

O what precedence — with that primacy,
no existing thing can share His company.

O what oneness — not a hair fits inside it;
in that oneness the world does not weigh a hair.

O what nearness — in forty mornings of time,
with His own hand He built the nest.

O what mercy — if Iblis found one atom of it,
he would steal the ball from Idris.

O what jealousy — if it fell upon the world,
in a single hour both worlds would collapse.

O what awe — if one atom of sun
found it, the sun would be lost in shadow forever.

O what proof — in no face at all
can anyone sit against You by a hair.

O what honour — from the exalting of that station,
no one holds any rank beyond You on that road.

O what sovereignty — it has become necessary, inevitable,
admitting neither decrease nor increase.

O what power — if He wished, in a single breath
He would turn the earth like wax, and the heavens too.

O what a draught — one that dips bread in blood
in hope of "Your Lord shall give you to drink."

O what a sign — when You will, You show
from every single atom a divine sun.

O what opportunity — that You kindle in the world
and with the sigh of a heartless one, burn the world.

O what compassion — upon us, everlasting:
You gave mothers their tenderness.

O what respite — when the time arrives,
an entire world is caught by a single hair.

O what a moment — when, in the hour of captivity,
You seize a world by the tip of a hair.

O what bounty — so much of it has attended us
that its thanks, too, only You know how to speak forever.

O what severity — in pressing the proof,
neither the strength for silence nor the face for speech.

O what permission — for if there were no path,
no one would have the nerve for a sigh.

O what parting — so many ran
and did not see You, yet they did not-not-see.

O what rest — the holiest of the high
forever glory in that revelation.

O what sweetness — the purified and clean
perfume the nostrils of the soul with it.

We are all helpless, standing in place.
For this helplessness of ours, forgive us.

When we fall into the cradle of the grave,
like infants we are born into that world.

That grave becomes a narrow cradle.
The shroud wraps around our shoulders like stone.

Two dark ones enter, full of force.
They rock our cradle — the grave.

Like infants with stern, harsh mothers,
we tremble from the threat and terror of the dark ones.

We have no mother, no tenderness.
The world has turned its face from us.

Both stranger and kin have cut us off.
Like infants we are, with a hard road ahead.

Like infants, having never seen the world —
O what hardship — how terrified we shall be.

When we have been one hour in the dust,
from those dark ones, keep us safe, O Pure One.

They say to us: "Who is your Lord?" and "What is your faith?"
O God, we beg You for the prompting.

Since You Yourself raised us in honour,
do not hand us back to the dark ones.

If You do not teach us what to say —
long the road, and hard the work.

This pain will remain with us to eternity.
I do not know what He will do with us.

O Lord, we are all lost.
Affliction-struck and soaked in sorrow.

From head to foot we are twist upon twist.
Head or foot — we are nothing upon nothing.

Have You no heart for comforting us?
Does Your heart not burn for a moment at our weeping?

Since You have no heart, how can it burn from weeping?
What am I saying — You hold all hearts.

O Lord, here I am, helpless, left behind,
in this thought, a heart broken to a hundred pieces.

Though my body has no trace of You,
You are never absent from the soul for an instant.

You are within the secret of my reason and my soul.
That is why my tongue scatters such jewels.

You, in the end, are beyond need of the world.
The speech is cut short — and God knows best.

II. The Second Discourse — In Praise of the Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him

No praise befits — among the people of true sight —
the foremost and the full moon of all creation.

When this prayer-speaker trembles with awe,
how can his tongue become a speaker of praise?

Since the grace of his being is above all speech,
the tongue has failed — what place is there for speaking?

What shall I say? God Himself spoke his praise,
for his name is joined with the name of God.

Muhammad — the truthful of speech, the trustworthy.
To the world, a mercy unto all the worlds.

Muhammad, upon whom creation bears its seal.
The exalted one whose crown belongs to the proud.

Muhammad — the best of both worlds.
The order of faith and the world, the pride of Adam.

In substance, the jewel of the casket of prophecy.
In meaning, the star of the tower of nobility.

The teacher of the writing of the Everlasting.
The illuminator of the realm of the heights.

The confidant who speaks the secrets of sovereignty.
The one who knows the mysteries of God.

The whole world is a single sweeper of his court.
The sky is a single patched-robe wearer of his lodge.

While Adam was still between water and clay,
he was already the king of the world of heart and soul.

In Adam there was a light from his existence —
else why would the angels have prostrated?

Since the world held his light in trust,
it passed from Adam all the way to Abdullah.

He passed through so many prophets —
from all of them, like a jewel, he fell to the top.

From every station, as he moved toward the next,
though already ripened, he ripened further.

When at last the work was brought to completion —
though he came late, he came perfected.

Since he kept retreat for forty years before revelation,
the Trustee of Revelation brought the Revelation at once.

Gabriel came before the peacock of the angels,
the holy ones following as his retinue.

Gabriel the Trustworthy raised a cry at once:
"O Master, open your tongue — quick!

Make your heart full of light a sea of faith.
Speak the words of revelation from the Lord of Worlds.

You are worthy of the unseen music of gratitude,
for you know the modes of these nine veils.

You are the one present to the mysteries, the one who perceives.
Be not silent: Read! In the name of your Lord.

How can the moon and sun be covered?
Cast off the cloak: Arise and warn.

You are the king, and all horizons are your host.
You are the root, and all the world is your dependant.

Call creation to the Truth, and be their guide.
You are upon the Truth — by the Truth, be a prophet."

When God sent revelation from the light of the soul,
from then on the knowledge of the Quran left his memory —

At last, when he stepped forward with the call,
the law became new and Islam became new.

He guided a world toward meaning.
From the marrow of every word he drew the oil.

The overturning of every heresy was from him,
for the light of the jewel of fortune was from him.

When the light of his fortune shone one atom forth,
moon and sun received from that one atom.

He came with his musky tresses unbound,
the crown of By your life! set upon his head.

From his hair, musk breathed into the world.
From his face, light reached the heavens.

Three dimensions are perfumed by the fragrance of his hair.
Both worlds are illuminated by the light of his face.

O what a sun — the face of his beauty,
whose cloak keeps it in shadow.

O what musk — his two dark tresses,
each hair sheltering a hundred souls.

From the Presence his breast received its light.
From Paradise he received grapes during prayer.

Inside his soul, each of those grapes
became like the cluster of the Pleiades, all light.

Though his soul was full of God's light,
yet he was afflicted by the unbelievers.

Sometimes a stone chipped his tooth.
Sometimes his feet swelled from worship.

Sometimes he laid his hand upon his heart from grief.
Sometimes from weakness he bound a stone upon his belly.

Since this world and the next were for his sake,
the sky found affliction useful for his sake.

He had to bear so much pain
because without pain you will not carry the treasure.

According to that exegete who is trustworthy —
though some hold otherwise —

When he turned his ring,
Gabriel came for that judgment:

"O Master, keep your heart far from the ring.
The ring does not give light to the work.

The sky is a ring-back for your sake.
Why did you busy yourself with a finger?

You have a heart in the finger of the Merciful.
Do not look at the ring like Solomon.

Though your ring bears your name,
even if it is gold, it is forbidden.

Turn the prayer beads on your finger —
for prayer beads are on the finger of true men.

Since the moon has become your thimble,
you have poked your finger into the eye of time.

On each finger you have a hundred skills and more.
Why bring your heart to a ring?

It would suit you to tie a thread on your finger
so that it reminds you of the anguished.

You cannot bear the reproach of Majesty.
If without us you dip your finger in water —

Do not turn from us by even a hair.
Do not let go of a single hair from your finger.

Since you have a sound finger for the work,
bring it out from beneath the bloodied cotton.

Take account on your finger with yourself,
so that the Last Day will be easy before you."

That is why I wind this tale around the finger:
because no one else beside you amounts to anything to me.

That is why I placed my finger on your word —
for you are the pupil and I am the Master.

Did you not, from the knowledge of the Quran, with a hundred souls,
place your finger on the tablet before Us?

In the Battle of Mecca, from the cold of fingertips,
your finger won sovereignty with angels.

Though a pen was never in your finger,
from you all the people of the pen have this honour.

From your glory, reason and soul remain bewildered.
Reason stands biting its finger in astonishment.

Both worlds, from end to end, depend on you.
The Resurrection is equal to one finger of yours.

You are shadowless — and before you, the sun
sucks your finger like a child, hoping.

The sun pitched its tent upon the sky
because it dipped one finger in salt with you.

Since you hold the Spring of Khidr in your fist,
bring forth a spring from beneath each finger.

Set your foot upon the Throne from the arena of earth,
for from the crown of your head it is one finger to the Throne.

If Gabriel becomes a finger in your presence,
his feather would burn like a fingertip.

From your light, the holy ones unfurl their wings.
With your finger they point to one another.

No one like you has sat in the seat of prophecy.
All fingers on the hand are not the same.

It is not the one who has sweets before him
whose finger is longest that has more.

Go — place your finger on the pulse of the Truthful One,
for he has a heart full of the light of certainty.

Tell Umar to rise from anger
and poke his finger into the eye of Iblis.

Tell Uthman: be strengthened by the Quran.
Strike each leaf of the Quran with your finger.

Tell Ali, for the sake of obedience,
to give away his ring during prayer.

Go and judge the idol-worshippers.
Make their world a ring on your finger.

If they demand a miracle from you suddenly,
point with one finger toward the moon.

With your truthfulness, honour the faith.
With one finger, cut the moon of the sky in two.

Your envious one bites his finger in grief.
You split the moon in two with one finger.

The fingertip that shied from your religion —
with one finger, hang him on the gibbet.

From a handful of unfinished cattle of the age,
pull your finger from the poisoned kid.

If a fingertip inclines toward your earth,
at that moment no one will guard your faith.

Recite the Quran — do not be silent, my friend,
even if the unbeliever puts his finger in his ear.

When Bilal puts his finger in his ear,
he holds all speech in silence.

If they strike a hard stone upon your lip,
go — put your finger on your lip, do not breathe.

For when the time comes, I shall take that stone
and upon those stony-hearted ones of the world, make things tight."

O what rank, O what power, O what destiny.
O what a master, O what truthfulness, O what a throne.

O what a king — the seal of the world of dust.
O what a sultan of the realm of the heavens.

O what — the Glorious Throne is your doorstep.
O what — the seven skies are a single house of yours.

O what — the most excellent of all prophets.
O what — the most intimate one before God.

O what — the general of your generosity is the sea.
O what — the stars are the knockers of your roof.

O what — the one who holds the divine secret.
From moon to fish, all lean upon you.

O what — from the exalting, the sky has made
your dust the kohl for the eyes of the stars.

On the Day of Gathering, Adam and all below him, together,
all under your banner, hand in hand.

As Jesus stands at your door as one of fifty gatekeepers,
Aaron at your gate is Moses son of Amram.

The prince of the forerunners, Idris the Great,
from your light has become the intimate of the Sanctuary.

The Friend of God, when he found your name the love of his soul,
found cash-in-hand paradise even in hellfire.

Without you, Ishmael remained in mourning,
hoping to be sacrificed on your road.

With a hundred sweet melodies, David, soul-burning,
recites the Psalms of your love night and day.

Solomon, despite all that sovereignty,
is but a single soldier in your army.

Christ the Dyer, from this indigo sky,
sews your name upon his soul with a needle.

All the prophets are in your assembly,
yet none but God has been your companion.

Adam's veil was a few grains of wheat —
neither wheat nor paradise was your bond.

Moses' veil on the road was his sandals.
You, with sandals, passed beyond both worlds.

Christ's veil on the road was a needle.
For you, at every station there was a window.

You are the night-lamp for the prophets.
You are the true candle of the saints.

The lantern of the four arches and eight gardens.
On the Night of Ascension, a lamp within the night.

One night Gabriel came from afar,
bringing Buraq, lightning-faced, made of light:

"O Master, pass beyond this prison.
Journey to the spiritual realm of sovereignty.

For many prophets and messengers are there,
and in every direction, a world of houris waits.

All sit on the road, eyes fixed upon it,
for your coming, O sun of the Court.

The houris have cast themselves from the balconies,
hoping you might take one as a gift.

A clamour has risen among the angels
that perhaps you will ride Duldul to the other side.

All night the world-illuminating stars
burn rue-seeds for the evil eye until dawn.

I know that you hold so much light
that God has given you ease from houris.

Now rise, bring forth your Buraq,
for I know how your longing is.

Take a step in the holy world.
Take hold of that ring and knock upon the Sanctuary."

When the tongue of his soul became confidant of God,
he turned his heart upon its own secret.

How can the nightingale beat its wings in a cage?
By that answer, the Prophet became thus.

From this expanse of dust, the lightning-faced Buraq
rode forth and delivered the first sermon upon the heavens.

He became teacher to the devoted worshippers.
He gave lessons in truth to the messengers.

A world of prophets, seasoned in work,
having seen from the Presence much light of faith.

From his light, they saw themselves as nothing —
what am I saying — in the fire they saw only smoke.

From the surface of the earth, in the blink of an eye,
he rose to the space of "two bows' length."

He set foot upon the peak of highest paradise.
He planted his banner on the Throne of the Lord of Worlds.

The turquoise sky was in uproar
from the sound of the green-robed ones' heralds.

At last he kept ascending, seeking the heights,
a hundred thousand angels crying: "Make way!"

From fish to moon, they laid out provisions from the ground.
The Bearers of the Throne heaved their burdens together.

Paradise was adorned, its gates flung wide.
Curtains were hung, cushions were laid.

A clamour fell upon the Great Throne:
"The foremost, the full moon of both worlds has come!

The prince and the lord of lords has come!
The commander of all existence has come!"

When he journeyed through the nine blue veils
and passed beyond the curtain of the Unseen,

Nothing could hold him in its place,
for he was free of all that came before him.

He did not glance in any direction —
perhaps he had a companion in the Highest.

Though the courtyard of the garden was full of houris,
his two eyes were lined with the kohl of "the eye did not swerve."

So brightly did that light shine from the Presence
that the Holy Spirit remained far behind.

When the precincts shone with God's light,
the Holy Spirit immediately cried out:

"O Master, if I come one step further,
this radiance will burn my wing."

O Trustworthy Spirit — before such a Presence
where the nerve of the prophets turned to water —

Why did you take upon yourself so much of the king's grief
that you raised the cry of "Were I to draw nearer"?

A thousand souls are burning on this road.
As for you — let your wing burn, O Messenger of the Court.

The truthful ones do not know head from foot.
You grieve for a wing at such a place as this?

If you stride into the nearness of this Presence,
your wing will burn — are you a man for this station?

O Trustworthy Spirit, sit at the threshold.
Be not troubled — for I have a time with God.

You are my pupil: sit in your place.
Ask me: what is goodness, and what is faith?

The turn of 'a heavy word' has passed.
You stay at the door now, O Gabriel.

For you, inside the curtain, there is no way —
not every officer is a man of the court.

I am a moth before God's light.
You are trapped in the feathers of a peacock.

Seek refuge in God — what do you seek from a wing?
Speech enters the secret — what do you say about a wing?"

A thousand souls full of the secrets of wisdom —
all sacrificed for the soul of that sea of purity.

When he passed beyond the Holy Spirit,
he passed beyond all that came before him.

In rank, where the Master had his place,
Saturn there, by comparison, was stuck in mud.

So near to God did his soul draw by light
that Gabriel fell away into the distance.

In form, Gabriel the Trustworthy was such
that a single wing stretched from sky to earth —

Yet there, so far was he from the Master
that the Master seemed to him like a sparrow.

When he passed beyond direction, the way grew narrow.
At last he drew near to the Lord of Glory.

What shall I say of what happened in that Presence?
For at that moment he was outside his own existence.

In that nearness, his heart surged with secrets.
From that awe, his tongue ceased to work.

Like a flower-petal his soul sweated with modesty.
His soul had cut the thread of imagining.

He passed beyond sense and passed beyond the soul.
When he lost himself, he looked from himself into God.

As much as his eye could work,
his heart was making vision within his eye.

When from the court he descended to the inner chamber,
the divine light entered, and he was gone.

In that awe, Muhammad remained without action.
Muhammad became estranged from Muhammad.

When God saw him beating his wings,
He spoke peace to him at once, in comfort.

From that state He brought him to himself a moment,
offered him a greeting and a welcome.

The address came: "Leave your self — come in.
Enter through 'He hears' and emerge through 'He speaks.'

Ask for whatever desire you have at once.
Why have you lost yourself? What has happened to you?

Now that you have burned the idols together,
intercede for your community for a while."

An orphan — and from his orphanhood this wonder:
that he is the intercessor for the creation of both worlds.

A pauper — and from his poverty this marvel:
that Throne and earth are filled with his fame.

Behold — though you are an orphan, though poor,
"Am I not —?" is yours — this is greater than all.

What fear is there of poverty? Poverty is glory,
for "the mole on the face in both worlds is poverty."

You are a pearl — if orphaned, what is there to fear?
For a pearl's finest description is: "the orphan."

At last, when he severed lineage from himself,
he heard with the ear of the soul the peace of God.

It is not right to say he drank this alone —
"For me, and for the righteous servants."

See such generosity: when he drank this cup,
he did not forget these poor creatures.

The address came: "O absolutely innocent one,
you have the right, and God's right deserves the right.

Ask whatever you wish to ask.
From you the asking, from Us the granting."

When the Lord of Glory entered into secrets,
the Prophet also entered into speech:

"O Lord, I have a community of sinners.
By Your grace, keep them from the Fire.

See their weeping and their heart-burning.
Grant them the meeting with You as their portion.

You know the hope of all — be faithful.
By Your kindness, fulfil the need of all.

The whole world is a handful of dust, O Pure One.
Do not give the hopes of a handful of dust to the wind.

The kingdom of the sea is not disturbed
if a grain of sand is happy in this sea.

What is lost from a shoreless ocean
if a piece of straw gazes into it?

If You show mercy to the people of the Gathering,
from this sea, only a hair's tip will get wet."

He spoke this, and the nightingale of holiness flew on,
the nostrils of his soul full of musk from the rose of intimacy.

The nostrils of the chosen prophets —
unable to reach what he had reached.

The prophets arrived mounted on the road.
On foot, they ran alongside his stirrup.

All the cherubim spread their wings
and placed the dust of his road upon their heads.

The holy ones sat in watchfulness of him
until a fragrance reached them from his meanings.

What do you think — that the dust of that Master's feet
holds no weight before the Lord of the world?

By the dust of his feet He swore an oath —
for He said: Nay, I swear by this city.

For a moment, O master of faith, be with Attar.
Be his intercessor — attend to his need.

To you I am like the dog of the Companions of the Cave,
for as long as I exist, I am stationed at this threshold.

With the water of my eyes I have made the ablution of repentance —
perhaps I may become the dust of the sole of your foot.

I am, in separation from that pure Garden,
pouring dust upon my head from longing.

If one day I enter that arena,
what shall I say — I emerge from this curve of the polo-stick.

With a sigh I will break the bonds of the world.
I will make the embalming-spice of my soul from your dust.

Three wishes I ask from your threshold —
for I am in great need of you.

That before death, this heart-surrendered dervish
may see your pure Garden before him.

And that you will not count me among the poets,
nor look upon me with the eye of poets.

And that when my soul flies free from my body,
you take it in your arms — O Lord, may it be so.

O heart, sacrifice the soul on his road.
In piety, turn your face to his threshold.

In this world, speak always of his pure faith.
In the next, lay your hand upon his saddle.

I will tell you a parable — think on it clearly:
a man has a cup full of honey before him.

If a child says to him: "Be still —
beneath that honey there is poison in the cup" —

When he has heard those words from the child,
without doubt he will draw back his hand.

So many prophets have warned you
that there will be a hard affair upon the road.

At the word of a child you took the path of caution.
At the word of the prophets — get off the road.

O God, make the light of faith our companion.
Make Muhammad the intercessor for us.

Do not turn him away angry at our deeds.
Make his pure soul pleased with us.

Blessings beyond a hundred thousand
upon him from God, and from him upon all his companions.

Especially the four companions of pure essence:
Abu Bakr and Umar, Uthman and Haydar.

The Prophet said: "They are the stars.
Whichever of them you follow, you shall be guided."

III. The Third Discourse — On the Virtue of His Companions

The first exemplar of the House of the Caliphate,
the world of truthfulness, the son of Abu Quhafa.

The foundation of God's faith, the base of certainty,
the deputy of the king of the Law: the Truthful One.

The radiant sun of the sky of truthfulness,
the lamp of the saints: Abu Bakr the Truthful.

The first light of the Law's eye,
companion of the Chosen One and "the second of the two."

When the wine of the Law began to ferment,
he drank it, saying: "We believed and confirmed."

He was the first to drink the cup of wisdom,
drinking the first effervescence from the hand of the Chosen One.

He went before the Prophet in leading prayer.
He came rich and departed a dervish.

When God called in the ear of his soul,
whatever he had, he gave it all, along with his daughter.

When he gave away all that he had of gold and silver,
from the wealth of this world he was content with a blanket.

O what vision and pure devotion!
Yet being a Truthful One is no game.

O dissenter — come, read and recognize:
"You shall be called to a people of mighty valour."

From the first day to the Day of Resurrection,
the Prophet honoured him with grace.

At the beginning, his companion in every sorrow —
in city, in cave, and on the mountain.

In the middle, the first special deputy,
serving as the Prophet's successor in faith.

At the end, lying in the dust beside him.
O what a master and disciple — nimble and alert.

The sun of the sky of faith: Umar, the light of address.
The lamp of the eight paradises, the candle of the companions.

What a candle — around which the famous sun
revolves like a moth.

From the radiance that candle of faith possessed,
nothing less than highest paradise would suit it.

If he were not the axis of God's true faith,
the perfection of the Law would have no lustre.

For the sake of losing his head, he gave his head.
He laid down his head so that he might be the chief.

When he set out to take the head of the candle of guidance,
before the Tā of Tā-Hā he sacrificed his head.

When the eye of his soul became a seer of secrets,
his doubt was lifted and all difficulties became certainty.

He was the first to add perfection to the Law.
Among the forty men, he was first.

The Messenger said of him: "Were there another besides,
no one would be a prophet after me but Umar."

The Lord of the world, from the light of his soul,
spoke words upon his tongue without him.

When he made himself God's earring,
in His name he drank the killing poison.

He tested poison upon himself
because he had a hundred antidotes of the Distinguisher.

So hidden did injustice become in his time —
like a teardrop in the midst of the Red Sea.

The world found rest from his justice.
Oppression was annihilated from fear of him.

He opened the way to Persia until the Resurrection,
setting down one thousand and sixty-six pulpits.

The commander of the people of faith, the master of the Quran,
the Commander of the Faithful: Uthman of the Affan.

The chosen lord of both worlds,
by his son-in-law-ship the Possessor of Two Lights.

If forbearance and modesty became a portrait,
they would be illuminated by the Possessor of Two Lights.

"Modesty is faith" — or a part of faith.
In any case, it is from the light of Uthman.

He is the seal of the ring of forbearance and modesty.
He is the chief of the free and the crown of the generous.

When he compiled the divine scripture together,
he cast a fragment of eternity into the world.

In his gathering we are all his guests.
We are all pensioners of his register.

At first he devoted his life to the Quran of God.
At last he sacrificed himself for the sake of God.

Because from the start he so drank the blood of the Quran,
perhaps therefore the Quran drank his blood in return.

He had reached the Dyeing of God,
when his blood suddenly became the Dyeing of God.

Who did that for the sake of this treacherous world?
I do not know who sanctioned it.

They did not do it from love of the treacherous world —
rather, they did this thing to the men of faith.

One they killed upon the Quran.
One they easily killed in prayer.

One they flung, the poison of his heart, from his breast.
One they flung headless into Karbala.

Leave this — be for God, for He is the root.
Beyond this, lay your head down and pull in your head, friend.

The horseman of faith, the Prophet's cousin.
The champion of the foremost, the master of the Pool of Kawthar.

In body, Rostam riding the Rakhsh of Duldul.
In heart, the diver of the sea of trust in God.

Absolutely, he was the most excellent of his time.
In truth, he was the proof of Islam.

He gave the call of "Ask me!" in the world.
With one gesture, he gave a hundred signs from both worlds.

Such should prayer be, if you are a person of the secret —
so that your prayer may truly be prayer.

So absorbed was his soul in God's light during prayer
that they drew the arrowhead from his foot.

When his prayer was so chosen,
by its al-Fatiha the matter was thus sealed.

From his generosity, sea-clouds were but a reflection.
In his eyes, a world full of gold was a stream.

O you, pale gold — withdraw in hopelessness.
And you, O silver — stop this whiteness too.

For when this red-faced one set out on the green path,
white and yellow both turned black before his eyes.

O what a master — since the foundation of faith,
his heart has been the knower of secrets and the seer of the road.

From childhood until he made himself old,
he pronounced the takbir over this base world.

Since the world was fire and you were a lion,
that is why you were weary of the world.

Though a hungry lion seldom sits still,
he would not eat the bread of this world to fill his belly once.

That is why he sought poverty and need in the world:
because the world was thrice-divorced before him.

O you whose soul has gone in fanaticism,
the sins of the people have entered your ledger.

From ignorance, a heart full of hypocrisy and deceit —
you have become trapped between Ali and Abu Bakr.

Sometimes this one is acceptable before you.
Sometimes that one is dismissed from the work.

If this one is better, or the other — what is that to you?
Since you, like a door-ring, are on the outside — what is that to you?

You have sat your whole life in this misery.
I do not know when you worshipped God.

How long will you follow desire? Take the path of God.
If God asks you about this — hold me responsible.

I know with certainty that tomorrow, before the assembly,
the seventy-two sects will become one.

What shall I say — whether fair or foul, they all,
when you look closely, are seekers of Him.

O God, bring the rebellious self to submission.
Cast meddling from our minds.

Occupy our hearts with Yourself.
Dismiss the one who seeks fanaticism.

IV. The Fourth Discourse

O you who are both the pain and the cure of heart and soul —
you are that light: "fire shall not touch it."

Through the latticed windows of a niche,
you have made your nest upon a blessed branch.

You are in the lamp of the body, a niche of light.
From the nearness of what you are — the farthest of the far.

Break the glass and pour out the oil.
Cling to the light of a star of pearl.

What have you to do with East and West?
The light of heaven is your fortress.

O nightingale, sweet-speaking, of secrets —
remove the lock from the jewel-chest.

Like Jesus, become sweet of tongue in speech.
Break the shell and scatter pearls.

Lift your head with your beautiful voice,
for there is a voice in silk and in reed.

The nightingale's sweet singing exceeds yours,
for it is drunk on the sweetness of its own voice.

From your own hearing, do not cry out so much —
a hare can hear a sound from ten miles.

From your sight, do not think this glory and wisdom —
a sparrow can see from twenty leagues.

Of your imperfect sense of smell, say less —
a mouse can smell from one mile.

From your own fancy, do not think yourself increasing —
the hoopoe showed water from its own intuition.

If you are more than all of them, it is because
you are eloquent and possessed of pure knowledge.

O drop, chosen for the heights,
having caught a fragrance from the sea of eternity —

Though from the sea you chose the heights,
yet you arrived at your own perfection.

When from the sea you went toward the heights,
you became the pearl-tutor of the shell.

Without travel, you would not become a jewel.
Once you become ash, you will not become an ember again.

You travelled from the sea toward the elements.
Without travel, when does a drop become a pearl?

First the raindrop made its journey,
and after that it filled the ocean floor with gems.

If the jewel remained hidden in the sea,
it would be no different from the dust of the road.

But when the jewel emerges from the sea,
it comes forth from beneath a tray full of gold.

When the silkworm leaves its place and travels,
it emerges from silk and satin.

If travel did not have this consequence,
the sky would have a single moment of rest.

If travel had no such value,
the new moon would not become a full moon from its journey.

O good companion, quick and unyielding —
for a moment, rise from this four-walled frame of nature.

Fly to the world of No-Place.
For a while, be without earth and without time.

For in timelessness, a hundred years and one breath
are both the same before you.

There, a single breath is a hundred years.
Past and future become the present.

But the present does not exist in time,
for the reason that it is not heavenly.

You will not find the end of the turning of the ages.
You will not see the revolution of the revolving wheel.

When the heavens become the light of the eye,
such things as these will not be as those.

There will be neither decrease nor perfection there,
neither past, nor future, nor present.

Since that Presence is far from both worlds,
it is therefore far from time and from place.

In one breath, the Mahdi and Adam are one —
neither that one more than this, nor this less than that.

If you exchange this earth in a single moment,
you will see eternity and pre-eternity as one.

Since there, there is neither how nor how much,
pre-eternity and eternity have a bond.

I know with certainty that both are nothing but one.
The realized one has no doubt in this meaning.

O conjurer, master of the cup of tricks —
lift the veil from the puppet of meaning.

Like a magician, perform a sleight of hand.
Drink a draught and commit a drunkenness.

From dust, polish clean the mirror of the soul.
Empty the cup and show it pure.

From the coil upon coil of the bonds of time,
you have been trapped in the corner of the house.

If you show your face from behind the veil,
you will burn the seven aged spheres.

You are a treasure — the nine heavens are around you.
Rise from the four walls of time.

Break the talisman and the bonds and the chains of salvation.
Break the door and the vestibule of all existence.

You are a treasure, but in the bonds of a talisman.
You are a soul, but in the prison of a body.

From this prison of the world, take up your baggage.
Cut your heart entirely from this hard bond.

You have remained between filth and greed.
You do not know what you have been kept from.

You are excused, for you have no awareness
that here you do not have what you seek.

Since from God you do not find the provision of the rogue,
it is no wonder if you do not find it.

O bird of wisdom, know for a moment:
what better nest will you find than this?

Spread your wings in the flight of meaning.
Open the doors of the seven-doored house.

When you have flown past the four and the nine,
pass beyond yourself and open your eyes to God.

Why have you become seduced by the dwelling of the demon?
You have gone mad — you have become like a demon.

Since you know you must depart soon,
and the face of return will not be there either —

What will you do with the place of deceit and trickery?
Pass the world by and let Iblis be.

Know that this world is the fief of Iblis.
This world is the house of deceit and trickery.

Give him back his house and go.
Cast your gaze upon the Presence and go.

Since Iblis has no business with your place,
you too, by the proper way, pass from his place.

When from this furnace you reach that garden,
consider it as though you never saw this furnace.

First, stride into the holy world.
After that, set foot in the world of intimacy.

When you sit upon the green brocade,
you will be everything, and you will not see yourself.

When you have passed through so many veils and snares,
after a while you will become a guide upon that roof.

Your eye will open to the sun of the world.
The door of the sea of the soul will open to you.

When you have become the guide, look within yourself.
Know yourself, and set out for the Court.

For when you become a self-knower, you become a God-knower.
After that, you will quickly be among the foremost.

If your existence brings a veil before you,
from that state it will bring you to yourself for a moment.

When your existence does not appear before Him,
you will remain beside His door, selfless.

Then again a veil will come before you —
selfhood within selflessness will return to itself.

When it becomes aware, pleasure will appear.
From joy, it will cry out once more.

Like a moth, it throws itself upon the fire,
so that its existence may be lifted from before it.

When the veil of its existence is lifted,
its intoxication brings strength once more.

Sometimes falling, sometimes rising, it remains.
Sometimes without soul, sometimes with soul, it remains.

Sometimes in pleasure, sometimes in annihilation.
Sometimes in separation, sometimes in abiding.

I will tell you this word openly:
sometimes grief — what is it? — sometimes tenderness is with you.

The Eternal has no quarrel with the temporal.
And if there is a quarrel, there is no mixing.

Now, O sun nursed in shade —
who told you to turn from the nurse's side?

Since you hasten in the world of the temporal,
what will you find from the light of the Third World?

O bird — come out of this snare.
For a moment, stride in the meadow of paradise.

Since you have become the intimate of secrets in the heart,
having enjoyed the branch of love —

Turn your face from the wall at last.
Descend into the secrets at last.

Every atom of the world that you see,
if you sit in pursuit of it —

That atom will become so visible on the path
that it will become a light from the lights of the Court.

Every atom will become like a sun.
Veil upon veil will appear.

Secrets keep emerging from behind veils —
the road is long and the end invisible.

No one ever finds its beginning.
No one ever finds its limit or its end.

Thus has spoken a pure and honest devotee:
"I remained forty years in need.

From every single atom there is a road to the Friend,
but to your eye the world is dark.

He placed a veil and gave you many terrors,
so that the unworthy might be distinguished from the worthy.

If you have any worthiness on this road,
from atom after atom, go all the way to the Court.

If from the Beyond there were no gaze upon you,
from your direction there would be no journey to you.

But since the light of the Beyond is your guide,
why is this laziness in your nature?

Look at last — if you have any presence —
for every moment a new light arrives from the Friend.

If the Friend takes one glance back at you,
you would not sell even a single hair for a world of gold.

If you polish clean the mirror of the heart,
a door will open to you within the breast of the heart.

A door that, when it opens to the Beloved,
the sky itself would not be fit to be its curtain-keeper.

You need three things from both worlds:
to know, to act, and to become the thing itself.

When your knowledge becomes luminous from worship,
your heart becomes the mirror of both worlds."

V. The Fifth Discourse — On Love

O heart, for a moment let go of water and clay —
give the call of love to the people of the heart.

With love's light, kindle the candle of the soul.
From the Beloved, learn the psalms of love.

Like a zither, speak the secret sign of love.
Like a nightingale, tell mysteries without a tongue.

Like David, recite the verse of the bewildered.
Read the psalms of love to the distracted.

Make love's discourse the litany of lovers.
Open heart and soul to the longing of lovers.

Like incense, burn upon the fire of love.
Like a candle, weep and burn sweetly.

Pour love's wine into the cup of reason,
and from there pour a draught upon your own soul.

When reason is drunk, give it no more pure wine —
put it to its ear so it boasts less.

When love comes, draw the bridle on reason.
With love's brand, draw the blue mark upon yourself.

Reason is water and love is fire in form —
water does not accord with fire by nature.

Reason sees nothing but the surface of both worlds,
but love sees nothing but the Beloved.

Reason is a sparrow in the snare of incompleteness,
but love is the Simurgh of meaning.

Reason is the preface of the garden's collected verse,
but love is a pearl — a lamp in the night.

Reason is the currency of the house of creation,
but love is the elixir of life.

Reason is the ascetic-seeming of every quarter,
but love is the carefree madcap.

Reason over the heart is a heart full of waiting,
but love stands at the forefront of the work.

Reason they clothe in the cloak of obligation,
but love they dress in the robe of honour.

Reason desires the path of learned speech,
but love desires the soul-kindling sigh.

Reason came as the nourisher and fashioner of the soul,
but love came as the fire that takes the soul back.

Reason is a child, and love is the master of the work.
From this to that, the difference is beyond counting.

Love and heart are two mirrors set opposite,
for from the beginning they stand face to face.

Between the two there is a single veil,
yet without the veil there is only one.

See the image in water free of murk —
the water and the image are one thing together.

From heart to love the road is not hard.
Between love and heart the distance is a hair's breadth.

The world of love is a bottomless ocean —
and yet if it were a hair, it would grow from a fingernail.

When love's army comes from its ambush,
reason has no road left in any direction.

Reason flees defeated on every side —
when love comes through the door, reason goes through the roof.

Whoever is in love's deep ocean
knows what an astonishing affair this is.

The conquest of the lover's path is a game of the gallows.
Do you suppose this love is a game?

Love's world is an astonishing essence —
they say the sorrow of love is a mere accident.

Who has ever seen such an accident in both worlds
that from it a single reason cannot last two moments?

The world is full of love's sultan's guards.
From fish to moon, the court of love extends.

Love does not suit just any weakling —
it requires one who is complete and skilled.

One bold and clean at play,
who from every sorrow draws a coquetry.

Drowned in this ocean of blood,
the world without the Friend has become a ring around him.

A thousand cups fallen into poison —
he has drunk them and kept his brow smooth.

A thousand firm arrows struck into the heart —
like a gazelle he runs, both feet in the mud.

He has no courage to cry out,
nor any room to remember the Beloved.

If he finds a sign of union,
at every moment he flees into separation.

For who can bear the nearness of union with the Beloved?
What does a dewdrop weigh against a flood?

In that ocean, what does such a drop weigh?
Against that sun, what does a single atom weigh?

Many souls in this raid they plundered.
Our souls they stole from us completely.

Behind the veil they melted souls to water.
Bodies in dust and blood they hurled.

Through bodies they blocked the roads to souls.
Through souls they renounced all ages.

A world's treasure they placed in a well.
A world's mountain they placed on a straw.

Earth and sky they opened wide.
The door of sacrificing souls they flung open.

Earth and sky they made perceptible.
The eternal world they made a lesson.

From the body a road to the heart they found, suddenly.
From the heart, a road to the soul — then to the Threshold.

The foundations of all things they laid together,
and after that they named it "the World."

When it was complete, they chose a thing
which they called Love — and heard it called.

This love appears easy to you,
for it shows itself only as much as your measure.

The remedy for love is tears and patience.
However fresh the rose, it still needs rain.

The happiness of lovers is from tears and patience.
All the garden's greenness is from clouds.

If the lover did not remain in separation,
love would never have any currency.

If the Beloved gave herself easily,
how could she give this pleasure of union?

If there were no waiting in love,
the splendour of the Beloved would not remain.

A moment of waiting for the heart's companion
is far sweeter than a kingdom already gained.

A mote of sorrow in love with the intimate Friend
is far sweeter than the joy of both worlds.

Both worlds are the shadow of love's sun.
Both realms are the eternal court of love.

Not an atom turns in either world
without being intimate with love's perfection.

By the hand of His own wisdom, God the Exalted
placed a perfection for every thing.

Plant and mineral and animal and the spheres,
among wind and water and fire and earth —

all revolve in love from state to state,
whether in a moment, a month, or a year.

Love's perfection in the animal is appetite and desire.
Love's perfection in the human is rank and power.

The perfection of the sphere is moving at the Command.
The perfection of the four jewels is the four pillars.

Each one's perfection is a fief that suits it —
beyond that fief it sets no foot.

The perfection of every atom is remembrance and praise,
which the knower hears one by one, clearly.

The perfection of the knowers is found in nothingness.
The perfection of the lovers is drunk in nothingness.

The perfection of the prophets is in a place where there is no place —
if anyone knows it besides God, it is not fitting.

The perfection of the holy ones is in love's nearness.
The perfection of love itself is in love's own degree.

From first to last, coil upon coil —
if there were no perfection, it would be nothing upon nothing.

If there were no perfection, what would they know?
From having no longing, all would remain bewildered.

To seek and search is perfection on this road.
The knowing heart is aware of this mystery.

From top to bottom it is like a chain unbroken —
know the path from one to the next is close.

The chain's end is in the hand of the Lord.
Marvel — see how this is fold within fold.

From the highest toward the lowest the work descends.
How great the power! How great the craft of the World-Holder!

It descends as the work of works requires.
It turns as His choice wills.

Without doubt, His choice is the greatest,
for there is no prior cause in us.

The Lord — whatever He has made,
if it seems not good to you, He made it good.

All horizons are running in love,
seeking love's perfection in this valley.

When no one has the longing for that love in the heart,
how could they ever find that love's savour?

The sky holds its heart in love like an arrow,
and from that madness wears a chain.

The angels, chained in the heavens,
by that chain they revolve upon the earth.

From the Presence a call descends.
The sky is shown a revolution.

When no more calls come from the Presence,
neither it remains, nor its orbit, nor its revolution.

O Sufi in the turquoise cloak!
How merrily you spin in the circle!

What a state — see, from love's unbroken bond:
until the Day of Judgment your turning continues.

You are worthy of love's perfection,
yet you have not been able to escape this bond.

When we open this difficult bond,
we shall come before the judge at your court.

We shall cast off this cloak before the singer
and become the gemstone in our own ring.

Beyond your ocean we shall dive.
You will be the common one, and we the elect.

And from there too we shall race toward the heights —
now from that longing, now from that savour, racing.

Into that ocean we shall dive,
and from that joy come before the judge.

We come moment by moment, as now,
at every veil like a snake shedding its skin.

If you need a respite from the hereafter,
reflect a moment on the secret of this world.

In this world, were you not at first blood?
See at the end how you have left this place.

Now water, now blood, now milk.
Now child, now youth, now old.

Now sultan of the faith, now the tavern-keeper.
Now dead wine, now the elder of mysteries.

A thousand veils in this world you passed through
until you turned from form and meaning.

In that valley which they name Love,
your parable of the world's veil is complete.

Who knows what hidden mysteries these are?
This is not speech — this is the light of reason in the soul.

If the eye of your heart opens to this,
from every atom it will draw a hundred secrets.

All the atoms of the world, in this lane,
see not a single breath but His face in motion.

All are turning, and this motion exists.
You are sightless, yet this motion is within you.

O you, unaware of love's play —
do you suppose this love is play?

Since you have no currency worthy of the Friend
that would have any value before the Friend,

ask of Him until you become an ocean
and in yourself become unseeing.

Make your heart in love an ocean full of secrets —
all its depth jewels, its waves light —

so that when you travel that ocean of meaning,
it brings to the road and you scatter on the road.

Make such an ocean your offering for the path,
so that on this path no dust remains on you.

If your soul becomes the offering for His road,
both worlds fall as offerings for you.

An old man brought a water-skin to Nizami
and said: "Fill it with gold — on your life, do not fall short!"

Nizami said: "This water-skin is huge!
It swallows everything — as though a wolf were inside."

"It profits you nothing," he said. "Fill it with gold.
Do not fill it halfway — fill it to the top."

At that moment they opened a casket with a jewel,
and put a little gold into the water-skin.

But the water-skin neither accepted it empty nor went away.
The treasurer stood baffled and helpless.

Ten more times they added gold,
but since the skin was not full, it stayed before him.

At last they filled the skin with gold
and moved him further from their presence.

When the Sufi took the gold, a state came over him.
He came back and stood before Nizami.

He poured the entire skin of gold over Nizami's head.
When the skin was empty, he threw it at the door.

He said: "I sat a long while,
waiting to bring an offering for your head.

Since I saw nothing worthy of you,
I scattered your own upon you and was free.

From you I receive the gold, and it is for your sake.
From you I take it, and upon you I hold nothing."

O dear one, since you have not the currency
to bring the Sultan an offering worthy of Him —

ask God for meanings for your soul,
that whatever He gives you, you scatter it upon Him.

What greater fortune does a beggar know
than to scatter his soul before the King?

I am in love, left spinning,
beside myself, left bewildered.

Between sleep and waking I have a state
in which my soul attains its height of perfection.

If that breath were not my harvest,
that breath would empty the breath of my heart.

My heart has no pleasure from the world but that.
What am I saying? — that breath is not from the world.

Whoever is not a lover is not human,
for he has not a single breath with such a companion.

If in the origin of things that breath had not been,
neither Adam's existence nor the world's would have been.

The breath that comes from the head of love to the soul —
by that breath I know the world alive.

O Attar, in the driving of secrets,
it is granted to you to scatter jewels.

Draw back the reins from the road of secrets,
for the road is long and the mount is not swift.

VI. The Sixth Discourse — On Body and Soul

Behold the ocean, if your eye can see —
the world is not the world; the world is foam upon the ocean.

All this world is fancy — think again.
Do not see a phantom as something real.

You must be mad or distracted
to have slept so long in fantasy.

You play fantasy like grown men —
matured in body, still a child in a sack.

A jinn trapped in a bottle — that is a child's business,
for the mature one is free of fantasies of high and low.

Listen — from the summit of the Throne, the secrets:
there is no one, O master, in this house.

Every letter you have seen came to nothing,
but in your eye it appeared full of twists.

The one letter that has no twist
is alif — and alif holds nothing.

How long will you recite the alphabet of this business?
For in the alphabet, alif is the very first letter.

Alif is nothing from the first; its end is lā.
From aleph to the final letter: lā — and madness.

If you begin the alphabet a hundred times from the start,
you remain caught between nothing and nothingness at the door.

You say: "I am a man! A man! A Rostam!"
Go — for only from Rakhsh comes the work of Rostam.

So said that noble one of faith:
"Since God has offered this Trust —

the earth and sky have shied away from it,
for they saw its burden as too heavy.

You came alone to bear it —
I fear you will draw a line through your own soul.

If this is the Trust, O shameful one,
a lame donkey bears it better than you."

If you lose your head, you will know this secret.
Otherwise you are a cat at someone's table.

At night they saw Hallaj in a dream —
his severed head in his hand, with a cup of rosewater.

They said to him: "How are you, O headless one?
Tell us — what is this chosen cup?"

He said: "The Sultan of good name
gives the cup into the hand of the one whose head is severed.

Only he drinks this cup of meaning
who has forgotten his own head."

First lose your body in the Name.
Then lose your soul after the Name.

Hide the body in His Name so completely,
as the alif disappears in Bismi —

when your body is gone, purify the soul.
Rise from the soul and lose yourself in the Named One.

There is an ocean from which knowledge was drawn.
All its waves have seized the heart of Adam.

Where does this ocean's wave settle?
What is the ocean? — it settles within us.

I need soul and body to remain —
yet if both remain, "I" does not.

You and I — this single "I" is poison in the work,
for from that one grain a mountain has grown, hanging overhead.

A king was passing with great pomp.
He saw a man sitting contentedly by the road.

He said: "O you, sitting happily on the ground —
do you wish to be like me, this happy?"

The man replied: "I do not wish to be bright.
I wish that 'I' not exist at all."

Whenever "I" does not remain in you,
duality on the road of soul and body does not remain.

If soul and body become luminous quickly,
your body becomes soul and your soul becomes body.

The body's darkness is like the back of the mirror,
but the soul is the bright face of the mirror.

When they polish the mirror's back clean,
both become one — whether pure or dust.

On the Day, are not some faces black
while other faces are like the moon?

When the mirror's back becomes like its face,
it is one, though it turns a hundred ways.

No one since Adam's time has ever given
a better parable for the body's resurrection.

I will tell you a bright point about your resurrection.
Listen — that I may tell you "you" without "I."

Your whole body, even today, is meaning —
for the body does not remain here, since this is the world.

But when the body loosens the soul's bond,
your whole body here appears as soul.

This same body will be yours, but luminous —
yet without obedience, do not pass beyond the body.

The inner meaning of all things will become manifest.
Without doubt, this is the testing of what is hidden.

For Muhammad, the soul was body and the body was soul.
Toward the Mi'raj he went with both together.

If you say: "I saw the body — it is dust.
How can a dusty body be pure soul?"

I answer: look into the grave.
But you are blind — who tells the blind to look?

To your eye the grave is bricks and dust and a ditch.
To another's eye it is a garden and a sanctuary.

One who knows the garden has seen the dust.
Why would he not call the body pure soul?

But so long as you are in time and place,
you will never be able to see the body as soul.

A heart-burning man asked Ali:
"Is there daytime in Paradise, O Lion of God?"

He said: "There is no joyful day there —
for the meaning is that there is no night there either.

There is no sun and no bitter cold.
You will see there neither darkness nor light."

These same bodies that exist here today —
these same bodies will be world-illuminating.

Bodies here are like the mirror's back.
They will become purified like the mirror's face.

Umar here — Umar there is a lamp.
Bilal of ebony skin — there he is like ivory.

The marrow of Abu Bakr's and Umar's feet
can be seen there as the moon is seen here.

If you split an apple in Paradise,
in its centre you will find a wide-eyed houri.

What if your body were to become light?
Every atom of the world would become a houri.

When a light like the moon appears to your eye,
why should not every atom in it contain a houri?

Did not the Master say: "In this moment it has appeared to me —
my Paradise and my Hell, from this broken wall"?

Since he ate the grapes of Paradise during prayer,
why did he not always see its houris?

Did not the Master say: "The Paradise and Fire of both worlds
are closer to you than the strap of your sandal"?

Know Paradise, by the Prophet's word,
extends from the edge of his chamber to his pulpit.

Since his eye was that which could see Gabriel,
his Paradise was therefore on the earth.

Ablution here — ablution there is light.
The inanimate here — the inanimate there is a houri.

When you become a seer of graves and earth,
you see the earth as nothing but garden and sanctuary.

You would see — if that eye were open —
that the Prophet is in prayer within the grave.

This water appears sweet to you,
but to the jinn your water appears as fire.

How shall I explain body and soul?
For I consider soul and body the same.

A woman who is old and frail today —
when she goes there, she is virgin and young.

A bearded man cannot bring his beard there,
for the wind of a beard cannot be carried to that place.

One who here was in enmity and force —
they resurrect him in the form of an ant.

The oppressor rises there as a dog, like fire.
The dog and Balaam — equal in form.

Body and soul of the dervish are one mirror —
by wisdom it shows from both its sides.

From this side it appears as body.
From that side its pure soul is the Name.

O dear one, what do you know of yourself?
Know body and soul as a wondrous talisman.

Paradise receives its adornment from your light,
for without your works it takes no beauty.

So said that great and chosen one:
"Paradise is already created at this moment.

But it will be complete only
when the people of the Resurrection enter it."

If a houri appeared in this world,
these people would be senseless until the next.

You cannot bear it today, here —
to see a soul-kindling houri here.

What power must be in your soul
that tomorrow you can bear a hundredfold!

You are that fallen, idle dot
that in Paradise will come of age.

Maturity is here; in the hereafter, its purification.
Your heart is here; in Paradise, its light.

The door and wall of Paradise are from life.
Its earth and sky are salvation.

Its trees are sincerity, devotion, and piety.
All the fruit of its trees is the secrets of meaning.

The Tree of Goodness grows there —
where hand and foot speak.

Did not the Master say that here, good fortune
plants a tree there with each good deed?

There neither kinship remains nor property,
for lineage is the child of deeds.

Many a man there is Father of Prayer.
Many a woman there is Sister of Charity.

It does not pass through the heart what that is like.
It does not come to the soul that this is from the world.

The whole world seethes with houris.
Like fingernails, they are alive and silent.

The doors and walls — they are all of them,
but behind the veil they are all hidden.

The earths and heavens are full of angels.
When will you see? — for your eye is of clay.

Whenever you come out of your clay nature,
you will see both worlds as they are now.

The meaning of everything will be revealed to you.
What am I saying? — if only you knew one!

The life you have seen is play and diversion.
Have you heard the name "the Good Life"?

Life, O friend, has fallen layer upon layer on you.
In every layer a kind has been placed.

"Am I not?" — when you heard it, what were you?
You did not exist. Being was the being that heard.

You had a life then; you have one now.
See how these two lives are alike.

Since you have no knowledge of the first,
and no trace of that kind of life remains —

since you have no sign of your own speech and life,
how will you know the life and speech of an atom?

May God not forgive in the hereafter
the one who says this sort of meaning is philosophy!

These secrets are from another cup entirely.
The philosopher has no business with this speech.

The seeker of truth sees this with a keen eye.
He sees both worlds as entirely one thing.

He sees the whole world as having been bondage.
He grinds that bondage to dust.

He gives it to the wind so no twist remains.
When he becomes nothing, nothing remains of him.

Whoever sees this and whose eye finds this clarity
has found it by the light of the Master of the World, the Chosen One.

Though you become pure and stripped of both worlds,
it will not come right without the light of Muhammad.

If you become dust on Muhammad's road,
both worlds become your dust from purity.

From the philosopher's words, stay far.
From intellect and cleverness, be banished.

If by intellect you draw the image of these secrets,
you will tie the fire-worshipper's cord among the unbelievers.

Beyond intellect the distance is so much greater
that even imagination's reach falls short of its depth.

Since you have no hand but in cleverness —
from the jug seeps only what is inside.

I will tell you my own belief,
though when will this become more with you?

The same creed that a handful of old women held —
that creed is mine. Now this is straight speech.

Know much, and like me be rendered helpless.
In truth, this is the religion of the old women.

That old woman gave her confession completely.
You, on the road, at every detail deny.

Since you exist without the cause of "how" and "why,"
if you come, you come without cause.

One raw man asked a question in this manner
of that rightful sultan, the Elder of Bastam:

"Why is the world like this?
That one the sky, this one the earth?

Since that is forever in motion,
why does this one stand still here?

Why do these seven revolve over one another here?
Why is this world a specific place?"

That absolute sultan answered him:
"Hear this answer from us, by God's truth.

Hear the speech — neither twist the heart nor turn the head.
Because what you see beyond this is: nothing.

Since in the root of all things we do not speak of cause,
in the branches too we do not seek cause.

When the philosopher's reason fell into causation,
it fell from the fortune of the Chosen One's religion.

There are no difficulties in the religion, no causes.
This faith and nation is nothing but surrender.

Beyond intellect we have a court —
but the philosopher is one-eyed on the road."

Everyone who said "why" spoke error.
Tell me — why must one say "why" at all?

"Why" and "how" are plants and dust of fancy.
Only one of pure understanding perceives this.

O dear one, you have heard the secret of soul and body.
From the kernel of every word you have drawn the oil.

Illuminate body and soul with secrets —
otherwise both soul and body will be trapped.

Since you see them helping each other,
together too shall be their captivity.

If you want from me a parable of soul and body —
the parable is of a blind man and a lame man on the road.

One was lame and one was blind.
Of those two, one was poor and the other naked.

The lame man could not go without feet.
The blind man, staying in place, could not find the way.

So the lame man climbed on the blind man's neck —
for one had eyes and the other had strength.

Together these two set out to steal.
At night they committed a theft suddenly.

When their theft was discovered,
both were caught at last.

From the lame man they tore out his eyes.
The light-footed blind man — his feet were cut off.

Since they had built their work together,
together they fell into the trap of affliction.

Since soul-face and body-face are two-faced —
if they are in torment, it is from both sides.

Since they are veiled, they are in torment —
ruined in the midst of burning fire.

Know the torment of lovers as another kind,
and know that most are unaware of it.

The lover's soul's torment is from a Beauty
whose endurance is nearly impossible for the soul.

If it becomes annihilated, from that it is freed.
A lasting life in annihilation is joined.

The Elder of the Companions gave a parable for this:
"You place an ocean on a hillock of water."

Another parable is the moth and the flame —
it cannot bear the fire, yet it gives its life sweetly.

From that light the whole world would collapse.
The mountain crumbles and Moses too would fall.

If you accustom yourself — without yourself — in that light,
you will be near to it and far from it.

As the wise diver brings a child
with a hundred gentle acts down into the ocean,

so that the child grows accustomed to the sea
and perhaps learns to become a pearl-seeker —

when the beauty of Joseph appeared from afar,
the world became like Egypt's Friday mosque with light.

The women of Egypt, when they saw his face,
all at once cut their hands.

From unconsciousness they became so heartsick
that the food of forty days did not come to their memory.

Zuleikha did not lose herself in his presence quickly,
for she was accustomed to the sight of him.

See at last how the sweet moth
throws itself upon the fire.

When from a candle light reaches the moth,
the moth comes fluttering in from afar.

From love of fire, caution does not remain.
Its wing burns, and caution does not remain.

Though when it burns it finds profit,
yet from fire it also sees smoke.

In this disagreeable hall of the world,
you will not see a lover like the moth.

Such a longing for the Friend is in its soul
that it thinks neither of marrow nor of skin.

When it beats its wing a moment in the Beloved's lane,
it burns in the radiance of the Beloved's face.

O God, from this discourse You have given me savour.
Like the moth You have given my heart longing.

As I drink the ocean of Your longing,
from Your longing I seethe like the ocean.

From longing for You I came into the world of dust.
From longing for You I go to the world of purity.

From longing for You I lie in my shroud in bliss.
From longing for You on the Day of Resurrection I raise my head.

If every atom of me became an ear,
from longing for Your name it would become senseless.

If every hair of me became a tongue,
it would find no sign but from Your name.

If from every part of me an eye were opened,
it would see nothing but You behind the veil of mystery.

If from me an atom remains, or nothing at all —
it calls You, it knows You, nothing else.

When that old man, the Elder of the Companions, died,
his disciple saw him that night in a dream.

He asked: "Tell me — how was your state
when they questioned you: 'Who is your Lord?'"

He said: "I saw those two.
I surrendered myself to my God.

They said to me: 'O you who have slept sweetly —
who is your God, and what is your answer here?'

The eloquent one of the world, in no chapter,
ever went home for want of an answer.

I said: 'I, from this narrow place,
have exchanged a palace — not a God.

Propel me toward the Truth like an arrow from a bow.
Tell them in truth — so-and-so the elder says this.'

You have as many mysteries to seek
as there are grains of sand, leaves, and hairs.

You, among all these pure heart-increasing ones —
You did not forget me in such a place.

For me, in both worlds there is no one but You.
That I should forget You — this is not my desire."

VII. The Seventh Discourse — On Truth

What is truth? To be prescient —
to pass beyond yourself and be with yourself.

If your soul steps forth from form
you will see by necessity everything you know.

Both worlds will not come as your veil —
you will see both worlds in a single breath.

If you step beyond this form
you will become that which veils the moon and sun.

When they gave your soul the station of light
they turned the tip of your eyes toward the houris.

Never be deceived by houris and paradise —
for without God, paradise never gives light.

A king gave his palace over to plunder.
Soldiers rushed in to seize the spoil.

One slave stood before the king on his feet —
in all that plunder he did not stir from his place.

Someone told him: "Plunder for a while —
if there is gain, there is no loss."

He laughed and said: "This is forbidden to me —
the king's face is all the gain I need."

"For me, to gaze upon the king's face
is sweeter far than all from moon to fish."

The king's heart grew joyful at that single one —
he called at once for jewels from the treasury.

Many jewels with honour and grace he brought —
with his own hand he held them before him:

"Take whatever you wish — may it be yours —
for you have made my dear soul glad."

The slave opened his own hand
and seized the king's fingertip firmly:

"Our business is with this alone —
what are jewels, what is the treasury? All is wind.

Since you are, then for me everything else is.
Everything comes to my hand when you give your hand.

May that day never have light
when I am separated from you, without you."

When the Beloved comes, the soul is not diminished —
seek the Whole, and the part is not diminished.

Whoever is a man does not seek two worlds —
he seeks the One, for these two are dust.

Since every pleasure in both worlds —
in His presence, you have more than that.

Why then do you not renounce both worlds
and follow the longing ones in pursuit of Him?

Seek the One, that you may not remain on the road.
Be heaven-faced, that you may not remain in the well.

Cast off distractions — become occupied with Him.
When you lose yourself, wash yourself in God.

If you fall far from your own sight
you fall into the world full of light.

Adam traded paradise for two grains of wheat —
you too should sell it, if need compels you.

Did not the Master say: "Some are led
toward paradise by stratagem, then by a chain"?

If the soul is to have the Vision —
why should you be a buyer of the eight paradises?

A prisoner is led with a hundred pains and regrets
to Hell at the Resurrection.

He strikes his finger and tears out his eye at once —
in humiliation he flings his eye upon the dust.

He says: "What use is an eye?
I do not want an eye without the Vision of the Worshipped One.

If I do not have the Vision of my Worshipped One
I have no purpose for my sight at all.

Since my desire will never be fulfilled —
I want neither sight nor soul nor heart."

If your veil from that Presence is paradise itself —
I dare not call it ugly.

If you call paradise back to yourself —
do you not think you will be cut off from God?

What am I saying? A person who, from a moon-faced beauty,
becomes as thin as a hair from helplessness —

who performs a hundred deeds for a grain of gold —
yet does not take paradise? What a wondrous matter!

But this discourse is for the man of the path —
not for the madman or the black demons.

I heard that Shibli with a company
was going through the desert toward a mountain.

On the road he saw a skull full of wind —
it cried out from the blowing wind.

He picked up that skull, astonished —
upon it he saw, O wonder, an inscription written:

"Look — this is the head of a man full of sorrow
who lost this world and the next as well."

When Shibli read that distraught inscription
he let out a single cry and remained distraught.

He told his companions: "This skull upon this road
is the skull of a man from the men of the Court.

For whoever does not gamble away both worlds
will never become intimate in the sanctuary of Union.

You too — if you renounce both worlds
like that man, you are among His men."

You travel with hardship many leagues
so that perhaps a grain of gold might come to your hand.

On God's path, like this, you slept until night —
on the path of truth, you have not taken a single step.

Without a hundred hardships you would not find a grain of gold —
yet toward God you hasten without having suffered.

When the watchman seizes you in broad daylight —
on the dark night, what hope will you have?

You say: "I want nothing but God.
Paradise and houris — truly I do not want them."

You are stinking water in a tight rag —
you do not need paradise? O you who are all disgrace!

From a lion your courage melts to water —
in that dread, how will you endure?

At one pain, reason falls from its feet —
how will reason remain standing there?

A gnat complained about the wind —
it went to Solomon to cry for justice:

"Suddenly the fierce wind in an instant
flings me from one world to another.

By your justice, buy back this half-life —
or else I will sell the world against you."

Solomon seated the gnat close by —
then called the wind to come near.

When the wind came quickly from afar —
the gnat fled from it a hundred miles.

Solomon said: "There is no injustice from the wind —
but the gnat cannot stand its ground.

When a breeze arrives, it flees —
how can a gnat contend with a storm?"

If today you gave half a date
you would be saved from both Hell and its heat.

And if once you brought the testimony of faith
paradise with felicity would be lawful for you.

But if you seek something beyond these two —
may your night be pleasant, but why speak idle words?

The seeking is rejected, the road is blocked.
When I see no purpose, what purpose is there?

But if you are a warm-footed man in this work —
go, until the Friend patches your shoe.

Even if for a hundred ages you spin like a ball —
I do not know if you will catch even a scent.

With fancies you have spent your days —
who are you for this? What business have you with it?

Thus spoke that young man who rises early:
"Before dawn, cling to worship.

At every worship they have commanded, be present.
Then perform the morning prayer in its time.

When you have done this, you have done more than was commanded.
You have done well — you have done your own work.

Now if a falcon arrives to you from the road
and suddenly settles on your hand —

seize its foot, for here all is gain.
Otherwise, hold the falcon — who was it anyway?

If you have the slightest attachment by a hair
you will not catch His scent from any direction.

Unless you become refined over time —
then perhaps you might catch a scent from some corner.

As long as a single hair of you remains in place
by that one hair you remain shackled at the foot.

If on the body of the ritually impure one dry hair remains —
know him still unfit for prayer in a hundred ways.

From a hair to a mountain, all are reckoned —
whether hair or mountain, both are veils.

Until you gamble your soul all at once
I know you as impure and unfit for prayer.

For the slave seeking freedom — if a single grain remains
by that grain he remains forever in the pit.

Your you-ness has become your stranger.
Be without yourself — for Adam came at that breath."

If the mirror is your companion —
when it clouds from your breath, it becomes your stranger.

Between two companions who are reckoned together —
if a hair lies between them, it is a veil.

When friend sits in seclusion with friend —
even a breath becomes a stranger, like an outsider.

You cannot ever begin seclusion
unless you break your habit of everything you possess.

It is not from those lion-men at the head of the road
that your soul will learn this secret.

On the whole, know with absolute certainty:
none enjoys God except God.

Tell me — who was a worthy friend for God?
Since none but God enjoys God — who was it?

Since you are a drop in the ocean of Power —
since you are a mote beside the sun of the Presence —

how do you hope for union with Him?
How can you ascend to the sun?

You want, with weeping and with force,
to bring an elephant into the hole of an ant.

Go sit down — for the soul has risen from the hand.
The sober one entered, and the drunk one rose.

If it is the soul — it is forever drowned in Him.
If it is reason — it is outside His circle.

Thousands of motes remained spinning —
but the sun remained in its hall.

In this ocean thousands of drops are hidden —
but the pearl is hidden in the depth of the deep.

Many composed works describing Him.
Many defined Him to one another.

For thousands of ages they reflected —
and at the end, all that came was helplessness and bewilderment.

O glory — the divine sea full of pearls —
upon which no dust of ruin ever settles.

Words flow like pure liquid gold —
but your eyes are full of dust.

Your heart has made a habit of the appetitive self —
how will it see meanings behind the veil?

Since you know the world as nothing but fancy —
how will you find perfection in this meaning?

What business have you with this, O sleeper?
Musk has no business with the latrine-cleaner.

A latrine-cleaner leapt out of his work —
he happened upon the way to the perfumer's shop.

When the scent of musk came out from the shop —
the latrine-cleaner fell headlong there.

Where was his brain for pleasant scent?
You would say his soul departed from him at once!

The perfumer came out of his shop —
he brought much rosewater and aloeswood.

When his face grew wet from rosewater and oud —
the latrine-cleaner grew even more unconscious.

Another latrine-cleaner, when he saw him,
brought filth before his nose.

When his nostrils smelled the filth —
his two eyes opened and he found a new life.

A person who has settled with the stink of heresy —
who has never smelled the breeze of tradition's musk —

if a spirit reaches his brain
the lamp in his heart goes out.

A person in the privy of this discordant self —
that sometimes fills and sometimes empties —

if a scent of secrets reaches him
he falls headlong at his own feet.

It is not right to kiss a camel
or to feed a fly the food of a peacock.

Like a devotee in retreat for thirty years continuously —
this secret will give you its thirty portions.

You have lost your way because of yourself on this path —
you are nothing, and aware of nothing.

Those who remained stranded on such a road —
they were scattering pearls from the sea of the heart.

Like polo sticks, the men of the field are bowed head-down —
no one has driven this ball to the end.

All remained behind the veil of bewilderment.
All remained beneath the dome of divine jealousy.

In all these ages, no one has emerged
to perfection in this dominion.

The Feriduns have driven their steeds from the road —
none but oxen remained in this first stage.

Since there is not a single heart in the monastery —
the common people are not to blame.

A pearl in the depth of the sea of your heart —
that pearl is the yield of two worlds for you.

Your heart is the place of stripping bare —
the house of seclusion and divine unity.

Your heart is the highest prospect for God —
yet it is utterly blind to God.

The watching-place of day and night is your heart —
but the face of your heart is in the mud.

When you turn the face of your heart from the mud —
even in this lowness, the face of your heart will take on light.

I am the slave of that heart which found knowledge of the heart —
which for a moment turned its head from its own dark self.

The dear ones who were men of the work —
for a breath they were disgusted with their own selves.

They did not take a single step for the appetite of the self —
they did not eat, and they did not sleep in comfort.

They did not give bread to the appetitive self —
they did not enjoy even a single empty loaf.

But whoever broke the desire of the heart —
he could not eat a morsel without the heart's blood.

There was a saint who until he was sixty years old
had desired meat — just one morsel.

Although it was within his reach —
he was not safe from the unknown self.

Then one day he smelled a scent from afar —
his self set out, searching with eager eyes:

"Since sixty years have passed — for God's sake —
ask for one morsel of this roast meat for me."

His heart burned with pity for his own self — he rose
to see if perhaps he could ask for a morsel.

He walked on, following that scent eagerly —
the scent was coming clearly from a prison.

He knocked on the door — they opened the prison —
and someone was being branded on the thigh.

From the branding, the scent of roast flesh arose —
and from that grief, the self's soul nearly departed.

When the old man saw this, he went beside himself —
like a bird he beat his wings upon the road.

He opened his tongue: "O base self, be humbled —
if you want roast meat, take it now!

From afar you smelled the scent of roasting —
but when you saw what roasting really is, you fled.

This is how roast meat comes to the dear ones —
do you imagine this comes easily?"

For you, since you have no daily bread, burn for a few days —
for one cannot escape from one's allotted portion.

Go, warm your heart in the burning of the hereafter —
so that you may remain in shade on the Day of the Hereafter.

You have a heart — but it is deposed,
occupied with the desires of the self.

The parable of the guides of this island:
it is the parable of the goat and the enclosure.

Since that goat stepped outside
it has plunged its head into the trough of blood many times.

Follow your own trail — rise, O stubborn headstrong one —
pull your blanket from the murky water.

Strike the neck — for there is no pity in this —
put the blade to your own infidel nature.

From this infidel, no surrender to God will come —
for from a bandit, no guarding will come.

It is never satisfied with meddling —
and no task of it is ever slow.

And if one desire takes long to come to hand —
it becomes a dog from rage — a drunken dog.

If you deny it a single pleasure —
in one instant it strikes you with a hundred frenzies.

This self is a donkey — to be the slave of a donkey:
where is that a sign of being alive?

To that donkey-driver the wise old man said:
"What is your work, O capable man?"

He said: "I am a donkey-driver by trade —
I have no work but donkey-driving."

The sober and measured one gave him an answer:
"May God kill your donkey right now —

for when the donkey dies, your heart will come alive —
you, the donkey's slave, will become God's slave."

Because of this infidel set within us —
there are fewer true surrenderers in the world.

There are many Muslims by speech —
but surrender to God must be in deed.

The burden of sorrow that comes before me —
comes from the hand of the infidel-natured self.

With a hundred sighs, in play and spectacle —
this sigh-eating dog devoured the world.

See how the bone of this dog by enchantment
was drawn from the lion's mouth.

Out of malice toward me, it made my heart so hard
that it made bitter death sweet to me.

This infidel self in my nature is a dog —
I was born housemate of this dog.

I draw out ascetic discipline, I struggle with my soul —
perhaps I can make a spiritual being of this dog.

O rebellious self — how long must I endure you?
How long must my heart remain in your chains?

You are so wretched from all your mockery —
my two tears will not fall even if you die.

O dear one — if the mortal self dies
your eternal heart will find life.

Go — if you are a man of this road, for a moment —
seek from the casket of the pearl a sign in the heart.

Your heart has remained in the strait of laziness.
Your body has remained on the rack of sloth.

You cast your body into laziness —
and make yourself out as a hero.

Think — and those who died:
they arrived, and like men they did the work.

The light-spirited have reached the destination —
you have dragged yourself into heavy-souledness.

Your heart in blood, your body in agony —
your travelling companion has pleasantly remained asleep.

Fallen to one side of the caravan's road —
from bewilderment, your head upon your knees.

Go, hurry — so that at last from somewhere
the voice of "Enter!" will come to your ears.

You have taken laziness as your profession on the road —
you sit forever in gossip and chatter.

Everything that the brainless merely heard —
the brave ones reached that very thing itself.

From you this strength of arm will not come —
for from a fly's trap, no power comes.

A deaf man slept by the road from his cleverness —
so that when a caravan passed he would know.

The caravan came and went like smoke —
how would the sleeping deaf man have known?

When he woke and sleep left his eyes —
they told him: "O deaf man, the caravan has gone.

Why did you sleep? Who made this sleep in the end —
that your companions and friends have passed?

I do not know what dream the days showed you —
that they kept you pleasantly asleep until the end."

The deaf man heard and said: "I was bewildered —
for I was both deaf and asleep.

Alas — now that I have awoken from sleep
I find no trace of a single companion."

I heard the story of Bulfash of Chaghan —
they asked him: "Why do you not drive your donkey?

For when the bright-faced sun sets —
you will be stranded in darkness on this plain."

You too, O one who has slept in the desert —
you did not drive your donkey, and your sun has set.

VIII. The Eighth Discourse

Why were you, since being was your lot?
What can I say — a hard pass has befallen you.

What was your crime, that they brought you here, O friend?
You, on the road of meaning, are the kernel of every shell.

Minerals are the kernel of the elements, yet
plants are the kernel of minerals in turn.

And from plants the kernel fell to animals,
and after that, the kernel of animals became Man.

From Man the prophets became the essence,
and from them, the chosen lord of lords.

Through these seven heavens, on the road of meaning,
one must travel to the threshold of the Master.

Indeed, whatever is far from the perfection of its origin —
the truth-seeing nature recoils from it.

You were a stone and became alive.
You were nothing and became something.

I wish that in the same primordial order
you would not idle for a single breath.

From station to station you step forward,
emerging from each bend of the snare one by one.

Your nature has tied the soul in knots —
that is why the soul cannot see the other world.

They knotted your nature from the very beginning;
with each breath, one knot comes loose.

What do you know, O one born beneath the mountain,
beneath what burden you have fallen?

They raised a man beneath a mountain —
they brought him up under a mountain's weight.

A world of burden they placed upon his back.
Beneath the mountain's weight they raised him.

Greater than a mountain is his burden, and he an ant.
The whole horizon is sunlight, and he is blind.

When they lift that heavy burden from him,
in one hour he sees the other world.

Patience enters his soul.
All the world becomes a sign of him.

When the eternal light comes before him,
he stands amazed — astonished at himself.

He says in his heart: How did I become like this?
How did I come from doubt to certainty?

Is this me? Am I not? — what wonder!
My light has seized all horizons.

Like one born blind who suddenly
recovers the light of his own eyes at once —

when he sees the brightness of the world,
how dazed he stands in that moment!

When your life likewise comes to its end,
in that world it is exactly the same.

When you depart from that dark place,
you join the world of abundant light.

You stand amazed at such marvels.
Those wonders seem strange to you.

However far your eye can work,
you see the sun and it seems a mote.

In that Presence where existence is certain,
the heavens are like the spider's web.

How could anyone's being show itself there?
Felt cloth would look like satin in that place.

Before the sun that adorns the world,
how could a shadow's existence remain?

Then the curtain of existence descends
and the head bows from height to lowness.

Whatever good and evil you have done,
you find it all arrayed around you.

If you did evil, you are beneath a veil.
If not, you ride with the great ones.

In good and evil you are your own affair.
You are the mirror of your own deeds in full.

Whether good or bad, your acts and works
appear before your face.

A dark-skinned man looked into the water.
He saw from the water a face full of darkness.

When he saw a face unknown and unpleasant,
from that ugliness a fire ran over his head.

That narrow-hearted man thought to himself
that the dark figure was some stranger in the water.

He opened his tongue and said: O ugly form!
What devil in the world sowed you?

Come out of the water, O dark, ugly thing —
you belong in fire, not in water!

But when he had spoken much in vain,
he did not know — he had spoken it all to himself.

You too — look into the water of your own face.
See whether you are white or black.

When the bird of the soul sheds its wings and feathers,
you will see your own face in the water of deeds.

A black face brings blackness before you.
Whiteness brings you into its own radiance.

When you give up the pure soul in one breath,
you step at once into that other world.

From this world to the next is not far,
but on the road, your own existence is the wall.

Your weeping and wailing and outcry is all this:
that this low self is the soul's companion.

If you die with the self — woe upon you!
Many will weep from head to foot for you.

But if you die without the self, you are pure —
whether you lie in fire or in earth.

When your pure soul has gone and your body died,
you need not carry yourself along with yourself.

For whenever you died before your time,
many are the people you outstripped.

Whatever your tongue counted on its own behalf —
when you went beneath the earth, the wind carried it away.

Then comes the world of silence.
The stations of bewilderment's road appear.

Beyond the curtain: the turmoil of days.
Within the curtain: silence and rest.

You are here, aware of yourself through yourself —
but there, awareness rises and departs.

So drowned do you become in that light
that from its sweetness you depart from existence.

And if you hold a station higher than this,
you hold a certain order in that nearness.

Near is the one who today, without self,
has that Presence before him without any "before."

He sees only the Real and becomes selfless.
In essence he surpasses both worlds.

In this meaning I have spoken there is no doubt.
You are eyeless, and the world is nothing but One.

I will tell you another parable from the road,
that your soul may become aware of this secret.

What if for a lifetime you have wallowed in blood —
a parable like this you have never heard.

How shall the revolving heavens enter your eye
when their measure exceeds your eye?

Whatever mote you have ever seen —
the reality of it does not enter your sight.

Who says the heavens are what they are
because your eye has seen them or your mind has known them?

Then what has entered the eye as your possession
is nothing more than an image, O heedless one.

You are caught in the snare of discrimination.
This that you see is an image, not the thing itself.

Look at God's handiwork and you will see the secret.
You will see the realities of things.

If things were as they appear,
when would the Prophet's prayer have been fitting?

For the master of the faith said to God:
"My Lord, show me things as they truly are."

If you cut the heart a hundred times,
what the heart truly is would not appear.

This same eye, this same hand, this same ear,
this same soul, this same mind, this same awareness —

if from these you cannot discover what is,
do not take the road from here toward those beyond.

God knows how things truly are,
for in your eyes they are upside down.

The husk of meaning's kernel has remained with you.
Nothing more than an image is with you, O friend.

You think you have seen something.
You have not seen — and you have not heard.

You see the image of that, nothing more.
All of this is one in origin, and not two.

One — but that One is outside all counting.
That One has neither sign nor number.

All things abide by one thing eternally.
From every mote, proceed until you reach the Sun.

Both worlds are drowned in this ocean of light,
yet the pattern of the worlds is a delusion.

Whatever pattern appears in the world
is a closed door, and the senses are its key.

The key and the door do not truly remain,
for a pattern never stays upon the ocean.

Whoever accepted the pattern of patternlessness
bid farewell, like the brave, to all image-making.

If you accepted formlessness and signlessness,
you have life.

If not, you are dead — go on being deceived.
You do not have life — stay far from it.

If you ask: "What is all of this that appears?" —
I will say it straight, if you hear it straight:

All of it is nothing, perishing, all of it nothing.
All of it is like a talisman twisted upon itself.

What you have known and seen is fantasy.
What you have heard in the world is echo.

Fantasy, fancy, reason, and sense are each a station,
and each is complete within its own station.

But when you step beyond that station,
you will see that too as fantasy.

Someone asked of that famous madman, Majnun:
"What is the world?" He said: "Soap froth.

Take a straw and hold it to the froth and blow —
draw out a world from that straw.

See this beautiful, many-coloured shape
that becomes visible from the straw.

Though the form is a lovely thing,
the second form is what the cross-eyed see.

Annihilation is its realm, and decay its sovereign.
Its foundation is: everything perishes.

Inside it is wind, and it itself is nothing upon nothing.
From nothing, nothing comes — why do you twist yourself?"

It shall perish — it shall vanish suddenly.
The world is lost in nothing, and nothing is lost in the world.

If the light of your heart becomes visible,
neither eye nor wall will remain before you.

Everything in the heart is lost like a mote.
Yes — in the ocean the drop is lost.

The staff in Moses's hand became a serpent,
swallowed all falsehood, and became a staff again.

I have spoken all the secrets, laid them bare.
Now cast the veil from before yourself.

If you tear this curtain apart,
you will see and know nothing but the One.

O Attar, may you be well-spoken!
And from this speech, may you benefit.

Were you not seated on the branch of meaning,
meaning would not have made you so bold.

IX. The Ninth Discourse

Know, O pure in faith — when you come pure,
that the hour you pass beneath the earth,

you step beyond the lane of this world
and never again see its face.

When you go, you go from this world and are gone —
never again do you fall back into it.

In the hereafter you find a throne of light.
You put on robes of honour and embrace the houris.

But if you carry a stain from some deed,
you remain in that stain for an age.

All this partnership of senses is on the road.
All is Iblis — all your companions, ill-wishing devils.

All your death is your disagreeable nature.
All your anger — in hell it is your own fire.

Whenever you go out from this world,
your state will not pass beyond two:

if you are stained, you will be purified;
and if purified, you will be at rest.

If you are stained and a sinner,
they make you captive in your own nature.

And if you are pure of heart on the road,
you saunter to the Court with hands waving.

The heights of joy and the depths of rank are with you.
Paradise and hell are your companions.

See, then, how you will go,
and on which side you will lie.

If you are veiled, you remain veiled —
in that very thing in which you have died.

No clear-hearted fool ever dies.
No latrine-cleaner ever rises as a jurist.

I heard there was a master
who called out for lost donkeys.

He did this work for sixty-seven years,
then at seventy-one fell into the death-agony.

When Azrael came to him behind the veil,
he thought perhaps his lost donkey had come.

He leapt up — there was a window before him —
and thrust his head out through the opening.

He cried: "O friends who are here —
whoever saw a stray donkey, send it here!"

Dear one, whoever is a donkey-crier
lives as a donkey, dies as a donkey, rises as a donkey.

Die alive like Jesus, O pure living one,
so that you do not die like a donkey in a pit of earth.

Two illnesses your soul has, and two your body.
From both, make yourself free.

From the body's illness, death will free you.
By the soul's illness, death delivers you to it.

Go — from both these illnesses be free,
or become a whirlpool of so many afflictions.

You are sick, and your sickness is worldly greed —
a congenital illness of the hereafter.

If here that greed is not removed from you,
you remain far from eternal perfection.

When in this world you fall into dying,
know with certainty: in the hereafter you are born.

In this world, your falling into death —
in the hereafter, your dying is your birth.

When you die here, you are born there, O friend.
I have peeled back the skin of the speech for you.

The sweetness of this world is humiliation there.
Desire and greed are illness there.

At the time of death, make effort against your will,
so that your illness does not accompany you.

If here you are not a man of the work,
in the hereafter you arrive as a sick child.

One who is born blind from his mother here —
when will his two eyes open in the hereafter?

One who kept his soul blind to the hereafter
is as the blind of this world to that world.

From here you must carry clear sight —
even if the eye is like the eye of a needle.

If you carry with you a single mote of light,
from that light the sun will be present to you.

If a single mote of light becomes your companion,
to that measure you become aware of the secrets.

And after that, your light increases.
The doors of you, the expanse of you, open wider.

Your little becomes much in abundance.
Your child becomes a knowing adult.

When that abundant light gathers together,
all of it becomes a ransom upon your soul.

Is it not so — the sand of the earth grows abundant,
comes together, and becomes a mountain?

And if you die without any light at all,
you are among a hundred thousand veils.

You remain like an onion — skin upon skin,
burning, because you have no kernel, O friend.

From kernellessness you remain in such burning
that you burn, knowing neither night nor day.

But if a kernel is in the skin with you,
inside the kernel the Friend comes with you.

If in the veil of the heart you have a kernel,
you have a busy heart and a fine work.

Like an egg that has a kernel in its shell —
in fire it becomes frozen like ice.

With the kernel, fire has no power over it,
for fire is only possible in the skin.

When you want to cross over the fire,
you have no recourse but a little kernel.

A little suffices if there is not much.
A seed suffices if there is not a harvest-load.

When you have a little, it becomes much.
When it is one seed, it becomes a harvest-load.

If from you a seed of meaning sprouts,
from it a hundred branches like the Tuba tree arise.

Do you not see the trees with heads held high —
each was nothing more than one seed at the start?

Do not become absent from yourself in any state,
so that every moment you gain perfection.

Always, as you come out from yourself,
you rise from beneath your own form.

Have you not passed through a hundred meanings in form —
from when you came until now, passing?

At first you became a drop of seed, right here.
Now you have passed beyond the Throne, right here.

You are the same as you were — but the thing is
that now you bear a sign from the Truth.

A sign neither manifest nor hidden:
a sign that is the essence of signlessness.

When you rise from form into meanings,
a sign becomes manifest to your eyes.

Pass beyond form until you become dust,
for when you become dust, you become pure.

One who becomes dust becomes entirely pure,
for the secrets of two worlds are in the dust.

See all these strange secrets
that bring their heads out from the dust.

If dust were not a pure origin,
whence would Adam's clay have come from dust?

But as long as you sit with the dog of the self,
you will never see the secrets of the earth.

The dog of your self, in your lifetime,
is outside the salt-marsh of meanings.

In a graveyard, a madman wept.
They asked him: "Who is in these graves?"

He said: "A handful of dead folk,
but they have fallen into a salt-marsh.

"When beneath the earth they all become dust,
they become salt and entirely pure.

"But if they have no salt of faith,
the turning of the heavens casts them into fire."

This is the journey. This the road. This the resting-place.
Pass beyond yourself — for this is the task, and this the burden.

Alas, for this journey there is no provision.
We have fallen into darkness, and there is no road.

Know with certainty: the road is without end —
a dark road whose lamp is the light of the soul.

Go — happily withdraw your nails from this world.
Illumine heart and soul with the hereafter.

If you depart from the world without knowledge,
the eye of your soul remains forever without light.

Know that the pure world has another eye —
for that is the eye, and this one is its shadow.

If you wish that eye to open for you,
go — cast your soul into the perfection of knowledge.

For after death, the soul of the knowing man
is capable of whatever it sets its will upon.

As the body needs food to grow,
from knowledge the soul too needs food.

Do not go ignorantly on the lost road,
for the road is long and dark and full of pits.

Keep the lamp of wisdom and knowledge before you,
or else you fall into a pit headfirst.

One who has a straight lamp —
his lamp is in danger from the strong wind.

One who has no lamp of knowledge —
I know with certainty they are in no ease.

From two things you gain perfection on this road:
pure annihilation, or nine lives of awareness.

And if there is knowledge but no practice,
you and your knowledge carry no weight.

When speech rises from the head of knowledge,
from it the light of ease rises in the heart.

If you speak, and speak softly,
it will never bring you shame.

A sweet-tongued sage has spoken purely:
"Beneath the tongue, a person is hidden."

If you are knowing and do not speak,
you wish no good for God's servant.

Since God has given you many jewels,
in gratitude make your tongue jewel-laden.

Strive in knowledge if you are a clear heart.
Why, then, are you so fruitless?

If you pile up a hundred pieties,
without knowledge, when will you find deliverance?

Without knowledge, the ascetic is the devil's plaything.
Step into knowledge, O man of straw.

In the mosque slept the wise one of the path.
The ignorant one stood at prayer.

One saw Iblis standing there
and said: "What has happened?"

The accursed one said: "I wish right now
to lead the ignorant one off the path —

"but I have not the strength or endurance,
for I fear that wise one asleep.

"If that wise one were not my chain,
that ignorant one would be wax in my hand."

Alas for this Sufi, stuck in forbearance
yet in his forbearance left without knowledge!

In this drowning sea, diving is needed —
not nets and fraud and patched cloaks and towels.

Like straw on the face of the sea you circle.
Since you cannot dive, how long will you boast?

How long will you drive speech to the limit?
You have remained at the start of the road.

Why do you circle so much around desire?
You become infamous to the people of pain.

If on the path of religion you had courage,
you would have pain from your own lack of it.

Whoever is seized by the pain of the work —
all soul and heart is seized by the Beloved.

If the pain of religion ever seizes you,
the knowledge of certainty becomes the eye of certainty.

Whoever is a man on this road comes to pain,
for pain is the bride-price of the bride of eternity.

Speech that comes from the head of pain —
whoever hears it, courage arises.

Speech that you speak from knowledge is right.
My request from the people of heart is this:

if you have the knowledge from God's own presence, O friend,
your knowledge is the kernel and our knowledge the skin.

Since you have knowledge, practice it.
Then after knowledge and practice, solve the secrets.

The ostrich — when it is time for work,
is a bird; when eating, a camel.

You need a deed with knowledge of religion.
Practice equal to your knowledge is required.

One mote of practice in the knowledge of religion
is far better than knowledge by the harvest-load.

Go, do a deed — for this work is unripe.
Knowledge of religion for you is one complete letter.

One who knows and does not bind himself to work —
weep for him, for he laughs at himself.

Perhaps a man, among the men of seeking,
circled much around the graves of the righteous.

One night he went gently around some dust.
A pure voice reached his ear:

"How long will you worship the graves of men?
Circle the work of men, and you are saved.

"First, step into helplessness,
then turn your head toward the table of grace."

When that table of grace was drawn out,
the sinners and transgressors arrived.

When the table was set before the heights,
the head of the doorkeeper was placed outside.

Since the doorkeeper was placed outside the door,
for everyone who needs it, the door is open.

Whether you are sinless or a sinner,
sit at the table — for the Sultan grants audience.

When that table of grace was spread,
all evil deeds became as if undone.

Do not despair, O helpless sinner —
for when the radiance of the sun appears,

if it falls upon the king's palace,
it falls also upon the beggar's corner.

One who today is naked on the road —
upon him that sun of the Court shines better.

Since the work of the sincere has become perilous,
the sinners carry this ball more swiftly.

The self-seeing man does not see the King.
God requires the groaning of the sinners.

On this road, self-seeing is not auspicious.
A lean body and a wounded heart are needed.

The divine secret reached that elder:
"If you would see a man of Ours,

"go to the tavern-ruins and seek a sign —
there is an elder among the porters of this road."

The man came and asked of his condition.
They told him: "Yesterday his work was made right.

"With a hundred sorrows he died here yesterday.
He bore the world upon himself coldly here.

"White was his hair and sallow his face.
He did nothing but carry jugs for the tavern.

"He carried the wine-jug on his shoulder,
yet never once tasted a single drop.

"At every step he took upon the road,
with burning of soul and pain of heart he said:

"'O Keeper of this world and the faith alike,
forgive the one who has neither this nor that.'"

X. The Tenth Discourse — On the Bottomless Ocean

They set down a bottomless ocean
and from that ocean opened a path to the soul.

One came upon the face of that ocean —
now a believer, now a Christian, he emerged.

In this ocean without bottom or shore,
wonder within wonder, beyond counting.

O what a bottomless ocean of secrets
that has neither head nor foundation visible!

If that ocean were not behind a veil,
all deeds would be as though undone.

He made a world — and when that light filled it,
being did not remain, for not-being was close at hand.

If you ask: "Why does the veil remain,
since over there nothing appears accomplished?" —

speech here does not befit the tongue,
for this befits only reason and the soul.

Keep speech behind its cover.
Keep your tongue from the tale-bearer's ear.

No one has understanding of these words.
Bring yourself face to face with yourself, alone.

Do not be troubled by every tongue's speech.
You have certainty — do not be wounded by every doubt.

Like the ocean, be always in transformation.
Like the brave, be always in contemplation.

Know your own perfection — that from sheer grandeur
the spheres and stars are your servants.

Whatever passed yesterday in eternity,
the heavens today bring into action.

A thousand cycles were needed in the work
before one such as you could appear.

With every breath that rises from you, O friend,
know that each one is another you.

Your whole life, whether it is long or brief —
the soul's perfection requires you breath by breath.

At every moment the meaning-seeking soul
can increase its own radiance still more.

When here you pursue a passing pleasure,
you are left behind from a hundred lasting ones.

A moment that pleased you here in eating and sleeping —
two hundred times that joy escaped your hand.

Since the world is the seedbed of that world,
sow this seed, for now is the time.

You have earth and water — scatter the seed.
Do the farmer's work and attend to this.

Make your harvest good upon my promise —
if it turns out ill, it is on my head.

If you do not tend this farming,
at that harvest you will not be worth half a millet-grain.

Go — if you have no market-day,
sow this seed, since you have no other business.

They sent you here for this:
that today you might prepare provisions for your tomorrow.

If you depart without having sown seed,
you will be the disgrace of all time.

Two men were given seed on the path of faith.
The world's road was opened to each.

One wasted that seed along the road.
One tended it, night and day.

When the time of reaping arrived,
one stood on his feet — the other was undone.

Whatever you sow, that you will reap.
At the time of reckoning, your pledge will be revealed.

The Rogue and the Tavern-Keeper

A rogue was buying a jug of wine from the tavern-keeper:
"Take my pledge this instant and hand it over."

When he drank the wine they said: "Where is the pledge?"
He said: "I am the pledge." They said: "Splendid!

What a fine pledge! Get up and go.
You are not worth half a barleycorn at the time of reckoning."

If you have anything of worth about you,
you are worth no more than that to anyone.

Your value lies in knowledge and in action.
You, like me, have only added words.

To the measure of your knowledge and your deeds —
that is your worth, that is your standing.

I have scattered many pearls of meaning before you,
but when does a blind man see a royal pearl?

You are like the narcissus — all eye, yet not seeing.
Like basil — all ear, yet not hearing.

This very hour, when you have reason and sense,
you neither listen to the word nor heed it.

At that hour when reason and sense are wiped clean —
will you then hear, dead in the dust?

The Madman and the Turk's Funeral

A madman of faith saw someone
reciting the death-instruction over a dead Turk.

He said: "Your Turk, who could not speak Arabic —
back when he was alive and had not fallen into the pit,

he did not listen well while he was living.
Now that he is dead, what instruction can you recite?

Since this Turk was a foreigner when he left the world,
has he perhaps become an Arabic speaker underground?"

You do not see, you do not hear — deaf and blind both —
and from that you raise all this commotion.

The angel of the left hand — his hand is exhausted
from writing your deeds without pause.

The angel of the right hand is free of you.
He has not set pen to paper on your account.

You do not even remember your own prayer.
May your prayer be in the city of the unbelievers!

You do not come to prayer except with a hundred concerns —
calculating your shop's accounts and market business.

Like a cat you wash your face, and quick as you can
you tap your forehead on the ground once or twice.

You glance around from restlessness.
Your heart is not present in it for a moment.

You perform a fine, fresh prayer —
lighter than the prayer over a corpse.

Your grief becomes measureless at that instant
when your heel-bone goes numb in the ankle.

When you finish your prayer like a man,
you do not know what you recited or what you did.

Greed for the world has led your head to nothing.
How long will you turn your face from God?

If this is prayer, O light-hearted one,
do not be heavy-spirited — be cool of heart!

You know this is prayer that is no prayer.
How long will this jest suit your beard?

The Peasant and the Ambergris

A peasant heard this true saying:
that ambergris is the droppings of the sea-cow.

He filled a pool with water in his village,
then in his foolishness he put a cow in it.

He gathered all the cow dung from the water
and went to the ambergris-seller who had gold.

He said: "Take this from me and give me gold —
you will never see better ambergris than this."

When the man saw it he said: "Be on your way.
This suits your beard — keep it for yourself.

Since every man is king of his own beard,
and a king like you has such ambergris on his beard —

since your beard saw the cow and it gave you this ambergris,
may this ambergris from the cow's rump be upon your beard!"

If at night you speak secrets with God
and the next day you repeat them to boast —

do not do this. If a servant makes devotion a price,
that is idolatry in the divine realm.

Since you have sold your devotion a hundred times over,
know for certain that God will not be the buyer.

Hypocrisy and vanity are a mountain of fire.
Do you not know that this is the mountain of hell?

Even if you performed the devotion of Iblis himself —
when you bring vanity into it, you become Iblis.

A barleycorn of your vanity — even if your devotion fills the world —
is like a fire in a cotton-storehouse.

The Forty Pilgrimages

A man who had made trust in God his practice
performed forty pilgrimages on foot.

Perhaps on the last pilgrimage he was aware,
for a dangerous thought crossed his mind quickly:

"I have made forty pilgrimages on foot.
In fairness, I have swallowed much hardship."

When that man saw this vanity in himself, he rose
and proclaimed in Mecca, left and right:

"Forty pilgrimages on foot — this wretch
sells them for a loaf of bread! Where is the buyer?"

He sold them at last for a loaf and gave it to a dog.
An elder followed behind him, swift as the wind.

He struck him a hard blow on the back of the neck and said:
"O fool! This very moment you have fallen asleep like a donkey.

If you sell forty pilgrimages for a loaf —
that is easy for you — why all this fuss?

For Adam gave away eight paradises full of light
for two grains of wheat. Away from my presence!"

Look, O hypocrite born of unmanliness —
see where the men are, and where you are!

You say: "I will renounce this business" —
but only when the time shows itself.

"If I abandon my occupation now,
I will face much destitution ahead."

I do not say: abandon your occupation.
But neither do I say: do evil.

Besides that, sow a good seed now,
so that in time you become wholly a doer of good.

Whatever devotion you can do this very hour,
perform it — for even from this you will be left behind.

The Man in the Vat

A man sat upon a wine-vat and made himself at home:
"I need silk brocade, and a horse with full trappings."

They said: "Before brocade can be arranged,
you must first ask for a shirt of coarse linen."

At this the man swore an oath in the vat:
"I will not lower my oath —

until I see Roman brocade,
I will sit in this vat until I die."

You too, O heedless man, are just like that.
In your heedlessness you seat yourself in the vat.

Come out of the vat! For as long as you sit in it,
you are dust beneath the wheel's foot — low.

If the sky makes a crown from love of you,
the coat grows tight from the sphere's turning against you.

If you wanted the sky's fever,
it would not give it to you, saying: "It is our turn."

From this ocean that speaks in silence,
the idols' eyes are full of pearls, like ears.

Whatever injustice you see, there is no doubt
that of the nine spheres it is not even one-tenth.

The heavens, willing or unwilling, carried on,
for this dizzy one rivalled it, head to head.

From my eyes the earth turns ruby,
because at every moment the sky hammers me like a horseshoe.

From all the blood that poured through every eye from my heart,
my heart drowned in its own blood.

I have no broom for the work of the mill,
for from these seven mills I have been trampled.

If someone took up the broom of wine,
the grain would fly from these seven mills.

The wheel drove its millstone so upon my head
that my hair was left beneath the millstone's dust.

With the bent-backed ring of the sky,
I must knock the ring of my fist every moment.

For war with creation, the world-burning sun
puts his lance to his horse's ear every day.

In this battle-truce you see no chapter of peace,
for the water of Khizr is not found in salt-marsh.

I cannot give its commentary so easily,
for at every moment I am thrown by its pattern.

On this road, O son — what is foot and what is head?
In these seven mills — what is dry and what is wet?

If today your threshold turns to gold,
tomorrow fate will set you back out the door.

A treasure from the ages opened to your hand,
but this treasure of yours is entirely a loan.

If your spirit found a victory in a lifetime,
it will kick your victory to pieces.

The world laughs before you like lightning
and then, before its flash, shuts itself again.

Turn your face from this valley of bewilderment,
for it has poured the water of regret upon your face.

Even if all your affairs sit straight,
from this table you must rise hungrier.

You are like an old man — go on, do not look back,
for an old man does not look back at anyone.

Since you have neither heart nor brains,
what school will you make of a crow?

When the roof comes down from a single kick,
it cannot bear the upheaval and the damage.

Since you have no stomach for taking blows to the neck,
take your head and go — you have no neck for it.

Kingship does not befit a beggar,
for a beggar has no drums and standards.

You, headless, remain like a collar.
You have no head for faith — that is why you are left behind.

Do not give yourself airs if you are sober,
for you are drunk and have thrust yourself forward.

Upon this manger, idle as a donkey — how long?
The halter dropped from your head — how long?

Your body is a trap. Your soul is a precious bird.
You know neither body nor soul — what then are you?

At the moment of death's agony, a desire fell in you:
that you would set free the bird you never caught.

You piled things up, and nothing stayed piled for you.
You took up accounts and never read them back.

Where have you fallen, O Attar, at last?
Do not abandon those secrets, at the end!

XI. The Eleventh Discourse — On Joy, the Caged Parrot, and the King's Falcon

Dear one, if you wake from sleep
you will learn of many joys.

Though we are all in sorrow and pain,
I know with certainty: we shall be happy in the end.

Where there is a thorn, there is basil too.
Where there is pain, there is remedy too.

If the remedy is not evident today,
it will appear when the appointed time comes.

Our story has exceeded all bounds —
for pain came as our portion in the allotment.

In a world where the remedy is the portion,
there is neither portion nor story.

We have known without doubt, with certainty,
that we shall be well after this.

For every suffering we endured here,
for every pain and sorrow we witnessed,

we shall receive a joy in return there.
Come — let us hasten there quickly.

Beyond all that we are within,
this is the affliction: that we know nothing.

Why are you heavy-hearted, O dervish,
when so much happiness awaits you ahead?

O the delight that is the currency of that world —
all delight, absolutely, is that.

If from it you receive a single mote,
you will burn with longing for another mote.

The eternal world is a world of sweet upon sweet,
for entirely, this world is but a sign of that one.

All the prophets have their home there.
Heart and faith, soul and soul's nourishment are there.

All the spiritual beings dwell there.
All the houris are companions in that assembly.

If you desire that place — as you have heard from me —
you reach it only through yourself.

If here you die to your own being,
here you will grasp the ring of that door.

The sage of India journeyed toward the land of China
and came to the palace of the king of Turkestan.

He saw a king whose companion was a parrot —
caged in an iron prison.

When the parrot saw the Indian before it,
the parrot opened its tongue like sugar:

"For God's sake, O man of affairs —
if one day you return to India,

bring my greetings to my companions,
and bring back an answer if you can.

Tell them: the forsaken one
is far from the eyes of her companions,

in prison and cage like a mourner —
with neither a fellow-sufferer nor a comforter.

What must she do to return to you?
What plan is there? I have told you the secret."

At last, when the sage returned to India,
he came to those heart-stealing parrots.

He saw thousands of living-hearted parrots
flying around the branches —

each one holding sugar in its beak,
all at work and free from all work.

The sky green with the reflection of their wings,
the royal eagle a fly beside their glory.

The Indian sage told those secrets,
spoke of the grief of that grieving parrot.

When those blessed ones heard the answer,
they fell, every one, from the trees.

They fell from the branches to the dust
as though the soul had left them all completely.

At the sight of their death, the wise man
was astonished and regretted his words.

In the end, when he returned to China,
he came to the parrot and revealed the secret:

"Your companions could not bear your grief —
they all fell to the ground and died."

When the parrot heard these words, at once
it beat its wings a little in the cage.

Like a wind, it struck fire into itself —
you would say it gave up its soul and struck its body.

Someone came, did not recognise the ruse,
seized it by the foot and threw it in the furnace-pit.

When that sweet parrot fell in the furnace-pit
it flew up from the pit like fire.

It perched atop the lord's palace
and said to the Indian sage: "O master —

those dear ones taught me:
become like a leaf falling to the earth.

Seek freedom as we do —
if you want liberation, let yourself go.

Die to yourself and you will find freedom,
for with the dead they do not keep acquaintance.

Whenever you wash your hands of yourself,
know with certainty that you have escaped every snare.

I have received the secret from my companions —
now I go back to my companions.

All my companions await me —
I who am idle, what business have I here?!"

When you die, you reach your own kind
and rest in the heavenly retreat.

When you die, you become eternally alive —
you become God's eternal servant.

What will you do? The furnace-pit is not your place.
The robe of dust does not fit your stature.

Dear one, strive if you seek the secret —
for you are seeking your own secret within yourself.

Extract yourself from so many veils
and bring forth reason in its true quality.

When sleep approaches you,
why does it keep you from the secrets?

In the time of sleep, you remain selfless —
how can meanings travel with you?

You have such desire for sleep
that fire and water are the same to you.

When the road of the five senses is closed to you in sleep,
why does your intoxicated soul feel no delight?

And if you say the soul is without delight
because it longs for its own severance —

why then in the time of spiritual practice
does the wakeful soul bring you into delight all at once?

The point is this, O seeker of the secret:
you must not return to yourself as a sleeper.

When you sleep, a drop falls into the ocean —
you are lost in selflessness, or in self.

In wakefulness, if you become far from yourself,
then when you sleep, you become light in selflessness.

Your heart found the trace of the self in wakefulness —
for wakefulness can only be found through wakefulness.

Otherwise, the dark and bright dewdrop
in this ocean is like milk and butter:

one whose milk dissolved sweetly in water —
but whose butter separated and grew troubled.

Do not become an incarnationist here, O meddler —
for the man drowned in God is not an incarnationist.

Thus spoke that Sun of Islam
who rose from the tower of Bastam's dust:

"I have travelled, in season and out of season,
three times thirty thousand years on the road.

When they gave me access to the glorious Throne,
there, before me, appeared — Bayazid.

I cried: 'Lord, lift the veil!'
And from behind the veil, Bayazid appeared."

They asked him: "O intimate of the Court —
when does the servant reach God on this road?"

He said: "Has anyone ever arrived?
It would be strange if anyone here has not seen."

They said to him: "O radiant sun —
what is most wondrous in this ocean?"

He said: "The most wondrous thing, to my mind,
is that in the ocean, someone still has a trace of self."

Where will you find a secret more wondrous than this —
that you could recover a dewdrop from the ocean?

In this court there are three drops and two illusions.
Each drop has its own ocean revealed.

One is hell, if the illusion is ugly.
The second illusion, the beautiful, is paradise.

The third drop is in the ocean of secrets,
where neither soul nor body are awake.

The station of total unity, without doubt, is there.
Become you-without-you — for "Leave your self" is there.

You need a coin for the far road —
one that is delight for the soul and light for the eye.

If you attain that worthiness,
you will make that world your dwelling even here.

When presence is your companion,
your heart becomes worthy of that road.

You will walk gracefully in the world of love,
preserving the firm foundation of love.

Whether cold appears suddenly
or heat appears on the road —

when love is your breath-companion and fellow-traveller,
neither cold nor heat shall touch you.

You wish to become gathered — then reflect:
every hour you scatter yourself more.

You were given the Water of Life.
You stand in the water — yet you search for the shore.

Every shore you circle on the road —
gather them together; perhaps your work will turn for the better.

If you are making your way toward a village,
why are you more heedless of the greater village?

Go — gather your heart today, O friend,
so that tomorrow you are not left in heat and burning.

When you lie beneath the earth with a heart full of blood —
if you have no companion, what will you do?

Do not scatter yourself, lest you fall behind.
Seek presence, so you are not left alone.

I do not know whether a settled heart will carry the soul —
a troubled heart: how can you carry it there?

You must remember God so much
that you would be lost if you ceased remembering.

When your heart is full of God's remembrance, your tongue
will be the companion of your soul in the hereafter.

Remember Him much — and that remembrance will dissolve.
Thus did the men of the world, and so it was.

Hear the word of the Sultan of the Way,
the Commander of Faith, the King of Truth.

In every part a thousand wholes, in truth.
In the whole, God's beloved — the absolute Beloved.

A marvel: the sun of this domain
shines in him from the tower of guidance.

Solomon of speech in the Language of Birds —
this man is Abu Sa'id ibn Abi'l-Khayr.

He said: "In every affair and every state
I searched for a trace of the footprint for many years.

When I found what I sought, I was lost —
like a drop, I fell into the ocean.

Now I am lost in the veil of mystery.
The lost one never finds the lost thing again."

When you are lost, what will you find of the lost?
When the road has sunk behind the veil, what will you find?

No one has ever set foot on this road —
for no one has feet fit for the road they desire.

Which wayfarer? What road, in the end?
Ask me for a likeness of this, at the end:

an arrow from the straightened bow of the quiver
shot forth, heading toward the target.

The one who falls into presence unwilled
on this road goes straight like an arrow.

Strive always toward presence of self —
do not sell a moment of presence for two worlds.

Contemplate that awe and that glory
until you remove yourself from before yourself.

Through contemplation of reason and discernment,
come to see all things in the world as one.

At this court, what do you imagine, O friend —
that between the kernel and the husk of the world there is a difference?

Since kernel and husk came from one place,
why did this one go to the fish, and that one to the moon?

Know with certainty: kernel and husk are one —
but this is hidden before the master's eye.

If through divine unity the eye of your soul opens,
your tongue will cry out: "Glory be to Thee!"

When in your eye all things become one,
how could doubt dare circle you?

Where is that sharp-eyed one who looked deep —
into everything, with a single glance, he saw?

Thousands of aeons passed like dust
before the name of a man arose somewhere.

You do not know yourself — what am I to do,
that I might drive this doubt from your heart?

If you live a hundred aeons,
you will neither see yourself nor know yourself.

Thus spoke the great Elder who had seen much —
one who had witnessed much good and evil:

"Whatever the Creator has given existence —
whether before or after, above or below,

whether stars or heavens or sun or moon,
whether ocean or earth or mountain or straw,

whether Tablet or Pen, Throne or Footstool,
whether spiritual being, cherub, or companion,

whether wine or honey, paradise or houris,
whether fish or moon, fire or light,

whether east or west, from Qaf to Qaf,
whether all that emerged from Nun and Kaf —

whatever secrets are in both worlds,
whatever delights are open and hidden,

whatever in both worlds, mote by mote,
whatever in the seven seas, drop by drop —

all will be shown to you, bright as the sun,
so that you see them all forever.

But not a single hair of yourself will be shown to you.
You yourself must remain hidden from you."

If your eye were to fall upon your own face,
a cry of love for yourself would rise from you.

If you want even a scent of yourself,
practise austerity — for the world is full of you.

Why have you fallen into error, at the end?
Why have you freed yourself from servanthood?

You looked upon nothingness and set your gaze there.
You imagined your own existence to be nothingness.

I have heard that first, before a parrot,
they place a mirror.

When the parrot sees the face of the mirror,
it sees one like itself, inevitably.

A sweet-voiced, harmonious speaker
raises a voice from behind the mirror.

The parrot thinks, that captivating bird,
that the voice belongs to that other parrot.

When it hears a word, its heart grows glad.
Gently, it learns that word in kind.

Existence is the mirror — but hidden.
Non-existence is the mirror's mirror-keeper.

Every form, whether in imperfection or perfection,
is a reflection and an illusion in this mirror.

Since you see nothing but the reflection of a single form,
you rise and sit with reflections entirely.

You imagine that every voice and every deed
belongs to that reflection — since you know only reflection.

Know that all creatures are unaware of themselves.
Know that all things are talismans of one another.

When you sit before the mirror,
you do not see the mirror — you see the face.

If a single mote of true Existence appeared,
these two worlds would be overturned.

Existence is fire; the world is combed wool.
No wool remains, and the fire rests.

The world, and whatever is in both worlds,
is like a reflection — and to you, it is the opposite of that.

If something other than reflection falls upon you,
like that Hallaj, fire will fall in you.

You will pull the cotton of illusion from your ear
and come to a boil like a vat in the wine-house.

From head to foot you become one, like a spindle.
Like men, you abandon the cotton and the distaff.

Your black hair becomes like cotton.
Neither head remains nor cotton in your cap.

When you are not worth a single seed of cotton,
you do neither cotton-carding nor tailoring.

The cotton repels you from itself, saying: "Away! —
for that light is coming to sit in your place."

Beware, O meddling man —
do not become an incarnationist from these words I have spoken.

Incarnation and union are forbidden here —
but the work of total immersion is universal.

A lamp, where the sun is radiant,
is a prisoner between being and non-being.

A place where there is neither number nor accidents,
neither bodies nor parts nor portions.

Whatever judgment you pass — that is you.
The Mighty, the All-Knowing, the Judge — that is you.

Whatever attribute you would give to God —
I know that you desire a unique companionship.

In describing Him, whatever you know,
you read from the notebooks of your own fancy.

Since your understanding is you — not Him —
if you describe Him, it will not be right.

Since His attributes are neither Him nor other than Him —
how will you describe His attributes? Know His essence.

Know Him by Him — this is your road.
This is the way of the meaning-seeking soul.

A fool went out the door with a candle
and saw the radiant sun in the sky.

In his ignorance he imagined forever
that without this candle, one cannot see the sun.

Know Him by Him, and be annihilated.
In that very annihilation, become eternal.

You become eternal if you become annihilated.
You remain entirely, if without-you, you remain.

The Sheikh of Mehne said one day:
"See the world as one person, and sew your eyes shut.

The earth is full of Bayazid, and the sky too —
but he is lost among them."

What am I saying? Where have I fallen?
I have given my soul to the wave of fire here.

How long shall I take steps in every direction
when I cannot find a single hair's tip of myself?

I have gone far on this dangerous road
and seen nothing of man but a handful of dust.

A handful of dust with a wind inside.
His body a talisman, his soul the treasure.

A potsherd — they adorn it beautifully,
they drape it in silk and brocade.

By cunning they give it eyebrow and face,
for the painted face keeps the evil eye at bay.

If someone sees its face from afar,
they would think a houri has appeared.

When the people see it from door and rooftop,
they cast it down from the heights at last.

When it falls to the dust — though you search a lifetime —
you will find nothing but pottery and emptiness.

You see nothing of its world but an image.
You see nothing inside it but a wind.

You too, O master, are a painted face today —
like the painted display, beautiful-faced today.

But patience — O you who sleep on the road —
until they cast you onto the road without warning.

Though your place is beneath the dust,
your pure place is from a pure place.

Alas — your jewel behind a narrow veil
has taken the colour of nature's rust.

If an angel saw your jewel,
it would prostrate again before your door.

Is it not your jewel before which the angels prostrated?
Is there not a crown of vicegerency upon your head?

Caliph's child — leave the furnace-pit!
Go to the garden — abandon beggar-nature, fulfil your destiny.

Though you are a king, guard yourself.
"Adam disobeyed" — keep it as rue against the evil eye.

In Egypt, kingship is for you —
you are like Joseph: why are you at the bottom of the well?

The reason you have no command over your own kingdom
is that a demon sits in Solomon's place.

If you retrieve the ring,
the demons and spirits will obey you again.

You are king, both at the end and at the beginning —
but behind the veil of fancy, you see double.

You see one as two, and two as a hundred.
Whether one or two or a hundred — all of it is you.

A teacher had a cross-eyed student
and sent the student somewhere:

"There is a flask of oil there for us —
bring it quickly." The student got up.

When he arrived where he was told and looked,
the cross-eyed one was amazed, for he saw two flasks.

He came back to the teacher and said: "O master,
I see two flasks — what should I do?"

The teacher said in anger: "O wretched one —
break one and bring the other."

Since he had no doubt in his own seeing,
he went and broke "this one" — and could not see the other.

If you see anything other than yourself,
consider: you are that cross-eyed one.

You are everything you see —
but since you remain in error, what do you know?

Someone asked Bayazid, in this manner:
"Everything that is hidden and visible —

from Throne to carpet, from both worlds — what is all this?"
He said: "It is all me — since I have died from living."

When this constitution too passes,
this world and that world both pass.

Nothing remains if you do not remain —
for you are both this world and that world.

Since the time they laid the foundation of this world,
they laid it upon the mould of Adam.

You have a wondrous constitution at your core —
burlap joined to silk.

If you circle for a hundred aeons like a compass,
the place of your joining will not appear.

Whether you are in heaven or on earth,
you will see nothing other than what you see.

But if an eye opens within your jewel,
both worlds will be scattered before you from the start.

In the hour that eye comes before you,
both worlds are lost in you, and you in yourself.

You are that jewel, if only you knew —
higher than this world and that world.

David asked the Lord of Glory:
"What is the wisdom for which creation was brought into being?"

The answer came: "So that this hidden treasure —
which is Us — they may know."

Since for the sake of knowing a treasure
you lower your head into the furnace-pit — suffer it.

If the eye of your heart were seeing,
sight would befit you.

From the light of the head's eye, nothing comes.
Your heart needs the light of another eye.

For Jesus and his donkey both had the head's eye —
but the eye of Jesus' heart was something else.

If you had ever seen your heart,
you would have seen the wonders of this road.

Though you heard its description a lifetime,
you will not be able to comprehend it when you see it.

If every breath you strive for His presence,
you will be robed in the honour of "Prostrate and draw near."

If you are acquainted with the primordial covenant,
why do you take separation from that Presence?

In meaning, acquaint the soul again.
Make yourself worthy to draw near the king's hand.

For when the sound of the falcon-drum comes,
the falcon takes flight from longing.

When it becomes heartless and soulless, it alights —
wholly upon the forearm of the sultan.

But as long as the falcon has a hood on its head,
how is it fit for the king's hand?

When it learns the way and becomes seeing,
from the king's hand, its heart becomes alive.

Then the falcon in its honour will know
why before this it had been left behind.

But if your falcon remains behind here,
how will the king call it before himself?

If you nourish this falcon with honour,
with honour it will return to the king's hand.

Otherwise, the king himself will answer you —
O what regret you will see from the king then!

Perhaps the king's white falcon rose
and flew straight to the house of an old woman.

When the old woman saw it, she rose
and put it in her lap with a band on its foot.

She put some pleasant wet bran before it,
gave it water and pushed a fistful of barley in.

How could that food befit the falcon
that used to eat from the king's hand in honour?

She saw the curve of its talons and claws.
She trimmed them so it could pick up crumbs — it could not.

In the end the falcon ate those crumbs
and with a hundred hardships began to tremble.

She clipped all its wings and pulled its feathers,
hoping it would stay with her a while.

From every direction the king's soldiers came
and suddenly they saw the falcon in that state.

They told the king the story of the old woman's falcon —
how the falcon became bewildered by the old woman.

The king said: "What shall I say to such a person?
The answer is what she has done — that is enough."

Beware, O you lulled by sweet sleep and comfort —
your falcon has fallen into the old woman's hands.

My patience will hold until this falcon
reaches the king's presence in a hundred-fold glory.

Before the king, I do not know what you will say —
you who sleep now, what will you say tomorrow?

XII. The Twelfth Discourse — On Heedlessness, the Celestial Game, and the Valley of Despair

O you who have laid your head in heedlessness,
who have cast your faith to the wind for the world —

who told you to quarrel with the sky?
Who told you to bleed your liver over a handful of the graceless?

How long will you worry over bread and clothes?
How long care about the public's honor and shame?

From so much useless thinking
you have worn your own nature thin.

Sacrifice your nature in surrender.
Sit before this Word and learn.

Learn meaning from its very alphabet.
Light the candle of the heart from the light of the Law.

At midnight, set fire to this night-colored ceiling —
fly out from this narrow dovecote.

If the draught of the unseen reaches your throat,
neither name nor shame of creation will remain.

You need faith alongside worldly wealth —
as you need the one, so you need the other.

You seek faith, but your heart is drunk on the world —
you do not know these two will not come together.

Your heart is trapped in two-facedness —
you remain beneath the mountain of pride and illusion.

One face you have turned toward the world,
the other you have turned toward faith.

Abandon this two-facedness at last —
for one being, one face is enough.

Two-facedness is a stain upon your heart,
for "the worst of people is the two-faced one."

A madman stood in the street.
A world of people passed in every direction.

The madman raised a sudden cry:
"One must go one direction, and one road!

"Why must you run in every direction?
Running a hundred ways, you arrive nowhere."

You have one heart, O wretch, and a hundred beloveds —
with one heart, how can you do a hundred tasks?

Since one heart holds a hundred kinds of business,
become a hundred hearts in the love of your Beloved.

A wretched madman came before Mahmud:
"I am a broken lover of your Ayaz."

Mahmud said to him: "O you who remain despised,
who remain grief-struck over a morsel —

"all the world is under my signet ring,
my kingdom is the entire face of the earth.

"My armies number three hundred thousand.
My weapons, horses, and treasures are beyond count.

"Four hundred elephants stand chained before me,
with courtiers and learned sages at my side.

"With all this, I still love him.
I am all kernel — not, like you, all husk."

"I have this sovereignty, this fortune.
I have what I have told you — what do you have?"

The madman laughed then and said:
"You cannot hide the sun with clay.

"O heedless one — you are crooked in love, and I am straight.
Hear the truth from the madman, O king.

"I am hungry, you are full of bread —
without a doubt, you call me mad.

"Right now, the fire of my love, on a single road,
could burn your entire kingdom with a single sigh.

"Your love has nothing to do with mine.
You are not a lover — you are a world-ruler.

"When your heart is in love with a hundred things,
you are no man of love — you are a coward.

"Since in my heart there is neither work nor burden,
I have given my entire heart to him at once.

"My whole heart is in love with the face of Ayaz —
yet his slave still does not know the truth."

A wise Hindu elder struck a fine parable:
"This and that cannot both come right."

Like the slave on one donkey's back,
holding the rope of another in his hand —

I see your heart placed on two donkeys.
Are you not afraid of falling off both?

In a hundred ways I have explained this road to you,
but your soul has not grasped a single one.

If your heart had heard even one letter of all this,
so many words would not have been needed.

All these failures come from dead hearts —
desire has led hearts astray from the road.

It can all be written on a fingernail,
but passing through it is not easy.

O glory, our secrets — where is the one who knows them?
Where is one seeing, knowing soul?

A thousand souls be sacrificed for that great one
who catches even a breeze of these secrets.

He who knows only the science of bread and butter
will surely call these words nonsense.

No sight comes from a blind eye —
no seeking comes from a bat.

The sky has fashioned each of these one by one —
many wonders it holds behind the curtain.

What is behind that curtain is not so small a wonder
that you could grasp it on your finger.

Under the veil, it holds limitless secrets —
it does not speak, yet it has a voice.

Much I sought the thread of this secret —
I did not find it, though I searched a lifetime.

Before the renowned wise men
we pondered much on these questions —

that hidden secret did not show its face,
nor did a single hair's-breadth of the goal appear.

Perhaps this secret is not to be spoken here.
The pearl of secrets is not to be pierced here.

A servant walked silently with a tray,
the tray covered with a lid.

Someone said to him: "What do you have on the tray?
Don't be evasive — tell me, by God."

The servant said: "O bewildered one, be silent!
Why do you think they covered it with a lid?

"If by reason you were meant to know this secret,
the lid would have been open."

Who knows what the age-worn wheel is fashioning
under its seven curtains?

The wondrous sphere is full of marvels —
not one of its cycles has been grasped.

Before the four arches and seven veils of the sky —
at this rampart, who dares attempt it?

The sky is always emptying its purse,
its work a constant game of wonders.

From the compass that turns in its embrace,
the head spins from such bewilderment.

Who knows what orbit these heavens follow?
What injustice hides beneath each turning?

From this garden whose flowers are stars,
our share, like the idle, is merely to gaze.

But anyone with a hand in skill will know
that these heavens have work beyond mere turning.

The sky searched much, racing and running —
it found its lost beloved from no direction.

A man gave counterfeit gold to a sage.
The sage struck this proverb upon him:

"I will catch you so skillfully
that in one leap you will spin ten times."

O the awe — the sky saw one effect,
and in one leap has been spinning ever since.

If it spins another hundred ages swiftly —
since it comes from smoke, it turns in smoke.

The world, whether high or low,
is either dark clay or blue smoke.

The sky, whether slow or swift in its turning,
turns between this clay and this smoke.

With such tremendous power do the spheres turn —
surely they do not turn for a handful of dust.

So mighty a body, O friend,
does not turn for a handful of sinew and skin.

So vast an ocean does not turn for the likes of us —
it never turns for a dewdrop.

The fly imagined the friendly butcher
opened his shop for her sake.

But what am I saying? It is no wonder from a God
who turns a mill for the sake of a single grain.

The sky turns for the sake of the pure soul —
not for a palmful of water and dust.

Step forth on this road like a man,
for the turning sky is in service to your work.

But for a few brief days, the Lord of worlds
has held you captive in this prison of earth —

so that when you pass beyond this mortal prison,
you will know the full worth of that garden.

From that mine whose jewels are souls,
the sky has long been the dust of its door.

Beside that mine, the sky is a mere speck of dust —
to that mine, the sky is as lapis lazuli.

When you exhaust yourself understanding a single jewel,
how will you understand the mine?

Many a star on the highest sphere
is a hundred and ten times greater than the earth.

It takes thirty thousand years from the beginning
for each star to return to its place.

If you threw a stone from the heavens,
it would take five hundred years to reach the earth.

The earth, beside these nine azure ceilings,
is like a poppy seed upon the ocean.

See how much of this poppy seed you are —
you should laugh at your own moustache.

You dress this poppy seed in comfort and ease —
when will you ever find this poppy seed again?

When will you understand this poppy seed,
you who have drilled thirty holes in it?

From these nine star-filled arches
nothing reaches you but a little gazing.

A dervish was looking
into this pearl-filled ocean of the divine.

He saw stars, bright as night-burning pearls,
their light turning night into day.

You would say the stars stood still
and opened their tongues to the earthbound:

"O heedless ones, wake up!
Spend one night awake at this threshold.

"Why do you keep your heads so deep in sleep?
You will sleep until the Day of Judgment."

The face of the heartbroken dervish, from that gazing,
became full of stars from his glistening eyes.

The hunched sky pleased him.
He opened his tongue like a nightingale and said:

"O Lord, the roof of Your prison is like this —
as though it were the painted gallery of China.

"I do not know what Your garden's roof is like,
when Your prison alone is already a garden.

"But on the roof of this prison, the stars
are stealing lives from mortals in plain sight.

"Since we rent this prison at the price of a soul,
that is why there are thieves on the prison roof."

For a long time I have been wondering
what magic runs through the courtyard of the sky —

what ripens from the root and fruit of its seven arches,
from the crying and weeping of the infant stars.

Not for a moment have these golden walnuts
grown tired of gazing upon this dome.

Perhaps they take us for children on this road,
that they scatter so many walnuts upon the dome.

Say — how long will the sphere's conjuring trick
display a different game each night?

Sometimes the moon is in fever, sometimes in swelling,
sometimes it becomes a shield, sometimes a sickle.

Sometimes in Virgo it is like a silver sickle;
sometimes in Taurus, like a golden thresher.

Who knows why these helmeted ones of the spheres
gird themselves and turn in the dust?

Who knows why these thousands of golden beads
turn so much inside nine boxes?

Why did they become divers in this sea?
There is no music — why did they become dancers?

Their feet never tire of their circumambulation.
Their hearts never tire of their battle.

Like jugglers, how long will they play with beads?
How long will they race through these nine boxes?

A thousand times they have turned over each other —
not one increases, not one decreases.

A difficult road and a wondrous work —
my heart is filled with blood from thinking of it.

Not one of them stops for a moment,
waiting to see when their goal will come to hand.

Eagerly they turn, helpless —
never resting from their turning.

They are silent, heads bowed on the road,
tongues cut, fallen on the path.

All, like Sufis, wear the patched cloak.
In selflessness, they are silent in that sweetness.

In their turning, they are neither drunk nor sober,
neither asleep from that state nor awake.

Day and night they are in pursuit,
seeking Him with their souls until resurrection.

You sleep sweetly — they are on His road,
kissing the dust of His threshold.

O heart, acquire at last some sharp-sightedness.
How long will you nurse this grudge?

What are you saying — that these golden idols
seek something from all this turning?

Go — lift your gaze from the faces of idols.
Turn the idols' heads upside down, disgraced.

Like Abraham, cast the idols to the ground.
Draw breath from "I love not those that set."

You have no business with creation —
you would only be a burden in the whole world.

What business of yours is the wisdom of God?
Do not speak unless your soul is on the gallows.

If for a hundred years you sit in thought,
you will be dry grass and the wind in the forest.

If anyone were given their goal,
from the knowing, they would fall from the road —

they would withdraw from seeking
and no vitality would remain in any work.

Since you do not know a hair's-breadth of the secrets,
in your ignorance, why do you circle around this work?

Silence and patience are your road —
you will find no better station than this.

Do not be bold with the secret of this meaning,
for you will become an ant, even if you are a brave lion.

I know you suffer much —
you tremble while trying to weigh quicksilver.

You have never won at chess;
in the game of chess, you have never borne a pain.

Since you do not know how to play chess,
that is why you lose in a move or two.

What do you know of why the rook went so far?
Why the king wandered bewildered from side to side?

From one side you see a knight charging;
from another, an elephant toppled on its neck.

When you see a pawn on the edge
become a queen — it captures you, the rider.

A mere arm's length is the chessboard,
yet you are stuck in it with a hundred pains.

On this board that is the size of your hand,
you do not know where your advantage lies.

Such a board that is an inverted ocean —
how would you know its moves?

You cannot see a hundred moves ahead —
you cannot go forward, you cannot see back.

Since you do not know the game on a chessboard,
you will be bewildered by the game of heaven.

From one side, the golden harvest of the Milky Way;
from the other, the golden grain of the sky.

Two birds chasing a seed,
their number six — one of them has flown.

Wheat has come in ears to the harvest floor;
two farmers have driven oxen to the threshing.

A scale has opened its arms for wheat —
that scale has never weighed a barleycorn unjustly.

Into the sea they cast a bucket —
and drew out fish and crab.

Ram and goat have gone to pasture —
a lion came hunting from a fox.

The farmer has drawn his bow upon the lion;
the ram placed both feet on the scorpion.

Since you are a farmer and the sky does not turn for you,
go — hold your tongue. Why do you circle this?

Aries has roasted your heart and soul many times —
many a barbecue has the ram made of you.

When Taurus charges at you in rage,
why would you try to be his beard?

When Gemini, like a youth, leapt from your belt,
from this lowliness one cannot gird oneself against him.

You are under the crab's claw —
that is why every hour you fall further back.

Right now you are captive in the lion's mouth —
what do you know? You think yourself a lion-tamer.

From the wheat-ear you see not a carefree grain —
it will not give you a barleycorn without gleaning.

When the scale weighs the strength of your arms,
it carries you from the oven into the balance.

With the scorpion, how can you think well?
The scorpion swallowed a live scorpion.

When the bow is strung, it takes your soul —
when they draw the string on you, suddenly: your bow.

From the goat's play, the goat of your eye goes wild —
hold the goat's head, for this goat is a pasture.

When Aquarius said "Come into the bucket, rise to the moon" —
like a bucket on that rope, you went down the well.

You are captive as an ant in the fish's palm —
for you, like a fish, are the crowd's performer.

What do you know of the wondrous sky's game?
Go — put the finger of bewilderment to your lip.

Take a seat apart from this decorated board.
Why do you pour oil on sand?

Your heart is tied to the game of the sky's board —
go, follow the tail into the sand and be saved.

From the sky's board you will surely find relief —
go, walk on sand. How long will you play this board?

On this game-board of earth, your life is in danger,
for breath runs like sand through the glass.

Do not sit on this earth-board like a king,
for you are a fish on hot sand.

The sky is the board and the earth is the sand — each day
it draws the world-burning sword of the sun.

Hold no hope from board and sand,
for above your head you have a sword-wielding sun.

In the end, since you are not fit for this house,
you will rise from between board and sand.

Though from bewilderment you are in headache,
do not give your head to the wind carelessly.

I heard that a country ghoul
came to the city, empty-handed and destitute.

He had never seen a minaret in the village.
He marveled and came to gaze.

He said to someone: "What a fine tree this is!
Surely the planting of some fortunate soul.

"Tell me, caretaker — whose work is this?
Where have its leaves gone, and what is its fruit?"

They answered him at once:
"It bears a bell-sound every year.

"Whoever has a headache, stubborn and hard —
the bell of this tree is the cure for all."

The poor man wept much from his poverty,
for this villager was dying of headache.

They told him: "Climb up and ring the bell,
so you may be freed of headache and hold your head high."

The simple soul went up the minaret;
a whole world gazed at him.

When he was halfway up, the man with neither hands nor feet
fell and broke his neck to pieces.

In ignorance, this innocent man
gave his head to the wind to cure his headache.

From so much headache, this one with neither head nor root —
his headache was not head-pain; he died of it.

He gave his head to the wind openly
because he built the mosque taller than the minaret.

O you who have fallen on nothing like an alif —
outside like a minaret, inside empty.

You have girded yourself like a lame ant on the road,
thinking to walk a hair's-breadth toward the moon.

On your road there is such wind and storm
that elephants have fallen neck-first.

Such a windstorm on your road, and you a mere ant —
on a single hair you walk toward the moon. What blindness!

If a blind man boasts much of himself,
at night on a hair-thin bridge, how will he cross?

What do you seek, since you cannot find yourself?
What do you sit for? Seek the secret from yourself.

Everything rests on you, and you rest on nothing — what a wonder.
Tell me: how does all this weight rest on nothing?

You are and you are not — that wondrous paradox.
You are neither nothing, nor are you beyond nothing.

Thus spoke that elder full of secrets:
"You neither vanish nor appear.

"If you become as mighty as the Supreme Throne,
they will never reckon you as anything.

"And if you become as small as a mote" —
thus he spoke — "even so, you do not vanish."

What do you want? What do you say? Where are you?
Speak of buttermilk, O villager.

An imam of fine speech stood at the pulpit,
speaking all manner of words.

A madman said to him: "What are you saying?
From all this talk, what are you seeking?"

The wise man answered him at once:
"For forty years I have been speaking secrets.

"At every assembly I bring a ritual washing.
Why, then, do I never end an assembly?"

The mad pauper answered him:
"Preach another forty years.

"Keep washing, keep speaking secrets,
sometimes the Quran, sometimes the traditions.

"When your years go from forty to eighty,
then come to me quick as the wind.

"Bring a strainer, O buttermilk-drinker —
I will strain your buttermilk with it.

"You spent a lifetime weaving this strainer —
but did you find any buttermilk in it?"

You hold a basket in water and do not know it.
Your head is in sleep and you do not know it.

Much sun shines upon the plain,
but the plain does not attain the sun.

My patience will hold until this drum of wind
is torn apart and silenced.

If your eye becomes seeing in the secrets,
neither world nor trace nor sign will remain.

One night, an old man wept bitterly:
"O Lord, remove this veil from before me."

When the veil was gone and he looked down,
he saw two worlds like an onion, layer upon layer.

In every layer, a world full of beings —
some sideways, some headfirst, some flying.

A group headless, running without heads;
a group wingless, flying without wings.

A group embracing all;
a group grasping the Tablet from its crown.

He saw a world of every kind of person,
each one lost upon their own road.

When the old man saw this, he lost consciousness —
from the shock, he fell and collapsed in blood.

He remained in those wonders for a long time,
for behind the curtain he had seen a wondrous thing.

When a lifetime passed, the sage gathered himself
and asked God for that world once more.

The veil rose from before the old man's eyes.
He saw no trace of anyone, left or right.

Of all those beings: bodies gone, souls gone —
no trace apparent, no name, no sign.

He cried in anguish: "O Knower of secrets,
where did all those beings go, with all their running?"

A voice came from the palace of secrets:
"There is no one apparent in the house.

"It was a showing that they were showing —
even that is gone, for they were never truly there.

"You saw a distant mirage that looked like water —
you arrived and died of thirst.

"Both worlds are wax in the hand of Our power.
All turns from power, and power turns from will.

"If We wish, in the blink of an eye,
We bring forth two worlds in every atom.

"And if not, We lock the door tight.
Since We exist — what need of world or Adam?"

Dear one, look: how the Needless One
holds our souls in play.

See how the youth of carelessness
descends from the heights of the Most High.

He knows how to draw near that summit
whose poverty surges like an ocean.

The true poor one in the world of the Elder
is like a child who takes nothing but milk.

Thus spoke that ocean full of light
whose dust is hidden at Kharaqan:

"The perfect poor one in the world
is the one whose heart is black in poverty."

I will tell you this meaning — do not argue:
for after black there is no color.

The face of poverty appears in both worlds —
both worlds do not weigh a mote in poverty.

What am I saying? Not even a single one like the Prophet
can find complete poverty — suffer less.

Your affairs seem a game to me —
you race thoroughbreds alongside a carcass.

Do not speak, since even the Prophet is not worthy of this secret.
Surrender and work with your time.

Do not circle around the veil of secrets,
for not every man is the man for these secrets.

You will not find it in the ocean of meaning —
and if you find it, you will drown there.

Whoever seeks the depth of these secrets
seeks the key to the treasure in the bazaar.

Since they have lost the trail on the road of secrets,
how will you find it, O wise man?

Whoever found this secret from the unseen —
that same one covered the trail so you would not know.

You have been standing at the door, eyes on the road.
Cut the trail, and you will find the wise elder.

If you want to find the door,
confess your helplessness, and you will find it.

The robe of the secret does not fit the soul,
for the soul has no hiding from such a secret.

Whoever came to know this pearl of secrets
threw that pearl back into this ocean.

In this ocean, the pearls of meaning —
who knows them? Tell me, so you might know.

After fifty years, a needle became straight —
now that needle is at the bottom of the ocean.

Many a helmsman stood in this ocean —
when water rose above the head, all fell to the bottom.

Much we cooked the longing of this almanac —
still, from raw workmanship, we are half-cooked.

Much we said we were people of the inner circle —
still, in our foolishness, we stand outside the door.

Much sorrow of every kind we swallowed.
Much we slept on the dirt and drank blood.

Much, like spiders, we wove houses.
Much, like flies, we told tales.

With every wing that someone flew, we flew.
With every stride that someone ran, we ran.

Sometimes with rogues we were in the tavern.
Sometimes we pressed our face to the idol-house door.

Sometimes we tied the Christian's girdle.
Sometimes we sat in the Christian monastery.

Sometimes with infidels we were at war.
Sometimes with fire we were inside stone.

Sometimes we cast the prayer rug over our shoulder.
Sometimes we dropped a tumult into the ocean of the heart.

Sometimes in retreat we recited the thirty parts.
Sometimes like wild beasts we wandered, lost.

Sometimes with owls we were in the ruins.
Sometimes with Sufis we were in the house.

Sometimes on stone we filled our hearts with thorns.
Sometimes on the plain we sacrificed our souls.

Sometimes we laid our head upon our knee.
Sometimes we fell into the tumult of "Hu! Hu!"

Sometimes from pride we rose above the Throne.
Sometimes from shame we slept beneath the Throne.

Sometimes with the falcon of the soul we soared.
Sometimes with a single sigh we opened a hundred doors.

Sometimes being, sometimes not-being.
Sometimes sowing — sometimes reaping nothing.

Much we roamed in pursuit of this secret —
now, on despair, we have turned back.

Much valor we showed and fought —
now, without catching a scent, we have vanished.

Much we took up this road anew —
now this too we have set aside for the other.

Much we bore the slaps of months and years.
Cups of poison brimming, we drank.

Much we spoke — the heart found no rest.
Much we walked — the road found no end.

Now it is past, that we read letters of ourselves —
we remained careless of our own work.

The outcast went to the old woman:
"Tell me a tale." She said: "Get away!

"I have no head for anyone right now —
I have lost my head on this spindle.

"Look — all this seeking, such different work —
tongue cut off and head given over.

"What shall I say, when I have no tongue for it?
My heart has turned to blood — my soul has not the strength."

The sky, though it ran swiftly to find the answer,
found mourning clothes from the pain of not finding.

The mountain, though it girded itself for this truth,
crumbled at last — for wind was in its hand.

Like the sea, whoever carried a drop from here
died of thirst with dry lips still.

If you say it is the sun — with its yellow face,
it goes into the west each evening with this same pain.

If it is the moon — you see that every month
it throws down its shield in bewilderment on this road.

The earth itself wears dust on its head from grief.
The sky is bewildered in regret and mourning.

The Throne — its mouth is soiled and its belly empty.
The Tablet has taken the Tablet from its head — the Pen: nothing.

A saint said: from the heart-kindling Throne,
an address comes to the dark earth each day:

"Is there still no news of God there?
Give news — for one cannot live without news."

All bewildered and lost we remained —
in this endless valley we remained.

Who knows what became of those who went?
What dreams visit those who sleep in the dust?

All departed, heads full of longing —
they went out like a bright lamp.

We are all like rings upon the door of bewilderment.
We are all stuck in our own work.

O glory, this pain that has no cure!
O glory, this road that has no end!

To the One Way, no one has any way —
for there is no foothold but standing at the threshold.

Who knows what poisoned draughts
descended to our palate from this wrath?

XIII. The Thirteenth Discourse — On the Confession, the Blindfolded Camel, and the King's Treasure

I, the wretch, have been awake so long —
a lifetime I have chased this work.

In this sea I steered many a ship;
at last I scattered my goods upon the waves.

For years I sat in this reflection;
I made myself acquainted with so many states.

All of them — whether laggard or leader —
appear the same in this bewilderment.

No one is aware of the divine secret;
from moon to fish, we are all prisoners.

Since the knowledge of the unseen knows itself unseen,
it remains thus hidden beneath the veil.

A wondrous tale and a hidden affair!
I have been in this thought a lifetime.

Now I have sat down from all this rushing,
for this valley has no bottom at all.

With my nails I dug at this mine a long time;
I saw nothing, though I spent my very soul.

Not for a moment have I dozed at heart's ease;
I have been in this grief as long as I have been.

When I read the letter of heaven's affliction,
from each eyelash a stream of blood flowed.

Without drawing a single breath I grew worn;
without one pleasant night I became nothing.

The root of this blue fortress is torn from me;
the branch of time's turning is broken.

My heart, in the marketplace of time,
struck not one arrow of desire at its mark.

If I drank one sweet cup from the world,
I drank a thousand draughts of poison.

In my heart's blood I endured all my life;
not one pleasant moment did I produce in all my life.

Nothing in all my life went straight for me;
not for one moment did my heart receive its wish.

If at first my state took on some lustre,
at last it seized me — with a soul's weariness.

The pen has passed across the paper — what can rise?
I sit upon that, to see what rises.

So bewildered am I by this hunchback sphere
that I have slain myself with my own hand.

O world, whatever humiliation you can,
do to me — O, what discord!

O world, grant me reprieve a moment
that I may weep a world of tears at your hand.

My worthlessness is clear at last;
from my blood, what could ever rise?

The world will not mourn my death;
from a handful of bones, no world is taken.

If I unleash my heart's pain again,
it will not reach an end from its beginning.

Since my pain has no cure at all,
cap it — for it has no end.

How long shall I drive so many words about myself,
when I know that I know nothing?

Who am I? Nobody — and less than nobody.
Sin increasing, obedience waning with every breath.

Behind in religion, ahead in the world,
stuck like a pauper with no faith.

A mind full, a heart nowhere settled —
I revolve each breath upon a hundred opinions.

One moment weeping tears in prayer,
the next drinking grief in the tavern.

I am neither the man of the dervish cloak
nor the man of the Christian girdle;
sometimes the mosque is mine, sometimes the girdle.

I please neither anyone nor myself;
I please neither the good nor the bad.

For something not worth a single coin,
I surrendered all my precious life.

Alas! In desire my life was squandered;
life itself was shamed by such an unworthy heir.

Only smoke rose from my hall;
everything issued from my madness.

My hair turned white in the watching,
yet still in greed I am a suckling babe.

Hard in heart but feeble in the work —
I walked far, yet I stand on that first step.

A weary old man one day saw a millstone
around which a camel walked with its eyes bound.

He let out a cry and was thrown into turmoil;
a long time passed before his senses returned.

He said to his companions: "This bewildered camel
opened the tongue of its state from a full heart —

"'From dawn to dusk I walked;
I thought: surely I have traveled far.

"'When they opened my eyes, I knew for certain:
all that walking — I was on the first step.'"

We are all on that first step —
prisoners, all, of custom and convention.

Our survival is our affliction;
our comfort lies in our annihilation.

Whether joy is ours or grief — it comes from us.
Whatever befalls us also comes from us.

What would it be if we had never existed?
Alas, that "alas" is of no use.

The soul's existence is not worth the body's death —
a lifetime of living is not worth the dying.

Without doubt, our being is our baseness;
our nonbeing comes from our being.

If our being had never been,
we would have rested from all this nothingness.

I, bewildered, am grieved by this affliction;
day and night for a long time I have been thus.

All my heart's desire — self-annihilation is not enough,
for in the very essence of annihilation there is no essence of permanence.

My heart cries out: O Cupbearer, you know!
Do not make me perish — O Lasting One, you know.

From envy of lightning my soul takes fire,
for it appeared late and dies too soon.

The Prophet knocked at every old woman's door:
"O woman, remember me in your prayers."

See what hard work this is —
that the Sun seeks help from the mote!

Know for certain that the hunting lions
on this path asked the ant for aid.

Truly, your cure is your own nonbeing —
in nonbeing lies your rest.

What greater comfort do you know, what greater ease,
than to be annihilated and freed from yourself?

You were annihilation — become annihilated from existence!
For when you are annihilated from yourself, you are delivered.

There is no rose without thorns, no wine without hangover;
you have much work to do with your own self.

None but you is your own enemy —
for no one's enemy shares their very breath.

Since between you and yourself something stands,
step aside — for here there is danger to the soul.

What a valley this is, where every step is a pit!
What a sea this is, where we have no path!

In this sea neither body nor soul is visible;
neither beginning nor end can be seen.

Whether you are Fereydun or Afrasiab —
in this sea you too are a single drop of water.

If the wind carried a straw from the harvest,
why do you hold this mourning for months?

Since the peasants of religion also die,
in this sea, what place is there for a straw?

Look with detachment if you do not know;
grieve not for a straw, O chaff-bin!

Dear one, without you a King set a treasure
and prepared a place for Himself alone.

If it is His will, He takes up that treasure;
if not, He leaves it just the same.

Why do you meddle so much?
You are unjust and ignorant!

Why should you need to know
why He laid that treasure down and why He took it up?

When you were not in the midst of it,
not for a moment were you the steward of it.

When the King took up the treasure He Himself had placed,
why then did the master raise this outcry?

Say nothing, though your life is precious,
for now it is the turn of another people.

The green rose-garden of the world is a field of sowing,
where sometimes it is autumn, sometimes spring.

When one seed is sown, another sprouts;
when this one is reaped, that one has arrived.

When they arrived and lingered a few days,
like seeds beneath the turning wheel, they were ground.

Thus is the way of time —
be for the One, if you are singular.

XIV. The Fourteenth Discourse — On the World's Deceptions, the Madman at the Kaaba, and the Dog of the Cave

How pleasant this ancient tale-filled cloister —
if only death were not in the middle.

In this house of affliction, this is the grief:
they will not leave us together.

Life would be pleasant — and being —
if only ugly death were not on its heels.

If joy exists, it is not without cycles of grief.
If being exists, it is not without the fear of nothingness.

You seek pleasure from a world of rebellion —
from the world there is no pleasant turning.

Know that pleasant-tasting wine is a fire.
Know that its entire pleasantness is unpleasantness.

The rosewater and musk of the world are tears and blood.
To seek pleasure from tears and blood is madness.

One who finds the scent of agarwood pleasant —
how pleasant, when in essence it is smoke.

Whether your garment is atlas silk or plain cloth —
it is a worm's spittle. What enchantment is this?

Though honey is sweet and delicious,
it is nothing but the droppings of a wretched bee.

Here a goat's head is set before you
while a dog appears in your eyes as a beaver.

You dyed the worm's spittle with blood,
saying: "Roman silk has come into my grasp."

If a pleasant breeze comes to you from the world,
in the end it fills your eye-sockets with dust.

If you seek cleverness for a moment,
you will not find cleverness without loss.

When you crack a walnut to try your luck,
you find no kernel — why is that?

You dive into the sea a hundred times —
find no pearl, though you bring up sand by the load.

You strike a hundred heavy hammer blows upon a stone
to extract a single grain from that rock.

When you take gold from stone in such a way,
by the fistful you must spend it — you know.

If there is a treasure, you will never find it,
for one cannot wander a lifetime in ruins.

In this garden, if a hundred faces bloom,
your hand becomes a hedgehog's back from thorns.

Its giving of armor is wind in the hand,
for that armor He also gave to the fish.

What use if He brings you a hundred blades to embrace
when even the mountain partridge has a crest-blade on its head?

If He grants you a belt — what of it? You or an ant —
both, despite this belt, are naked.

And if He grants you a helmet — what of it? You or that hawk —
both, despite this helmet, are risking their lives.

He keeps the helmet on your head in mourning —
that perhaps, being so dead-hearted, you might come alive.

Go, throw off your cap and take provisions for the road.
Since you have hair on your head, abandon the helmet.

If He gives you a crown, that too is mockery —
meaning you are partner to the rooster.

When you carry a message like the hoopoe,
the crown will surely laugh a hundred mockeries at you.

Do not be so proud if you gain a throne,
for such a throne also requires a reproach.

For you, like the throne of reproach — how much is it?
For the reproached, what throne? That throne is bondage.

O glory — it is poison in your throat if it honored you,
for it is a swelling if it made you fat.

If red-faced honor pleases you here,
you must blow fire like a goldsmith.

So much water must flow from your eyes
until fire rises — or does not rise.

Like the tulip, if you want to be red-faced quickly,
you must be blacker-hearted than the tulip.

From feast and famine you saw nothing but grief.
The world — even if you saw it full — you saw nothing.

In the world, the Fountain of Life is delicious,
but in the Darkness, even that is invisible.

With all the beauty you see in the peacock —
alas, it is sacrificed for one or two raisins.

If the phoenix of the world bears the sultan's mark,
like a dog, at least for now, it is with bones.

You cannot find its fire without a rising flood.
You cannot see its wind without a shower of dust.

If there is a blade with a jewel,
the jewel is in iron — how can it be reached?

One servant named Camphor —
no crow blacker than he falls into the trap.

Another servant you call Ambergris —
his unpleasant smell will not please you.

Another servant whose name is Jewel —
from smallness he has neither attribute nor substance.

I have enumerated the world's pleasures for you —
for in my lifetime I have died from this tale.

Someone asked that grief-filled madman:
"Tell us a riddle about the people of the world."

He said: "The people of this ruin
are all the cupping-flask's vessel.

In ignorance, like that master barber,
they draw a pleasant breath from blood and wind."

It is fitting to speak much of the world,
for it is a pleasant time when you seek its secrets.

It is fitting if your breast fills with fire from it,
for in the time of weeping, you find pleasure from it.

Go — bow your head before the world's pleasure.
Keep the word silent behind the veil of the heart.

If one breath of joy rises from you,
after one joy a hundred griefs descend.

No one's lot is union without separation,
for there is no rose without thorn, no sugar without flies.

The faithless world has no light.
A moment without mourning yields no profit.

If it gives you silver, it will be a stone.
And if it owes you an apology, it will limp.

We read a thousand letters of disappointment
so that in life we may drive one pleasure.

If there is a pleasure, in its throat is an affliction.
And if there is a treasure, beneath it is a dragon.

If there is a throne, how unsteady.
And if there is life, how impermanent.

The faithless world is a place of passing.
From center to circumference, it is sorrow and pain.

I do not know anyone without grief
that I might rub their hand in comfort for a moment.

Since grief and burden exist and keep coming,
neither is there relief from the work's grief.

If Adam had not eaten that grain of wheat,
where would a barleycorn of grief be for humankind?

For three hundred years Adam remained grief-stricken.
For a grain of wheat he spilled blood upon the dust.

He was the father and the origin for us.
By one grain of wheat he became the target of a hundred afflictions.

If you want a morsel in gladness —
it is impossible, since you are born of Adam.

Since for him a grain of wheat was not without a hundred afflictions,
for you too, no morsel passes without grief.

Go — submit your body to heavy grief.
Struggle much, and when they demand your soul, give your soul.

I do not see in you the manhood and strength
to ascend to the heavens without first going to the grave.

Even if you turn the heavens upside down,
no one will remember a handful of dust.

What will arise from you, O fallen one, caught in the snare?
Be patient, be patient, and be at peace.

Who told you to set yourself on fire?
Stop. Shake the dust from your head. Surrender.

Go — if you are sane, be a spectator.
And if you are mad, be mad once and for all.

Since you see no goal in this,
how long will you keep beating your head upon the ground?

Do not beat your head on the ground, O man of grief —
for your head will be on a brick in the earth.

Do not strike against this discordant sky,
for the sky will strike back at your face.

Quarreling like fire — what use is it?
This smoke comes out from every opening.

Do not quarrel so much since you have fallen fruitless.
Surrender the body since you have fallen into the snare.

Courage is the drunken heart's food —
for no one's work succeeds without courage.

I heard that among the predecessors, a poor dervish
for a whole year had a craving for a fried dish.

When a coin came to the poor man's hand,
he brought his way toward the butcher.

But the butcher, ugly in his living,
gave him meat like bread — you know what kind.

When the elder saw that meat — truly not as hoped —
he saw nothing but liver or bone.

It was liver — but he wanted something else,
for our work does not succeed without liver.

Our heart drowned in blood all at once.
What do they want from this handful of liver-eaters?

We have no strength for the heavy burden,
nor the provision for the soul's destitution.

Grief became our companion in the grief for the Friend,
so that from grief's work, we have no grief for our own work.

If the sky prepares our death,
the grief of His love tears the shroud from us.

I heard that somewhere there was a heartless one —
not from choice, but like us, a fruitless one.

Children threw stones at him from every side.
Then suddenly a hailstorm appeared.

He raised his head toward the sky:
"After you took this fool's heart —

you heaped hail and stones upon my body.
You too became a friend of these children."

What am I saying? Go, O heedless drunkard —
your Friend will not soil His hand with you.

You are not worthy of the Friend, and the Friend is far.
You are far from the work, and from you the work is far.

Know with certainty that the proud sun
will not bow its head to anyone.

Before the renowned sun,
what does it matter — a starling or an elephant?

See the tranquility at the foundation of the work.
Do not quarrel, for this Maker is a master craftsman.

Speak within the veil about the Veil-Maker.
Let go of this fantasy and puppetry.

Since there is no joy, bind the heart in grief.
Since there is no companion, seal the breath on the lip.

O noble one, keep the word behind the veil,
for secrets should not be told to every base person.

For a lifetime I have been bound to this:
to share a secret with a companion.

I cannot find a single agreeable companion.
Alas for these hypocritical companions.

If our work comes from our companions,
the torment of hell is from "wretched is the companion."

O heart, be silent since you find no confidant.
Do not breathe a word, for you find no companion.

Like men, always practice three devotions:
silence, patience, and contentment.

Adopt the way of the solitude-seeking man.
If you are a man, wean yourself from people.

The men of the world are your highway robbers —
perhaps they are not men; they are women.

On one side wine, on the other a beautiful face —
among the people, how can you remain an ascetic?

One at a feast, another in calamity —
tongue and heart full of deceit and gossip.

The world arose from idle talk.
The whole world became the mule's bell.

On this path a hundred thousand heads are like polo balls.
What place is there for work, burdens, and talk?

If I speak of the soul — it is left in blood.
And if the body — it is left outside the door.

Since the soul does not know its head from its foot,
what can come from this body fallen in place?

When souls turn in the bloodbath,
what can arise from worn-out bones?

The great ones have faces full of bloody tears.
What place is there for petty faultfinders now?

One who from intellect is the crown of a hundred men —
in blindness is like the brainless on the road.

Like Moses, whoever became a staff for the blind —
from the Pharaohs on the elder's path, went astray.

The highway robbers on your path are so many
that if I told you, your enemy would weep.

You must go by necessity — why do you writhe?
Trust in God, for He knows that you are nothing.

Set foot upon the lovers' path.
Why should you be less than a dog on the road?

For that dog, when it caught a whiff of this path,
did not turn its head despite stones and sticks.

It did not eat, nor sleep a single breath —
it kept guard over those Companions.

If you are a man of the path, enter the path.
Step forward — become devoted to His way.

If they say "Cast your head upon our path" —
with this joy, throw off your turban.

Even if you throw down your shield in a hundred charges,
like that madman, you are still clutching your skirt.

A believer said to that madman:
"Whoever goes to the Kaaba becomes safe."

That madman struggled greatly on the road
until he arrived in Mecca before the sanctuary.

His foot was still outside the Kaaba
when they snatched the turban from his head.

He saw a graceless Bedouin
carrying his turban away at a run.

The madman opened his tongue and said:
"Behold — the safety has appeared!

Since they took my turban at the door,
inside the House, will they leave my head?"

"The sign of safety is visible on my head —
when I enter the House, it is visible at the door!"

But in a place where a hundred heads are polo balls on the road,
what place is there for the safety of turban and cap?

A thousand heads at this door are not a mote.
A thousand oceans here are not a drop.

A thousand souls scatter for that head
whose turban they snatch at that door.

Until you come out of your skin and skull,
you will not find safety at the Friend's threshold.

As long as a single hair remains of you,
know with certainty that safety has no face.

The sign of safety on this path, without doubt, is this:
the Night of Ascension's "leave yourself" is this.

If you become manifest, you remain bewildered.
If you become hidden, you remain hidden.

A noble one said: "For a lifetime in this work
I was caught between constraint and earnestness.

When I was hidden, I myself was not.
When I was manifest, I was — but what use?"

XV. The Fifteenth Discourse — On Death, the World's Sorcery, the Donkey-Skull, and the Silent Sea

A fair burden is the world and its provision —
a worthy companion for that burden is death.

A fair place is the grave, narrow and dark —
for a narrow Bridge is also needed at the door.

A fair bridge is the hair-thin Sirat —
for which Hell must serve as a caravansary.

You say: "These griefs are not enough for you?"
For the grief of the Day of Judgment must also enter.

In this matter there is no room to breathe;
all have gone and none has returned.

No one has a sign from those who have gone;
no one has seen the shore of this valley.

A world of souls is split in two by this affliction —
who knows what a tremendous whirlpool this is?

A world of heads on this road are polo-balls —
who knows what a black valley this is?

A world of people are drowning in blood —
who knows what they are like beneath the earth?

The world's done and undone is all the same,
for everything is a game behind the curtain.

What is the purpose of enduring all this pain,
when like a candle we shall gutter out and die?

The world without anything lasting is a pleasant song —
but since nothing lasts, that is the calamity.

Leave the world and pass from this talk quickly;
since nothing lasts, seek what lasts — quickly.

As long as you have been, you have been weary of the world;
on every path you have labored ceaselessly.

Never did you eat a morsel without violence;
never did you drink a draught without poison.

A thousand bloody floods bound your heart
before one breeze from the world leapt upon it.

Think for yourself, if you have any sense:
which is better — death or life?

A thousand griefs descended upon your face
before one sip of water came to your throat.

The whole world is not worth a grain of grief —
nay, not half a millet-seed is it worth.

Do not eat much of the world's grief, O friend,
for no one shall remain in the world.

Why do you take pride in this treacherous world?
You are not a vulture, even if it is a carcass.

Consider all the world's seed as harvested —
obtained by your hand and then left behind.

Perhaps that penniless man fell ill —
the one who always broke the crusts of firewood.

Ghazali went to visit him;
he sat down — not at his feet, but at his head.

He said to him: "This time you will get better;
do not grieve." The sick man answered him:

"Suppose I do get better, O wise one —
how many more crusts of firewood must I break?

"Why pile things up when at the end
they will all collapse at once?"

Do not be content with the world's profit;
if you are a man, make the world's profit your loss.

Know for certain that the man of the path
is the one for whom this world's profit is loss.

From his own nothing-nothingness he has no care;
he has nothing, and from his nothing, nothing follows.

The great ones whose aim is the faith —
the world's loss is their profit.

With this world they purchased the kingdom of the next,
for they saw this hundred years of hardship as profit.

You too, O one remaining in the passing world —
make such a trade if you can.

All the profit of you and me became loss.
Alas for the birth and the being of you and me!

In being born we are all in tumult and turmoil;
in dying we are all trampled underfoot.

As long as the world has been, souls have departed from it;
one was going and another was arriving.

The world's moon of joy is beneath the cloud;
all the world's work is pain and regret.

The world, with its breast full of our pain,
will lull us to sweetness — only in sleep.

The world knows how to burn the world with injustice;
one need not teach the wolf to tear.

Time works its sorcery so well
that no one sees its hand in the matter.

With the left hand it performs this wonder;
you set your right foot forward and walked on.

What business do you have with its sorcery?
Your station is not here — the world is a passageway.

The world has made a spectacle on the road;
pass on, for this spectacle is cold.

If you are not a child, look before and behind;
do not stop at the spectacle, O friend — move on.

Why do you want to remain outside yourself,
in the dust, with a heart full of blood?

Go! Seize your soul and abandon this world;
seize it and place your wager in the game.

What wager do you want from this turning compass?
You will become its captive.

What does the wheel give people at the start
that it does not take back from them at the end?

The sky is like a peacock with its tail spread,
having placed a world of people upon its feathers.

By day this sky is blue smoke;
by night it is black water — what was it, in the end?

You remained in blue and black;
you died in between — what do you want in the end?

Go from this ebony mill-drum;
what do you hope from this tearing tailor?

How long will you speak to the sky?
Without doubt it will cast that speech upon the ground.

Every heart that had life — from the sky's hand —
if it had a hand, held it up against the sky.

The sky is a basin full of star-embers;
your heart burns beneath the basin and its coals.

It is fitting if your foot stayed in the fire,
for you remained beneath a fiery carpet.

If from the sun your head had a helmet,
you cannot keep that helmet from the sky.

For my part, my heart has died from the sky,
from all the people it raised up and brought down.

Whom does this turning dome raise up
without in the end drawing the life from them?

The world has shed blood beyond limit and without care;
many has it placed beneath the earth with this sword.

The sky brings you something different every moment;
at every hour it brings you yet another affliction.

How strangely stuck I am, like one afflicted —
how the heart fights with every calamity!

Tell me: how long — sometimes sorrow, sometimes grief?
Alas for day and night and year and month!

No dawn draws near to day
without the day turning dark upon us.

No evening shows itself as night
without the night destroying joy at once.

No new moon appears in this matter
without the moonlight being measured out upon us.

No new year turns among the days
without ten years of grief borrowing from us.

See the tale of month and year and day and night;
see the wondrous game of the wonder-working wheel!

When night scatters its fingers at the curtain,
each day they must gather them from the start again.

This discordant monastery is a heated oven
from which no loaf returns without burning.

There is no worse calamity in time than this:
from this hoop there is no gap for the rope.

If you wish to escape outside —
there is no foot and no hoop — how will you flee?

Who told you to go around the wheel's hoop?
It bent your cypress-straight stature into a hoop.

A sky that is a boiling sea —
you became like a tambourine's hoop, a ring in your ear.

When the sky's hoop bound you —
why do you put your hand around its hoop-neck?

The hoop-shaped sky struck many a hoop;
like a ring upon God's door, it struck its head many times.

It struck many hoops, like sifting dust —
nothing came to the top of the sieve.

From this sorrow its back became a hoop;
its garment from grief turned indigo.

You want to rise up in play
and leap out of this hoop like a warrior?

You cannot tell the alef from a hoop;
do not play toward the hoop-shaped sky.

You can pass through this hoop only at the hour
when your soul reaches the hoop of your throat.

Even if the rope is a hundred lengths — frustratingly —
the passage through its hoop is the end.

O the pity and the scheming of us!
O the turning of our hoop-play!

O world, you have a man-despising nature,
keeping so many people in the fattening-pen.

One by one, amid bounty and ease,
you fattened them — and then devoured them.

O world, who is glad from your turning?
All your turning is wind joined with your cruelty.

O world, you are a ghoul in human form —
you sell barley but show wheat.

O world, with whom will you make peace at last?
In blindness, how much will you gamble in the end?

O heart, abandon the world — how long with the world?
Every moment its turning brings you loss.

From the hand of time's nine twisting curves,
why do you writhe? You will die unfulfilled.

Since the world is not grieved by your work,
why do you throw dust upon your head from its hand?

What use if you throw dust at the heavens?
You are a stone cast into dust.

The world has no sympathy for anyone;
no one has a remedy but helplessness.

The world has many grooms like you;
it remembers many a feast and wedding.

It could never bear to see you happy for a moment,
nor to see you free from grief for one breath.

For a lifetime it gives you constant torment
until the world's work finds its order through you.

For a lifetime you see no harvest but affliction —
so that one day you might sit at heart's ease.

When you have sat down, it rouses you by force;
in misery it drives you to your grave.

As long as you sit in the passing house,
you are going while sitting and do not know it.

Your likeness is exactly like dust joined —
for dust departs, without doubt, when it settles.

From the turning of nine spheres one verse comes —
what can be done with so much breaking?

The sky is far more bewildered than you —
what help should you seek from it in any matter?

The sky has been running a lifetime in its rushing,
in hopes of holding its bewilderment at bay.

Since it cannot hold itself back,
how will it hold you in comfort?

A madman was going along a road
and saw a donkey-skull upon a garden-pole.

He said to them: "Since the donkey was trampled,
why is its skull upon a pole?"

They answered: "O asker of secrets —
it is because it keeps the evil eye away."

When the madman understood that meaning,
he said to them: "O you handful of liver-eaters!

"If this donkey were alive,
even the donkey would laugh at this!

"Time gave you the brains of a donkey —
that is why you are this donkey-skull, stuck in the trap.

"When alive, it could not keep a stick from its backside —
how can it, dead, keep the evil eye away?"

Go! Draw in your breath and surrender — what do you say?
When you know nothing, what do you seek?

Do not follow this work like a shadow,
for the candle produces no shadow.

Do not cast your own shadow upon this — for the Sun
will make you, like a shadow, eternal.

If you come before your own work,
you will become a greater affliction to yourself.

And if you breathe a word from behind the veil,
you will cast blood into the veil of your heart.

Do not draw so many bows upon the arrow of deliberation —
for that arrow comes from you upon you.

Perhaps that villager was heart-sore;
he came to the city where a minstrel was playing the harp.

He was delighted that the minstrel played the harp;
he drew his slipper and flung it at the minstrel.

The minstrel's head was broken, he dropped the harp,
and cleanly plucked out the villager's mustache.

When the wretch went back to his village in rage,
from ignorance he shook his mustache toward the city:

"In my estimation, the city has no value!"
But upon his bare lip, the truth was plain.

The world has piled up glass upon glass;
if you throw a stone, it falls upon you.

When in meaning you are not one who knows the secret,
you are like a fist-thrower in the dark.

If you breathe one word here,
here too you are uprooting the world.

When your seven limbs have fallen in the trap,
how can you say: "I am free of my seven limbs"?

If one hair turns awry upon you,
a thousand pains turn their face toward you.

If one finger of yours is cut,
from your own helplessness you tear the veil.

In these nine basins you argue at the table —
you are stuck like a fetus in a jar.

What reckoning are you in, and where are you from?
You are like glass beneath a millstone.

Do you not know that in the marketplace of creation
there is no merchant of power but God?

You imagine that you are coming from somewhere —
O what a delusion! What an unpleasant calamity!

Like a bat that emerges from a window —
more comes in from the threshold's corner.

It circles the garden and the meadow a little;
it sits upon the top of every treetop.

If an ant finds a head somewhere,
it thinks it has become a king.

It sees nothing but itself in the picture;
it becomes happy from a single hair of the world.

But when the fire-faced sun
turns its face from the sky toward the earth —

It plays tricks in the bat's heart;
fleeing, it spills milk from its breast.

O you who are like a bat day and night,
subordinate to this handful of riffraff!

Content with a hair like the bat —
from blindness, you have squandered sweet life.

Like a night full of the blindness of day, remaining behind;
day and night a prisoner of greed.

You have not seen the face of the sun from afar;
your eye has not seen a thread of light.

Do you not consider that when the Almighty Sun
appears from the tower of unity —

Your heart, having given no worthiness to the soul,
how will it endure the light of that?

Go! Make yourself worthy;
like a mote, go before that Sun.

Rise, O mote, from this window of yours,
for this house you have is not bright enough.

Your departure from this window is right,
for the field of the world is full of sunlight.

You say: "My light is such
that no one has known my worth from my light."

How long will you speak of your own worth?
If you wish to know your own worth —

take a handful of black earth from the road,
shape it, then give it to the wind.

Know that your beginning and end in all this work
is a handful of dust — if you are aware.

You are a handful of dust and so much change;
think! Do not be so proud.

You are proud, O morsel of blood,
fallen from so many roads!

Go! Lay pride down from your head and reflect
on who you are and what lies ahead.

Happily you have set your heart on the world —
see where you have actually fallen!

Such a wheel turning around you —
and you say the field is beneath you?

If you do not see its raising and lowering,
how will you sit still between the two?

You seek a path with your thought, like men;
you circle in the narrows of the turning wheel.

You prepare your way toward your own nest;
in this world you return to your own place.

You circle this charnel-house
and do not fear the talismans of time.

Even though you see the sea silent,
fear — for it will soon come to a boil.

A sage stood at the shore of the sea
and sent his gaze in every direction across it.

He saw a sea at rest —
a nature to whose limit nothing has reached.

He said to the sea: "O you of endless depth —
I fear your calm exceedingly.

"For if one wave should rise from you for one moment,
how many ships would be dashed together by you!"

XVI. The Sixteenth Discourse — On the Decree of Death, the King and the Skull, and Between Dust and Blood

Even if the kingdom of the world is under your ring,
in the end your place is under the ground.

No one remains in this world forever —
look at the graveyard if you do not know.

Know the world as a caravansary with two doors:
when you enter through this one, you pass out through that.

You sleep in heedlessness, aware of nothing —
you will die whether you wish it or not.

Of a man whom death has drawn near,
they say: "His vein has stretched."

Open your eyes, O you of slack veins —
for from the first, your vein has been stretched.

Whether you are a beggar or a king,
three yards of cloth and ten bricks are your companion on the road.

Even if your kingdom stretches from fish to moon,
your final path is through this gate.

When they suddenly bind your chin in death,
all the kingdoms of the world — there, know your chin.

From everything you possess, desired or undesired,
you must be parted in the end.

The wheel of heaven has done much handiwork —
and no one shall find deliverance.

In this life that has so many twists,
do not be proud — its foot stands on nothing.

A great master was walking along,
leading a donkey loaded with glassware.

Someone said to him: "How cautiously you go!
With such caution, what do you carry on the donkey?"

"What do I carry?" he said. "I carry a heart full of worry —
for if the donkey falls, I have nothing."

Since life has its foot on the wind, it is nothing.
See how this nothing has a hundred kinds of worry.

This life that makes your soul glad —
when death comes, to your soul it is wind.

Even if you raise Alexander's dam before you,
you will die neither later nor sooner than your time.

This death has also been set before you —
but has fallen a day or two behind.

When you cut a branch in two,
the heart of the other branch trembles with fear.

The wheel of heaven will spare you for a while —
but this drunkard of bone cannot hold long.

All the world's affairs, from mote to sun —
why do you ask? "As if they had not flourished yesterday."

If you are an Alexander, the passing world
will make your shroud from your Alexandrian cloth.

And if you are more brazen than Esfandiar —
in the end you too have an eye to watch for.

You are not a mountain — and even if you were a tall mountain,
you would become as straw from so much sorrow.

You are not the sea — and even if you were an ocean of water,
you would strain out and accept ruin.

You are not a lion — and even if you were a fierce lion,
you would not know the fox-tricks of the wheel of heaven.

You are not an elephant — and even if you were an elephant-slayer,
like Nimrod you will die by a gnat.

You are not the sun — and even if this is your perfection,
when you become a mote your decline is revealed.

You are not the moon — and even if you are the luminous moon,
when you fall before the node, you are eclipsed.

You are not an anvil — and even if you are anvil and hammer both,
when death comes, you limp like a decrepit beast.

You are not iron in hardness and keenness —
and even if you are, at one weakness you crumble.

Even if you are lion-natured and elephant-strong,
you are food for the worms of the grave.

The very moment they take the soul from your body,
they carry you on the journey from cumin to Kerman.

When you sleep in the shroud, you are trampled underfoot.
You, sleeper — eat well, but take many blows.

Whether you are of earth or fire-born,
in this quicksilver waterwheel you are as wind.

Many a rose-petal fell from the bough in fever —
scattered by fever all the way to Kerman in one stroke.

Like a goat, how long will you leap on the mountain ridge?
For, willing or unwilling, this belt is fastened.

Think deeply — so many women and men,
where have they gone, with hearts full of pain?

All the plains of the world, place upon place —
I see them everywhere asleep, head to foot.

The whole face of the earth, league upon league —
is silver bodies with dark tresses.

All the mountains and deserts, step by step —
I see cypress-forms with almond eyes.

There is no resting-place in any plain
whose road-dust does not hold a bleeding heart.

From every place where grass grows,
from every leaf of it a sigh comes forth.

All the dust of the earth is the dust of beloved ones.
Beloved ones are leaves, and the world is autumn.

Someone asked that madman in the village:
"Give us news of God's business."

He said: "Since I became aware,
I became God's begging-bowl on this road.

"By wisdom He sealed the bowl of the skull —
then gave it to the wind, and then crushed it small."

If you pick up a handful of dust from the ground
and ask the sorrowful dust its story —

it would weep a hundredfold like a cloud,
and from every single mote a sigh would rise.

From the first day, this heart-kindling wheel
has been grinding the grief of creation night and day.

You would say that on the earth every mote of dust
has opened its tongue fearlessly about their condition:

"You threw us beneath the earth at last —
you too will buckle this belt soon enough."

"O heedless ones — how long will you approve
of casting us beneath your feet?"

"In the beginning we were like you too —
and in the end you will become like us."

A king saw a madman
who had placed a skull before the road.

He said to the madman: "With this skull in your arms,
what scheme are you cooking in your head?"

He said to the king: "O king! I have been thinking —
I have made you my fellow tradesman.

"I do not know if this skull belonged to a beggar like me —
or if it belonged to a king like you.

"I have measured the face of the world in a lifetime —
your share comes to three yards, and so does mine.

"What if you have armies, kingdoms, and lands?
You eat two loaves, I eat two — we are equal.

"Since you are just like me, why all this running and striving?
What will you do with it? Cast it from your neck!

"All of it — if you do not throw it from your neck entirely,
all of it tomorrow becomes a shackle around your neck."

"You have poured water into the waterskin like a water-carrier —
but this is not water; tomorrow it is fire for you."

O precious one, behold the grief — where is your compassion?
Since life has passed like the wind — where is your waking?

You remain for a single breath; when the breath is gone,
nothing of you remains, and your nothing does not remain either.

Through the road of the eye, pour the blood of the heart —
for you will become the dust of the dust-sifters.

If the wheel of heaven were not so hostile,
the dust would not have so many silver-armed ones.

Do not sleep, O heart! Accept these words at last.
From so many who have gone, take warning at last.

You have walked over the departed with a hundred airs —
and many who come after will walk over you.

Why do you boast if your life is long?
For the agony of death, you have so much need.

Whether your life is a hundred years or twenty —
aside from this breath you are in, what is your harvest?

Even if your portion has given you a hundred years,
one breath is the present moment — all the rest is wind.

All your life is grief, and the life is short —
then He sweetened it with bitter death.

Grief was pouring blood upon my face.
I do not know how to say these words.

From fear of death in the prison of mortality,
I died in the midst of living.

Many a soul, like indigo in the body,
seethes in this indigo vessel.

Since the pot of life has its lid off forever,
the cat reaches in for the soul.

What shall I do in this discordant world?
The cat has no shame, and the pot has no lid.

Go, O heart — like a pot, how long will you seethe?
Make silence your own lid.

In this pot of affliction you have cooked with a hundred pains —
for I am like salt in the pot: fit for the cooking.

Blacker-hearted than a pot, O sinner —
take down your pot from the fire, O black-heart.

Your pot has boiled over, and still you struggle —
for in every pot you are like a lizard.

What shall I say? You are a wondrous bird at every turn —
rising from my pot upside-down.

Every hour a new soul is placed upon you —
set another pot upon the fire from your own boasting.

How long will you boast of your table and your bowl?
Keep the bowl of your skull clean of delusion.

All your kingdom and your domain, from end to end,
is less than a kingdom smaller than a millet-seed.

Any kingdom you love with your soul
is worth nothing, since death follows behind it.

Even if your kingdom became the whole plain of the world,
your final refuge is two yards of earth.

Since you were born from your mother for the sake of dust,
on this back why do you build gardens and pavilions?

The one who built his house as much as he needed —
his house was sweet and fine, like a honeycomb.

Since your soul's descent will be into the dust,
why do you raise the roof of your pavilion to the heavens?

You are not aware of your beginning or your end —
trapped between dust and blood.

Look at first and last within yourself —
to see what was behind and what lies ahead.

The womb was your first place of blood —
you come to dust from blood when the blood has washed you.

At first you appear from blood;
at last you are trapped beneath the dust of the road.

Between dust and blood, who seeks joy?
What does the wise man say to you in this matter?

O what heedlessness — with so much darkness,
between dust and blood you have built your affairs.

Whether you depart pure or impure,
you came from blood and go with dust.

Between dust and blood, why do you seek joy?
You are nothing but a slave — why do you seek freedom?

Your waist is firmly bound like a slave's —
for the child of Adam cannot be without grief.

Even if you are stuffed with a treasure of silver and gold,
you will not drink one moment's water without pain.

Bind your waist, for this door is wide open —
do not be slack, for hardship has fallen upon you.

Where have so many words been of use to you?
Go — do something with your own hand, quickly.

For a deed you did with your own hand —
you have made one into a hundred thousand more.

A man bequeathed much wealth,
that when he died, they should bring it before the elder,

so that the elder might distribute it to the poor —
for the elder knows better who is worthy.

When they brought all that gold before the elder,
he took from it the weight of half a barleycorn.

He said: "If in his lifetime
that mortal man had given this much —

"by his own hand, it would have been far better for him
than to have the elder give away all this gold."

XVII. The Seventeenth Discourse — On Heedlessness, the Anatomy of Man, and the Gambler Who Kept His Faith

O you heedless one, fallen from the path —
you will die suddenly, in heedlessness.

You are passing your life in heedlessness —
alas if you remain so heedless.

On the scent of life you ran for a lifetime,
yet you caught not the slightest scent of living.

When your eyes find the path through regrets,
then you will discover your own downfall.

You remained a living likeness of the worldly —
you, without meaning, all pretension.

A man, whenever he saw rags on the road,
had no other business but to gather rags.

One night, when his house was full of rags,
an ember fell among them.

All the rags burned, and he in their midst —
who in either world would grieve for that?

O rag-picker — what rags do you gather?
How long will you sit among rags?

Since for the sake of rags you keep your eyes on the road,
you will burn — you and the rags together — suddenly.

You imagine that when you die you are delivered —
where is your deliverance, since you sit in hardship?

Know with certainty that when your soul departs,
in every single mote a tempest will arise in you.

Not a single mote of you will be idle —
each will be seized in the agony of dying.

When they raise you from the grave in anguish,
barefoot and bareheaded on the plain of Resurrection —

how merrily you set fire to your own harvest!
You do not know what you did to your own body.

How long will this ghoul lead you astray?
How long will you be occupied with love of the world?

You gave your life away for nothing —
if you weep for yourself, there is cause enough.

A breath whose price is a whole world —
you do not pursue that breath for even a moment.

From the head of heedlessness you have taken yourself cheap —
you do not know the worth of a single breath.

Sometimes they showed miracles, sometimes proofs;
sometimes the Torah, sometimes the Quran.

They made you aware of good and evil;
they shortened the road toward the Truth for you.

They told you what to do, how to do it, why to do it —
"Curb desire and do God's work."

All this hardship and supplication was not
so that you could straighten your dandy's turban.

You strut through the market of arrogance —
no one dares say to you: "What is your name?"

You wear robes with a hundred folds —
you do not think of the cloth and the shroud.

Until your head and feet are crushed together,
you will never have enough of bread, clothing, and shelter.

As long as you have a head and feet,
you keep the vein of profit and loss in place.

You are of earth by nature — so much wind of vanity!
When you lay down your head, you abandon your vanity at a stroke.

You feed yourself the sweetness of delusion —
you quickly draw the basket from the water empty.

When you sleep, you know nothing at all —
when they wrap your head in the shroud, you will not know.

Go, make an effort, even if you were a prophet —
so that you may carry provisions from this world.

You imagine you were saved by one act of obedience —
that you sit so idle from heedlessness?

This work is not easy for you, my friend —
you must come forth clean from the skin.

Wailing and silence are alike useless —
for your existence has no remedy.

I heard that one night a toothache arose
with great ferocity in a devout elder.

He cried out until the hour before dawn,
when a voice from the unseen suddenly spoke:

"For one night you cannot lay your head on the pillow —
why do you heap so much blame upon God?"

The next night, out of shame before the Lord,
he bound his tongue in silence.

The pain was burning his liver within him,
but he had bowed his head in shame before God.

A voice from the unseen spoke again:
"Now you are practicing patience with God."

What a strange affair has befallen us —
what great burdens have been set upon us.

One cannot speak, yet one cannot be silent.
One cannot be aware, yet one cannot be unconscious.

If one remembers what hard business
has befallen the children of Adam —

say: who is this destitute creature called man?
A handful of dust with ten days' endurance.

A handful of bones gathered together,
a skin drawn around them.

A handful of veins and sinews assembled,
that pours out now phlegm, now sweat.

With one hand he eats his food with a hundred airs;
with the other hand he washes himself clean.

If he makes a promise, he is faithless;
his pleasure comes from the place of urine.

His place of ease is the privy —
when he is done, with that sweetness he tends his vine.

If he keeps company in secret with his wife —
you know: he pounds water in a mortar.

He strips the shroud from the dead worms,
saying: "I wear silk with dainty pride."

With the blood of his heart he draws gold in from outside —
but death itself takes the gold and draws blood.

All his sight is a morsel of salted fat;
all his hearing is a bit coated in wax.

If a thorn enters his foot,
it holds him afflicted in his place.

If he eats too much just once,
he has nailed his belly to a cross.

And if he eats too little, from weakness and faintness
he loses all hope of health.

Remaining alive and dead in a single breath —
his whole life mortgaged to a single breath.

He cannot endure cold for a moment,
nor has he the strength or power for heat.

He has no patience in any affair,
nor can he endure any waiting.

Feeble as an ant, and venomous as a snake;
light as straw, with a mountain of vanity in his head.

Born with a hundred hardships in this prison;
long agonized, and at last surrendered his soul.

Someone asked that madman of meaning:
"Who are these people, and what is this business of the world?"

He said: "All this business is buttermilk —
the flies have gathered on the buttermilk all at once.

"What a valley this is, that we have fallen into!
By our own hand we have fallen headlong from the summit.

"In this valley we are all our own ghouls;
from the first day we have been occupied with ourselves.

"When we are in pain, we raise a cry —
when the affliction passes, we let it pass from memory."

Alas, our labor in this world —
much grief, and no harvest from it.

If from your eyes you pour a hundred seas,
God knows you are accomplishing nothing.

O precious one, if you get hold of a gourd
and carve upon it an eye and a face —

fill the gourd with ice and hold it up,
so that tears may trickle down in lamentation —

though those tears are as plentiful as rain,
in no one's eyes do they hold any worth.

Before divine power we are all the same —
whether we laugh or whether we scatter tears.

A thousand hearts are roasted on this fire —
who cares about this single drop of water?

The decree of God does not turn for your tears.
What can you say? Whom are you with, and where are you?

If both worlds were to cease to be,
for God there would be neither loss nor gain.

If your provision is taken from you,
do not measure God's justice by yourself.

Whether you wail or not, the work is done —
every design has gone from that compass.

Lay down your body before time grinds you.
This is how it has gone — what business have you with the rest?

Why, whenever a hard thing befalls,
does bewilderment raise a cry in you?

You keep asking: "How is this? How is that?
Why is this straight, and the other crooked?"

If you have eyes, open them.
When you have opened them, prepare your mind.

For a moment observe the stillness of all beings;
observe the constancy of the self in every single essence.

If your reason and discernment have gone —
why do you ask? Everything has gone.

O Attar, take the road to the lane of the soul.
Take the world less — say: let the enemy take the world.

You are not a vulture — leave the carrion.
Leave the world to the man-eating demon.

When Solomon lost his ring,
a handful of demons escaped from his grip.

Step into the market of nonexistence —
what do you seek from a handful of newcomers?

Take away everything that is false;
take the road of Truth, and remove your heart from yourself.

Rise from the love of wealth and the love of rank.
The veil is yourself — rise from the road.

Why is your soul full of harm from the world?
Because from the world you have enough sustenance.

If this decrepit self were not yours,
you would have no grief or anxiety about sustenance.

Pass beyond yourself; step into the road of faith.
This infidel self is an idol — dash it upon the ground.

Do not show the slightest slackness on the road of faith —
for in faith they accept nothing but soundness.

I heard from a man of miracles
that one day a Jew went into the tavern.

Inside the wine-house was a ruin
that served the rogues as a gambling-den.

Both men had taken the path of gambling —
each had brought silver and gold to one side.

The Jew threw himself into the game at once
until he had lost every dinar.

He had a house and a garden — he lost both.
Nothing remained; he settled into poverty.

When his hand was empty of gold and silver,
he gambled away one of his eyes on the spot.

He was so stripped of everything he had
that he gambled an eye and went blind.

They said to him: "O you who are left so destitute —
become a Muslim and gamble away your faith."

When he heard these words, faithless and full of rage,
he struck the Muslim a blow upon the eye.

"Do whatever you want!" he said.
"But do not speak to me about my faith!"

A Jew in his Jewishness is like this —
I do not know what it is like for the one who is truly of the faith.

Everything he had, down to one eye, he lost —
but his heart never abandoned his own faith.

O you in the gambling-house of dust,
who have cleanly gambled away everything —

sometimes you gambled away your moon-like face;
sometimes you gambled away your dark tresses.

Your youth and that arrow-straight stature —
you gambled them on this road and came away old.

Your light-filled heart, your bright eye —
in heedlessness you gambled them in a corner of the furnace.

You defiled yourself with desire;
you defiled body and soul with heedlessness.

If the time has come, O man of delusions —
put your head out from the lane of the tavern.

XVIII. The Eighteenth Discourse — On Old Age, the Young Man and the Bow, and Attar's Lament

Alas, you have no eyes that see the road —
you are passing your sweet life in heedlessness.

You have spent your days in heedlessness —
unless you mean to do your work in the grave.

O you whom greed has drawn into its work —
now that your alif-straight stature is bent.

If you perform devotions now, it is not from faith —
it is because you fear that death will come suddenly.

You had much joy, you pursued your desires —
now that you have grown old, you are left behind.

How long will you dose yourself with medicine, old man?
You must go — how long will you scheme?

Not a mote of your greed has diminished, old man —
they have not weaned you from the milk.

Greed is ugly now in an old man —
what is sin with milk-white hair?

Since your hair has turned to milk, O blind old man —
do not defile your milk with syrup.

In your fist you hold a fiery morsel —
for in old age you hold the cup in your fist.

Since you wash your body with bitter water,
wash your shroud with your own salt tears.

Stop your fox-tricks and be still —
for time has rubbed wolf-fat into you.

Do you not fear that from the lane of the world,
while you are heedless, they will snatch you from your midst?

You sit at ease while the wheel of heaven runs.
You are a bird pecking grain — your life is flying.

You sleep — your life has reached fifty.
Wake now, for the hour has come.

Even if for a lifetime you wept blood in this world,
it is not enough work, what you have done now.

What work is this that is in the mortal world?
A world of work is the work of that other world.

Eat your own grief — no one grieves for you.
What am I saying? Truly, there is no one.

If something has befallen you, it has befallen you —
for no one carries a burden of you upon their heart.

If someone grieves over your death,
they fear for themselves — for they have that ahead.

The one who weeps much over your death
fears their own death, and weeps bitterly.

For a moment they close their lips from laughter —
then a moment later, with a hundred lips, they laugh again.

Your hour has fallen, old man — drink your blood.
If you can, carry your soul out on faith.

You will not be in anyone's midst —
only you will be with yourself forever.

Do you not fear that tomorrow too, in this burning,
they will all leave you with yourself, as today?

Now I have spoken and I am going quickly —
I sowed; I do not know if you will reap.

Now my work has fallen to words alone —
for if I would worship, I have not the strength.

Now all those winds have left my head —
for I must enter beneath the earth.

Now that life has packed its baggage,
I go toward the dust with wind in my hand.

Now, whether glad or grieving, I have gone —
with a heart full of longing, I have gone with the dust.

The grief-filled world gave me many breaths;
the hunchbacked sky gave me a bowed back.

How long will grief keep me hanging?
I have nothing to show but the mortal.

I pursued many secrets in faith and the world —
I did not reach this one, and from that one I fell behind.

My breath has gone cold, and my heart has slipped away —
for snow has settled on my crown from old age.

Since my musk-scented hair has become camphor,
I need a shroud — for I have camphor.

All my hair — whiteness has made its home.
The world has blackened the nipple for me.

I have so fallen from the feet of old age
that I find no one to give me a hand.

The young taunt me sweetly —
with their taunts they set fire to my heart.

But my patience is this: that they too
will become helpless and scattered like me.

A young man saw an old man from afar,
his back bent like a bow.

In the folly of youth he said: "Old man —
how much for that bow? Come, take my gold."

The old man said to the youth: "O my life —
they gave me this one for free.

"Keep your gold, O fresh young man —
they will give you one for free tomorrow."

Since my years have reached sixty, it is no loss
if I make sixty my bow.

Seventy has fallen into my thumb-ring —
who has ever caught such prey in their thumb-ring?

From the archer's ring, an arrow flies straight;
from my ring, a crooked bow has risen.

From that ring and bow, strength increases;
from this ring and bow, the heart bleeds.

Though I have become afflicted by old age,
nothing has gone away except my straight back.

Though the whole realm has been filled with my presence,
I have come to see that half of me is already spent.

Old age sat upon my breast so swiftly
that such smoke never rose from any head.

At the top of the wall, life was at the edge of breath —
what will rise from that, when life has sat down?

When the jug of my life cracked,
neither strength remained, nor force, nor manhood.

If from time to time I reached for desire,
when I fell at its feet, cold-heartedness leapt in.

From this point on, no work will come from me —
for a long time much has already come.

Many things not to be eaten, I ate — and it passed.
Many things not to be done, I did — and it passed.

From the fire of my heart, smoke rose from my liver —
I went quickly, yet the news came to me so late.

Though my reason is full of forethought,
how do I know what grief lies ahead?

Sleep and peace have left my eyes and heart —
how will it be with me in the end?

My heart melts from fear of dying —
for the mount is lame and my road is very long.

When I remember the days of youth,
from every vein I cry out like a harp.

I know that death has drawn near —
for the wheel of life has turned a long circle.

Alas for me — because of the trappings of the world,
I sank into this whirlpool of the world.

I was seeking a treasure within myself —
but when the veil lifted, the treasure was gone.

One night, when I reached my hand toward the treasure,
I became lifeless — alas, the toil was in vain.

I left the world with a hundred regrets —
what will remain of the world but bewilderment?

O what fruitless obsession is ours!
O what knotted thought is ours!

We are the loss of our own time.
We are the veil set before ourselves.

We are those defiled by our own deeds —
for we are all lovers of our own face.

We all sleep deeply in the cradle of the world;
we are all ruined by the drunkenness of heedlessness.

O Lord, before the Day of Judgment,
grant me even a scent of that meaning.

XIX. The Nineteenth Discourse — On Contentment and Greed, the Fox and the Wolf, and the Miser's Rosewater

There are many pebbles on your path, O friend —
shed your skin of each pebble, one by one.

If you bear the burden of each pebble one by one,
far better than bearing a mountain all at once.

Desire, pride, vanity, lust, and greed —
lies, anger, stinginess, heedlessness, and self-regard —

all rush headlong into ambush against you,
waiting to seize you when you least expect.

Each is a pebble — but should they join hands together,
they become a mountain, and crush you beneath it.

Beware, if your heart is a man of faith —
for this mountain of fire is Hell itself.

Know for certain: whatever adorns you
is all defilement to your soul.

Why desire what was never meant for you?
Why seek what you never lost?

If God should take back a single coin from what He gave you,
O you who have fallen of your own accord —

such ingratitude would seize you,
two worlds would see your thanklessness.

Here you are, ruined by a single coin —
yet there you have forfeited a hundred kingdoms.

Since this world is not your true home,
there is no place in it for being deceived.

The faithless world is nothing but a crossing-place —
you have not such endurance for the journey.

O wise one, you are a soul come into a body —
a lamp come into the midst of a furnace.

When the furnace is about to become your garden,
let the lamp say: "Let me remain in this furnace."

In these nine bowls that burn the soul, hold fast your heart.
If one day destiny should give you a wedding —

if a wedding should come, raise your voice
and cry: "A bowl for sale — ten for a penny!"

If, like Jonah, you are in the depths of the world
and your soul is inside the belly of the fish — do not breathe a word.

And if, like Joseph, with your moon-bright face,
you are cast into this desolate well — be content.

Be content with water and bread.
Take your own account — you will find it.

All the business of the world is vanity and reputation.
Without it, half a loaf is a day's provision complete.

Go — make ready your half-loaf each day.
Then sit down and do the work of the other world.

Whoever has ease in contentment —
his cap has a crest higher than the sun and moon.

A beggar came out from a hospice
with a patched cap upon his head.

Someone said to him in jest: "O wise man,
if you are selling that cap, what is the price?"

This was the answer of that devout dervish:
"I would not sell it for the whole of creation."

"Many people want to buy my cap —
they offer me the whole cosmos for it."

"I will not sell, for I know it is worth more —
one thread of it is worth the jewels of both worlds."

"How would you know what I carry in my head?
Since I myself am headless — what need have I for a crown?"

O heart, awaken! — if there is any pain in you.
They did not bring you here for sleeping and eating.

Suppose you ate the entire world —
you still would not know how to escape death by dying.

How long will you be your own disaster?
You are the disaster — rise and get out of your own way!

Tell me: how long this shamelessness and mockery?
How stone-hearted a creature — one would say you are a clod.

Do whatever you must, crooked or straight —
if there will be no reckoning for it.

If gold will be yours like the dust of the road,
then the dust of the road will be your bed.

The wheel of heaven has thrown you on the spinning-wheel —
for a single grain of gold it has set a hundred prices on you.

They said to the dog: "You have gold." The dog, from shame,
now howled and now fought.

Since the dog howls with shame at having gold,
how can the master rejoice over a single grain?

The dog is in fury and uproar over the shame of gold —
yet gold makes you bark, even if it is just a penny.

If a penny falls your way from somewhere,
a bark of commotion rises from you because of it.

If you scatter a hundred purses of gold,
a single penny short — that hospitality is nothing.

O you drunken man of worldly possessions —
what do you expect to see from this world-worship?

Why have you turned your face to idol-worship, O God-seeker —
like the infidels, you have bowed?

Why do you follow the way of the infidels?
For you worship gold, and the infidels worship idols.

The infidels' idol is not a hundred maunds of gold —
but you have a single grain of gold, O man of faith!

Go — leave the world to the worldly.
Leave gold and idols in the hands of the infidels.

Gold is fit for nothing but making idols.
Idols are fit for nothing but casting down.

Even if you grasp a hundred treasures of gold,
on the last day you will die a beggar.

The madman asked the king a question:
"Do you love gold, or do you love sin?"

The king said: "Anyone who has ever known gold
has no doubt loved it."

The madman said to the king: "Then why — if you have sense —
do you carry your sins and leave the gold behind?"

"You carry your sins with you into the grave.
All the gold you abandon — and you die."

"Since you must surrender your soul,
what is the point of a world full of gold and silver?"

You will not be the world's partner forever.
Go — make do with a morsel and a robe.

Whether on the earth or on a mat,
if you do not fall for the world, you are a king.

Since you will find no bread without hardship,
since you will find no ease without troubling others —

why have you thrown yourself into misery,
cast yourself into the hands of dark fortune?

Since a robe and a loaf are enough for you,
seeking more is merely for shame and reputation.

Why are you held in bondage to people,
your liver full of blood, your heart full of greed?

You split your heart in two over a single grain of gold —
so that they will say: "He is a man of silver."

For the sake of half a loaf, O grieving man,
why do you pour the water of your face upon the earth?

O dear one, a single leaf-blade of obligation
weighs heavier than a hundred mountains of hardship.

Someone asked that madman of the age:
"What do you love?" He said: "Insults."

"For everything else that people give me,
besides insults, they lay an obligation on me."

Why are you so bound to people?
It seems you are in need of them.

For if suddenly some silver falls to you,
no one will lend you a hand for a single grain of gold.

If from hunger you become half-dead,
for something to lean on — half a loaf.

If for one day you exist for the sake of two loaves,
the wretches will bring you to your knees.

See how many times a day, by your Lord's grace,
He seats you in prayer.

Since your eyes are on your life and your beloved,
when does your heart have time for life and the Beloved?

When you take bread from the table, the table is cursed —
for beyond doubt, the table's curse outweighs the bread.

Why do you circle the tables of kings so much?
For they are a handful of helpless, wretched, and poor.

A king went to a heartless madman:
"O madman, ask a boon of me!"

"My crown is like the sun, the heavens are my steed.
Why will you not ask something, so that I may grant it?"

The madman said to the king: "O you who sleep in comfort —
keep the flies away from me for one day."

"For these flies have bitten me so much
that you would think they have seen no one else in the world."

The king said: "This is not within my power.
The flies are not under my command."

The madman said: "Then pack your things and go —
for you are a hundred times more helpless than I."

"Since you have no authority over a single fly,
go — and be ashamed of calling yourself a king."

How long will you circle masters and kings?
Flee from these people — by dying.

Since you see that people in great numbers
have always remained seekers of the world —

all sitting, each one, breath by breath in sorrow,
adding grain to grain upon each other —

since human nature is to take on habits,
and from everyone a man acquires custom —

as you come to know their condition,
you too, from your own ignorance, will remain in greed.

What does it matter to you if the rich man has silver?
Or if the beggar is in a hundred distresses?

Since from both you have neither profit nor loss,
why then is there no life in your body from this grief?

From the beggar and the rich man on the road of greed,
see what comes back to you.

If ten years were cut from your life,
you would not grieve — so long as your wealth increased.

Your wealth is more to you than your life and soul.
I do not know whether this is profit or madness.

O heedless one, how long will you sit idle?
Be content, if you are a man of certainty.

If there is no pillow, put a brick under your head.
If there is no beauty, make do with ugliness.

When you have given half a loaf to this half-life,
hold your head high — let the world come as it will.

One night a beggar slept inside an oven.
He saw a king passing by in sable furs.

It was winter, and the cold was bitter.
The beggar said to the king: "O wise king —

though you were unaware of the cold,
this night too has passed — even for us."

O dear one, at the bottom of this turning monastery,
be patient and content, like men.

With manliness, be patient — sit in your place.
Do not run about headlong — sit still.

A sage has shown in a parable:
patience in all affairs is praiseworthy.

All the disgrace of humankind comes from haste.
To reason, this saying is clear as the sun.

The soul's haste comes from greed.
Look at Adam's greed — behold, the wheat!

Had he not given greed a road into his heart,
how would he have fallen from the Garden of Refuge?

From Adam, greed is our inheritance.
O long suffering! O disordered affairs!

I have heard with my own ears from everyone:
a single grain is enough for an ant for a year.

Yet from its own greed it burrows a hole in the earth —
now dragging wheat, now barley, now millet.

If a wind should rise from the heavens,
neither the ant remains, nor the hole, nor the grain.

Since a year's grain is enough for it,
to seek more than that grain is forbidden.

The condition of that ant is the parable of humankind —
which has no body, no reason, and no strength,

yet fallen captive to its own greed,
snared in reputation and shame, in good and in evil.

Then suddenly death arrives before it
and strips it bare of all it possesses.

Whatever thing it loved most dearly,
its heart must yield that thing, unwilling.

When death seizes its soul without warning,
all the business of the world is done.

Neither it remains, nor that greed which exceeded all —
for what master has a hundred beggars before him?

I have heard that a sharp-eyed mouse,
having seen the bloody claws of cats —

came out from a hole so narrow
that beside its narrowness the world seemed narrow.

In the corner of a house, where it expected safety,
by fate, a bird's egg lay hidden.

The mouse went to the egg, raised its paw —
but its hand could not lift it from its place.

Neither its claws could conquer it,
nor were its teeth of any use in carrying.

After circling the egg many times,
it contrived a wondrous trick and went back.

It went and called to another mouse,
and told it the news.

The second mouse came, went under the egg,
and wrapped its four limbs around it like a belt.

The other mouse seized its tail at once
and dragged it home on the spot.

But outside, a cat lay in ambush —
that lion-heart bore a grudge against mice.

It leaped toward the mouse boldly —
but the mouse-hole was too narrow.

In that narrow space, suddenly, from fear of the cat,
the mouse was caught — along with the egg — on the road.

The cat tore it apart with its claws at once —
and freed it from greed and sorrow swiftly.

See how hard that tyrant struggled —
until it was trapped by its own bonds.

The guide said to his companion:
"The parable of the mouse is for the dark-headed mouse."

O you who run day and night in greed,
scheming like the ant and the mouse!

Greed has set a halter on your head.
You have greed — and the camel has a bridle.

Day and night, like a star on its blind course,
captive to greed day and night — like an ant.

Do not call your blood-drinking pleasure.
Alas for the greed of the mouse and ant in humankind!

Alas for these fly-eating spiders —
all like vultures, bound to carrion!

Alas for the bone-gnawing mouse's greed —
all dog-natured, ugly-bonded creatures!

If the belly were not a blood-drinking thing,
how would humankind be so helpless?

Day and night, fallen into running and striving
to give the belly's business some arrangement.

Left in grief over a bit of water and bread,
so that this hell might be full for a time.

Of every pain that humankind has from itself,
the belly's demand is the greatest of all.

The belly raises fire and smoke from you.
From this hell you will reach that Hell soon enough.

If a Sufi saw the remnants of your meal,
he would without doubt sit down beside your scale.

Keep filling — for if there is a heart in you,
it has always turned its side from you.

You have tied the cow of the ego to the fattening-pen.
By bowing to it, you have tied the Zoroastrian belt.

By the trick of that calf that Samiri made of gold,
the people bowed to it — from sheer stupidity.

Until the cow of your ego is satisfied,
even if you have a hundred tasks, you will not be late.

When the belly is full and falls into ease,
a heavy burden falls from your back.

Your soul has fallen into the well of the body.
In its hand, from somewhere, is a rope.

By cunning, subdue the wolf of your ego.
Rise from the well — send it headfirst down.

If you remain in the well like the fox,
the wolf of your ego will tear you apart at the bottom.

On a road there was a blessed well,
with a rope tied to two buckets at its ends.

When an empty bucket came down from above,
a full one rose from below.

A bewildered fox was passing by
and fell into the well suddenly, by chance.

When it saw the bucket, it dove in
and by trickery gripped the rope tight.

An old wolf came to the well's edge
and saw the fox fallen inside.

He said to the fox: "If you long for my company,
shall I come down? Or will you come up?"

"If you come out of the well, it would be better for you.
In this desert, better a wolf as a friend."

The distressed fox answered:
"I am lame — better that you come to the lame one."

The wolf sat in the bucket at once.
The bucket shot downward like an arrow from a bow.

The deeper the bucket went into the well,
the higher the fox rose.

Midway, when they met each other,
they saw each other face to face on the way.

The tyrannical wolf opened his tongue:
"O fox, do not leave me alone!"

The sly fox answered:
"You keep going — I am coming, just wait."

When has the deceitful wolf ever found safety
by making peace with the fox?

The bucket carried him down so fast
you would say a raging wind was carrying smoke.

By the time the wolf noticed he was in the well,
the fox was looking down from above.

What remedy was there for that old wolf?
For there is no remedy for the pain of this tale.

When the ill-natured wolf fell into the well,
the eloquent fox found deliverance.

Your body is a well, your soul fallen into it,
pursued from the start by the wolf of ego.

Tell the soul to grasp the Rope of God —
perhaps it can be saved from this well of affliction.

This ego is a dog left in the furnace,
remaining in the body for the sake of bones.

If you smell of bone,
do not feel safe — a dog is beside you.

The cat pounced on the roast,
snatched it from the table and fled.

Someone ran to block its path,
to catch the cat by surprise.

A wise one saw this from afar —
the man striking the cat on the road.

He said: "O you who have lost your composure —
you have made an affair of it with this cat!

Beat that dog, O you of dog-nature and discord —
the cat will give the roast back."

How fine! Sitting with a racing-dog,
sitting before a dog in discord.

Before the dog, they come with a needle.
When the needle is given, they test the sword.

In the dog's service you roar like a lion —
yet this dog has never been satisfied.

Bind the dog — the daily provision is already set.
The one whose neck is bound with the dog is freed.

You remain stuck like an afflicted one:
"How shall I obtain sustenance from somewhere?"

Trust the Provider at last!
Practice patience and be still at last!

He does not take back His provision even from the infidel —
how then would He take it from a man of sense?

A well-wisher told us this tale:
in the desert road there was a well.

"I was seeking water from that well when suddenly
my ring fell from my hand into it.

I sent someone down into the well:
'Whatever you find at the bottom —

put it all in the bucket so I may pull it up.
Perhaps the ring will come to the surface.'

I pulled up many buckets from the well
and searched through much rubble on the road.

I saw a black stone among that earth —
its shape as round and clean as a ball.

I threw it aside, thinking it just a heavy stone.
It fell from my hand to the ground and broke.

It split in two — and from inside it
a worm emerged, with a green leaf in its mouth."

O glory! What a Provider, who in His providence
keeps a worm alive inside a stone!

In a dark well on a desert road —
guardian of a worm inside a stone!

O greedy one, behold the grace of His providing!
Behold His gifts and everlasting bounty!

A pious woman — her husband went traveling.
Neither husband nor provisions did she have.

Someone said to her: "Alone and in hardship,
no bread, no gold — how do you manage?"

The woman said: "I am not alone —
for I am in the neighborhood of my Lord."

"Without a husband, my daily bread comes even better —
for the eater of provision has gone, and the Provider is here."

You, O man, show less than a woman.
Being what you are — and still you say "But why?"

The becoming and unbecoming of you and me —
this is suffering, no more — the "but why" of you and me.

I heard this saying from a dervish.
He said: "I was in the circumambulation of the Kaaba.

A bewildered one, kneaded from light —
whose arrow had become a bow, whose musk had become camphor.

All that I had of worldly possessions, more or less,
was a single toothbrush.

I said to him: 'O elder, ancient-born,
if you want this toothbrush, let it be yours.'

That eloquent old man answered me:
'How can I open the door of but-why?

For if the door of but-why opens for me again,
I will never close it for all eternity.

I sealed this door shut with a hundred years of effort —
how should I open it now, at the end of things?'"

While you have not died, your greed will not decrease.
For the cure for greed's pain is earth.

The descent of greed is a slope with no ascent.
The length of desire is an endless affair.

Look at the silkworm: in its youth
it hides itself beneath its own shroud.

From its own greed and bewilderment,
it turns and twists left and right, back and forth.

When from turning there remains no day in its body,
it lays itself, by its own hand, in the grave.

Everything it gathered a hundred times over —
all at once it is trapped inside.

I laugh at the pelican —
sitting by the sea's edge, head bowed.

Its head hung low in its own misery,
sitting thirsty with the sea before it.

Always with a thirsty heart, in the grief:
"If I drink some water, the sea will run out."

In this regard, you are your own pelican —
for in this misery, you are worse than the pelican.

You pelican — with water before you, yet on fire!
Drink what you have and enjoy this moment.

Be happy for a moment — who has seen tomorrow's uproar?
Eat today — who has seen tomorrow?

Do not leave even a single thread of the world behind —
for Jesus was snared by a needle.

Be generous — for the heads of the miserly
are fit for nothing but under the feet of elephants.

Such a bond is placed upon their souls
that no one has ever seen their brow unfurrowed.

The misers, from their own miserliness, always —
neither the world nor faith will clasp their hands together.

It is from donkey-nature that from much wood
you will not give a grain — yet you would give your life. What a bargain!

In our city a miser fell ill —
one whose ready cash was fifty purses of gold dinars.

A gentleman asked me to come:
"A remedy must be prepared for him."

That man brought me to the miser.
I saw a hundred-year-old wretch in that agony.

Sick with the sickness of greed, lying down —
fallen back upon his bed like one unconscious.

His heart had drawn near to death.
Darkness had seized him from every side.

The reflection of miserliness had fallen on his face.
His lips had turned blue from not eating.

I found a bottle of rosewater beside him —
its mouth sealed tight with clay.

I said to someone: "Break the clay seal at once!
Sprinkle the rosewater on the sick man quickly!"

In terror, the sick man cried out:
"Do not break the clay from the bottle, I beg you!"

"For if you unseal that bottle,
it would be worse than tearing the heart from my body."

"Since even the scent of this sweet thing makes my heart uneasy,
do not set my soul on fire with the rosewater."

He said this — and departed from this world.
I do not know what happened to him after.

When they washed that poor-hearted man,
with a hundred laments they laid him under the earth.

Then they brought the bottle forward
and from it, made a rosewater clay for the beggar's grave.

When the clay of that grave grew wet with rosewater,
the heart of that blind, luckless one grew blinder still.

The clay of that bottle would not give his heart rest —
for the dust of his grave would be watered with that very rosewater.

Since not a single drop had come from his heart,
from the rosewater, a hundred thorns rose from the clay.

I have told the end of the misers.
See how well I have told this secret.

XX. The Twentieth Discourse — On Death, the Stoker of the Furnace, and the Mouse and the Camel

Since your two cheeks will soon be scattered in the dust,
rub both cheeks in the dust now, O dear ones.

Think upon that hour when in the dust
your two cheeks will crumble like the petals of a rose.

In that hour you will not be able to cry out,
nor rub your face in the dust before Him.

Now, at least, you still have a measure of strength —
day and night, a chance to stand in His presence.

Why do you show such laziness in the work of God?
If you are dead to yourself, then show your swiftness!

In manliness, that alone will be your glory:
that you do a deed that serves you in the end.

You wish to perform a hundred devotions —
yet from ignorance, you manage only an hour's worth.

Nothing will remain as your companion on the road
save the burning of the heart and the sigh at dawn.

You yourself have never, in a single night of this work,
kept yourself awake with this pain until morning.

Sleep not, O friend, that you may become awake —
perhaps then you will become worthy of the secrets.

Why do you sleep? For in your many days of life,
you will never wake from the sleep of death.

Go — cast your sleep into your grave,
that you may awaken your reason at last.

See — even this sun stands helpless:
it has never made a sleeping eye warm.

If, like the sun, this pain were yours,
your face would turn yellow from sleeplessness.

O you who have gone to sleep by day and night —
the dawn of old age has risen, and you still sleep.

Do you not fear that death will catch you sleeping,
seize your heart asleep and bewildered?

You are asleep, and the wakeful ones have gone.
The dear ones, the faithful ones, have departed.

You remain in the purse of this world, self-willed,
standing still like a counterfeit coin.

From heedlessness you stand at the heart of the riot,
a head full of bluster and madness, and there you remain.

Suppose you did not sleep at night — at dawn
you slept heavily, and when you slept, you slept long.

Do not be lazy at the time of dawn, O friend —
for you have safety and health of body still.

When the breeze of dawn appears,
in that hour you will find whatever you seek.

Every robe of honor bestowed from that court —
they bestow it when the dawn arrives.

When night becomes a ring in the ear of dawn,
the motes of the dust begin to boil.

A heart that carries the scent of reality
has the habit of wakefulness at that moment.

If you have a path toward that court,
at the time of dawn there is a blood-stained sigh.

O heart, at that moment, draw a breath from sleep —
with a sigh, strike the ring upon the sanctuary door.

Raise from your blood-filled breast a single pure breath —
for many a dawn will break, and you will be in the dust.

Seize that ring at the time of the night's last watch —
draw the wild heart into chains.

Or else: lift the chains from the maddened heart —
and beautifully raise the lovers' cry.

Open your tongue and tell your secret to God —
speak out the old grief of the heart.

Weep beautifully, like rain in a rebuke —
perhaps a veil will lift from your heart.

In that moment, if a single sigh is granted,
it is sweeter than the world and all that is in it.

Dear one, your life has gone — come to your senses at last.
Day and night, do not fall asleep, for once.

By night, sleep. By day, the sleep of heedlessness.
Shame on you, O drowned one of heedlessness!

Sleep no more, O sleeper — enough of sin at last.
Why do you sleep? The grave is bed enough for you.

A thousand pure and radiant souls of the dear ones —
offered up at the prayer-place of those who rise at dawn.

What joy — that in the dark nights
you lay your need before God.

Beautifully you rub your face in the dust,
weeping, you give your own answer.

All the horizons have taken their rest,
your road with God has reached its end.

You have opened before Him the hands of your need —
now weeping, now praying.

Set down your foot — for before such a One,
the world is asleep and you alone are awake.

The heedless have fallen back upon their beds —
you and God, intimate together, have fallen into your secret.

Such a night — if God grants this grace,
you could not thank Him enough till the Day of Judgment.

How sweet — to be with God in the dark night,
far from yourself and near to Him.

What better work or fortune could you have
than to keep vigil for Him one night?

Since a hundred nights you kept vigil from desire,
crumbling away in lust's work —

keep vigil one night, for God's sake, at last —
since a hundred nights you kept vigil for the ego and desire.

I heard that there was once a completed elder —
not like other elders, left in heedlessness.

He did not sleep by night, nor rest by day.
Day and night, no one ever saw him sleeping.

Someone asked: "O heart-kindling elder,
why have you never slept, by night or day?"

He said: "A wise man does not sleep —
paradise and hell lie above and below him.

One burns ceaselessly below,
the other is adorned with beauty and grace.

Between paradise and hell, in this world —
how should sleep come to me in the middle?"

No one has brought me a letter with my name,
telling me which of these two places I belong to.

A heart full of burning, a soul full of fever and ache —
how shall my eyes find sleep at last?

When the heart is full of burning and the soul full of ache,
sleep would be my downfall.

A thousand pure souls of the famous ones —
offered up for the solitude of those who keep vigil.

Dear one, how long will you sleep? Open your eyes.
Behind your knees, begin your solitude.

Do not be scattered from the intoxication
of those who are shown the moonlight at night.

Why did you sleep on a moonlit night, at last?
What will come of this sleep, in the end?

Do you not think that when your life runs out,
many a moonlight will stream into your grave?

Under the shroud, a sleep has taken you —
a moonlight descends into your grave.

Does anyone think, when sleep takes them,
that many a moonlight will shine into their grave?

On a moonlit night, how does sleep come to you? —
for a lover finds little sleep by moonlight.

It is not seemly — what shall the wise man say? —
the lover asleep while the beloved is awake.

What beloved? What lover? What is this boast?
You are dust — when does dust reach purity? It is idle talk.

You are a man of the furnace of the ego and desire —
where are the men of the love of the king?

I heard that once a king —
who had a face as beautiful as the moon —

went out to play polo,
and at every moment a hundred hearts fell in blood for him.

When he cast the ball of beauty into the field,
the heavens threw down their polo-stick for his ball.

His face boasted of adorning the world —
his beauty knocked the world off its feet.

Reason sat in the dust of his road,
perspiration beading the rim of his moon.

The sorrow of his love — what fruitless madness!
His ruby lip — what smokeless sweetness!

When he rode drunk through the field,
the onlookers stood bewildered by him.

But there was one, spinning like a candle with burning —
a stoker of the furnace, poor wretch, burning till dawn.

He saw from afar the face of that beautiful one —
who knows what happened to him then?

From love, a fire fell into his soul —
a pain so fierce it had no remedy.

His heart, from love, brewed a potion of madness.
His face, from tears, staged a hundred spectacles of blood.

Cold sighs he blew from his liver like camphor,
swallowing hot water from afar.

Left in wonder, in a troubled state —
from the hand of the heart, a heart in the hand of fire.

He flung his breath from his soul like hell itself,
from drunkenness, tore his garments thread by thread.

The soul of that drunken lover was torn apart —
in place of his soul, his torn garment came into his hand.

The world turned upside down before his eyes.
He fell, and from drunkenness, became senseless.

How does a half-slaughtered bird beat its wings
in the blood and mud of the road?

Just so that wretched one without provisions beat his wings —
what love! What pain! What a business!

At last, just like that, for ten days and nights,
he lay in the dust until daybreak.

Then the Joseph of the age came forth to the field,
under his parasol, like the sun in its cradle.

The stoker stood at attention at once,
heart and soul full of speech, but his tongue struck mute.

When the polo-playing king raised his mallet,
he struck the heart of the dervish from his soul.

When from the mallet of his locks he caught a scent,
he went out of his head, like a ball, senseless.

The vizier saw his chance and the empty field —
he spoke a hint to the king about the stoker:

"For ten years, day and night, from love of you,
he has neither slept nor, like a candle, rested from burning.

Since this beggar is among your well-wishers,
show him a grace, as befits a king.

Though there is no color to his secret tale,
throw a ball his way, at least.

Though it would be beneath a king to bother with such a load,
such generosity would not be strange from kings."

The king, from a kindness that was in him, rode forth
and threw a ball toward that beggar.

He said to the lover: "Give me back my ball.
Why do you stand there gaping? Open your mouth."

When from the king the dervish heard these words,
he fell in the dust and kept falling into himself.

From his eyes, tears poured like rain.
He trembled like the leaves of the plane tree.

From his soul, a hundred cups of blood spilled on his garment.
A whole world gathered around him in spectacle.

He raised such a cold sigh of pain
that the spectacle went cold at once.

At last, in the midst of dust and abasement,
they carried him weeping back to the furnace.

His heart was drowned in the ocean of sorrow.
From his eyes, the earth was like the eye of a spring.

The air took coldness from his road.
The angels took pallor from his face.

When for a moment he came to the world of being,
once more the clamor of drunkenness arose.

He cried out and wandered in every direction.
His tears poured like rain upon his face.

Like lightning, he stood stranded in that desert.
Like rain, his tears stood stranded on the desert.

His heart was outside the courtyard of that desert.
His body was bound to the desert of blood.

With the water of his eyes, he turned the desert to mud.
A world of pain in that desert weighed upon his heart.

Not one confidant to share his secret with.
Not one kindred heart to speak his riddle to.

Though he had neither food nor sleep,
he had no courage to speak.

In his heart he said: "There is a world-illumining king
whose kingdom is the whole world today.

If he issues a command in his kingship,
he will raise an army from his moon to the fish.

Yet if one man turns his face toward me,
from cowardice, not a hair on my body would stir.

A beggar comes out of the furnace —
by the scent of union, he claims a king.

If I speak this secret openly,
in a single hour they will tear me to pieces.

What shall I do? How shall I act? My affair has come to this:
my donkey is stuck in the mud, and my load has fallen."

At last, for ten years straight,
from love of the king, he did not sit down from his feet.

Every night till morning, and every morning till night,
standing at his gate, he said: "O Lord."

His peace, his sleep, his rest — all gone.
Into infamy, even his name was gone.

What fortune — that the sun of the highest heaven
descends and returns to its own mote.

When the king turned his course toward the furnace,
news came to the anguished stoker.

When his eyes fell on the beauty of the king,
he trembled and fell in the middle of the road.

When the king looked upon the face of that love-surrendered man,
he took his head into his lap and wept.

He gave balm to his boiling heart —
He himself was killing him, and He himself was mourning.

When they find the road to their own being,
they find their head in the lap of the king.

How can the moth endure such heat —
to sit beside the candle that lights the world?

He had not the strength for union with such a king.
He raised a cry from earth to heaven.

He splashed rosewater from his eyes upon himself,
let out a single cry, gave up his soul, and struck the earth.

Two breaths rose from the crowd for that bewildered one —
one without soul, the other with soul, rose up.

Go, O one as helpless as the stoker of the furnace —
for you will never have the strength for union with the king.

Go — do not cook up fantasies, O piece of dust —
for the Holy Presence is beyond all need of you.

All the devotion they had made pure —
they sacrificed on the road for a handful of dust.

The call came: "O pure ones of the court —
bow down before Adam, all at once.

For We have scattered so many pure prostrations
from Our own sufficiency upon a piece of dust.

Our essence is beyond all need of these things.
What place is this for prostration and prayer?"

Go, O furnace-stoker, tend your furnace.
In this fire, burn with a hundred cries.

Go — how long will you keep up this trickery and cunning?
For the intoxicated say many idle things.

If the sultan should turn his favor toward you,
what would you do — since you have neither soul nor place?

No soul to bring before him at once —
no place to bring him to yourself.

I heard that a mouse in the desert
saw a camel without a keeper.

He seized its halter hard and began to run,
and the camel went along easily enough.

When he brought it to the little hole that was his home —
there was no room for the camel. What use was it?

The camel said: "O you who have lost your way —
here I am. Now where is your dwelling?

Since from your weakness you cannot keep your own head,
by what means do you bring me to your place?

How should a camel come through a tight window?
How should a camel like me pass through the eye of a needle?

Go — lift this burden from your soul.
The camel has become a cat in this affair."

"Go, hold your tongue, O black-headed mouse —
you cannot darken the camel's face.

Go, O ant — seek a house of your own size.
Speak of seeds that befit you.

O ant — your heart is happy only because
your dung-beetle has become a howdah-bearer."

XXI. The Twenty-First Discourse — On Wisdom, the Guard of the Tongue, and the Sage in China

Do not be deluded by kingdom, treasure, and gold,
for the world remembers many like you.

Worship God from a soul full of light,
for He alone deserves it — and be far from greed.

In every affair, keep God in remembrance.
Do not forget God for as long as you exist.

If in any matter you seek help, seek it from Him,
for better than this you will find at no other court.

If you are content with yourself, O friend,
know with certainty that this contentment is His.

Make obedience your habit and stay far from sin,
for obedience gives no light when paired with sin.

From too much harshness, do not be quick to anger,
for you will bring no one into esteem.

Do not fill your breast with burning hatred for anyone,
for you yourself will remain burning night and day.

Do not let greed overpower you,
for your pure soul will grow weary of the body.

Do not speak falsehood or crookedness by any path,
for there is never a worse sin than this.

If envy overpowers your nature,
your heart will grow weary of living.

When you are about to act unwillingly,
look to see how it will end.

If your heart is badly wounded from impatience,
be patient — perhaps the door is closed only for a time.

If you wish to choose a companion,
choose a wise one, so you will not see sorrow.

Pass through a hundred unworthy ones in the world,
so that you may find one worthy one among them.

Until you have tested someone a hundred times,
do not make them a keeper of your secrets.

Do not honour any fool,
for the fool falls into error from unripeness.

Never speak secrets before the dim-witted.
Never give the fool an answer.

Do not let any common man or villager dominate,
for through tyranny he will weary the people of their lives.

Be like a stone in weight, and do not hasten.
Do not run about headlong like quicksilver.

If you are tested by the touchstone of wisdom,
like raw indigo you will at once become refined.

Do not spill this seed of yours carelessly,
for upon your back it becomes your burden.

In every affair where desire comes upon you,
you give separation to your own kin.

Give your tongue less habit of speaking.
Let your thirty teeth be thirty locks upon the mouth.

First think, then speak.
Do not make a habit of much asking and telling.

Speak sweetly, as much as you speak,
for sweet speech is the root of every goodness.

Do not speak secrets of any kind before a woman,
for a woman will tell your secrets openly in full.

Keep your child's heart alive with faith,
for that is a carving made in stone.

Guard your son from bad company,
for a man becomes a sinner through his companion.

Honour the old elders,
for in old age you will understand these words.

Speak little. When you speak, speak well.
Do not pour forth good and bad as they come.

Learn the words of the great ones.
From each single point, take a hundred masters.

If someone has laboured in a craft,
buy one point from that person for a treasure.

One who has received honour from you even once —
do not debase them, like the turning sky, in ignorance.

When someone speaks to you, reflect.
Do not say: "I have heard this before."

One whom you have tested and know their ways —
do not, God forbid, test them again.

Do not tame the slanderer near yourself,
for he will speak ill of you too in the end.

May you never have dealings with the ignorant,
lest he lay upon you the burden of soul-weariness.

One who counsels you to do evil, saying "Do it thus" —
do not let them back in; cast them out from before you.

Do not give the gossip a place near you,
for every day he will turn you to a hundred opinions.

Do not seek the hidden fault of anyone,
for God knows how He created them.

Turn your gaze toward every person in such a way
that you see even the worst as better than yourself.

Do not hold ill thoughts of anyone — think well.
Show forbearance. Humble yourself before the least.

Be kind to all people with eagerness.
Be to all as the sun of the world.

If you wish the House of God to be flourishing,
make the heart of a person of heart glad.

Keep your gaze from the unfamiliar face.
Do not fall under a hundred burdens from a single glance.

Do not backbite. Do not give idle insults,
for you will be mired in regret at the end.

If you light a candle with mockery,
from that mockery, like a candle, you yourself will burn.

Do not give your life freely to the wind,
for no one has known the worth of living.

In answering, treat those beneath you well,
so that the righteous may approve of you.

Do not cast anyone down with words.
Be self-effacing, if you are a master of your craft.

Do not look at anyone with contempt,
for even the peacock needs the fly.

Do not call anyone unworthy without cause.
Do not torment or trouble another for nothing.

If a fool comes before you,
show pride — begin with pride before the fool.

But if a man of God comes before you,
be humble — make yourself as dust.

If you circle someone too often,
though you are most precious, you will become despised.

If you give too many people too much attention,
you will lay down your head from the weight of headaches.

Draw near to elders as much as you can,
for they are the ones who know about youth.

Deliver a portion of your wealth to the dervishes,
so that your wealth does not become a serpent and a poison.

When a rich man comes to you in service,
do not respect him for his silver.

But if a weary dervish comes before you,
ask after him, so his heart is not broken.

One who has a claim upon you, even for a drop of water —
do not forget them in any affair.

Do not seek superiority from an ant's fault,
for in power you are as humble as an ant.

Be one who sees the good, if your mind is sound,
for if you seek the faultless — it is God.

Do not be ungrateful in any affair.
Submit to destiny if you know the truth.

If a sudden contraction seizes you,
go to the graveyard and weep awhile.

Do not laugh. While you exist, be sorrowful.
Go into a corner and sit alone.

When you wish to find deliverance from affliction,
deliver the captives from their prison.

Pause for a moment in governance,
so that afterward you are not left in regret.

Do not engage in excessive quarrel with anyone,
for playing the dog is no great affair.

Do not make a child too familiar in your presence,
for you will have placed your jewel in mud.

Do not be hasty in giving answers,
for the condition is that you wait one moment.

Be generous — for whoever was generous,
it is not fitting that I say he was destined for hell.

Make your heart content, so the soul does not rot,
for contentment is a treasure that never rots.

Do not speak much of yourself in purity.
Know yourself — a handful of water and clay.

Do not wound your heart with idle thoughts,
for you already have more thoughts than you can count.

Do not eat regret from the sorrows of the old world,
for these words have neither root nor fruit.

Be like Jesus — laughing and blossoming,
for the donkey is the one who is sour-faced and gloomy.

In matters of beauty or ugliness, as far as you can,
do not confide in anyone until you know them.

If you are living-hearted behind the veil of secrets,
speak of the dead only with kindness.

If a drunkard speaks, and speaks well —
accept it with your soul. Do not look at who said it.

If an enemy becomes ill-disposed toward you,
bind his tongue with kindness from yourself.

Never consider a small enemy worthless,
for a single spark can burn a city at once.

Do not do goodness for the sake of people.
Do goodness solely for the sake of God.

Let go of everything you have said, as much as you can.
If you are wise, think no more of it.

When you walk upon the road, keep your head bowed.
Do not look at the people — keep your heart with yourself.

Do not eat excess food carelessly and without measure,
for that excess will surely devour you in return.

When at night you go to sleep by habit,
speak the declaration of faith from the sincerity of your heart.

At the time of dawn, lift your head from sleep,
for that moment is better than sleeping like the dead.

When the time of prayer comes upon you,
do not make your prayer void with stray thoughts.

Think always of the end of affairs,
for whoever thinks of the end is saved.

Always be the guardian of your own hours.
In your thought, be in the presence of your own essence.

Keep the outward clean by the law.
Abstain from the uncleanness of nature.

Keep the inward also, in meaning, in such a state
that you would not be ashamed if it were made visible.

Time will bring such a moment
that when they say "Go," you will depart.

Whether you have gold or kingship,
do what you would wish to have done.

When your tongue falls silent in the death-agony,
forget all your thoughts.

Do not fear that hour — hold hope.
Hold a lamp up to the sun.

For whoever yields up the soul in joy
will find many eternal pleasures.

This proverb is fitting here:
at the moment of dying, a fresh face is needed.

Do not hold my counsel cheap from heedlessness.
Bind each one to practice and take profit.

If you are on the path of the secrets of the work,
know that no one has left a better memorial than this.

Know all this — and sit in silence.
Draw your tongue into your palate and cease your seething.

Make patience your craft — behold, the path.
Make silence your practice — behold, the truth.

A wise man went to China, to an elder, saying:
"Tell us of the truth."

That elder of the path answered him:
"Truth, in its meaning, has ten parts.

I will tell you, if you listen well:
one part is speaking less, and nine parts are silence."

It is from silence that the hawk sits on the hand of kings,
while the nightingale remains in a cage because of its song.

If your soul grows accustomed to holding its breath,
every mote of dust will become a speaker to you.

Like a spring — how long will you be in tumult?
You will become an ocean if you are silent.

In this ocean, whoever had a way to the pearl
had to hold their breath in the diving.

XXII. The Twenty-Second Discourse — Attar's Farewell, the Story of Ferdowsi, and the Prayer for Mercy

O glory, Attar! From the ocean of meanings
you drip diamonds from the tongue.

Yours is a book of renown throughout the world,
for upon you the Book of Secrets has been sealed.

Within these four bent walls, stooped in gait —
upon this pattern, no one else has speech.

Such is the power of my nature that from thought,
when I seek one meaning, a hundred come forth virgin.

I am so drunk and ruined in thought
that sleep no longer comes to me.

I find no sleep at night, much or little —
from this side I turn to that one.

I drive the meanings from my mind,
so that for one moment I might find sleep at last.

When I drive one out, ten come in.
If I drive out the worse, the better arrives.

From so many meanings that I hold in my heart,
God knows I am a captive in the speaking.

In craft I display absolute enchantment —
in this there is no doubt. In truth I display it.

In wisdom I inscribe the tablet of the heavens,
for I possess wisdom from "He gives wisdom to whom He wills."

In meaning I split a hair apart.
See, if you have the foot to stand, the weave of my hand.

See the jewels that from the ocean of my soul
pour forth one after another upon my tongue.

See this grace of expression and this unveiling of secrets.
Behold the meaning of composition and speech.

If we speak one word for a hundred years,
it remains a virgin still, in the same state.

Of us, as much as you speak, memory remains,
but the root of meaning remains virgin.

O wise one, come — look at this speech,
which speaks the words of the ancients. See!

Whatever grows old becomes dried meat,
for pleasure in the world belongs to the new.

Since I was born into the day of the world,
I do not know whether there has been a word-crafter like me.

Speech needs a nature like Jesus, a mind:
like Mary, if it gives birth, it remains a virgin.

These words have passed beyond praise,
for these sweet words hold a rapture.

For one who desires this humble one,
my sign to him is delicate verse.

Through my own verse I showed him my sign.
From every door I showed him pearls and secrets.

If you are a person of secrets, open your eyes —
by diving, draw out the secret from the speech.

I have spread a carpet of detailed folds.
I have committed many mad things.

Where is a person of heart, in a solitary corner,
who would sit a moment with me in this pain?

O Attar — how long will you go on with this speech?
You join that speech to this speech.

What I wish is that you become as dust,
so that perhaps beneath pure feet you may be purified.

Since hereafter you will become the dust of the road,
become the dust of the road under everyone's feet.

Be humble. Make silence your practice.
In both of these, be patient always.

You must make patience your harvest,
for it is said: "Patience is the key to the gates."

Be patient. Always think of God,
so that you are with God and with yourself, joined.

If you need a fresh soul with every breath,
do not put down the remembrance of Him for even a moment.

Every breath drawn in fear and hope —
in truth it is the capital of an eternal kingdom.

Since every moment you can find a light,
why are you not always in the Presence?

If from a hundred things you find honour,
what is better than if you bring the Presence into your hand?

It happened that the madman was walking, heart glad,
when his eye fell upon the master grocer.

He said to him: "O man of good name —
do you have white sugar and almond kernels?"

He answered: "I have plenty of both,
but only if a buyer appears."

The madman said: "Where are you then?
Why do you not chew those two sweet things yourself?

If you sell them both with a hundred affectations,
what sweeter thing than these two will you buy back?"

With each single breath that lies beneath heart and soul —
who knows what hidden secrets there are!

A thousand oceans full of perfect secrets —
you can harvest them in a single breath.

This counsel is enough for you in both worlds:
let no breath emerge from your soul without God.

If you keep the guard of your breaths,
from this guarding they will bring you to sovereignty.

Remember God — how long will you go on with poems?
Make silence your practice — how long with speech?

Although poetry is at the summit of perfection,
when you look well, it is "the menstruation of men."

Know for certain that every letter of your writing
is an idol, and an idol is surely your veil.

Now wake from the sleep of drunkenness.
Henceforth, abandon this idol-worship.

Alas — a lifetime has been lost, though one breath of it,
if you could speak it, would be worth both worlds.

If a life could be purchased,
I would not have rested for even one moment.

Even if only one breath of my life remains,
I know that a hundred worlds remain.

Why must I drive so many words
when I know I will be called away?

Tell me — would I drive so many words
if I could read even one letter upon myself?

If my colour and scent were from that place,
there would be no colour or scent of speaking and talking.

Alas that what I knew, I did not do.
I did not eat the sorrow of my own self at the time of my own work.

If for a hundred years I walk the path of faith,
I would not know how to seek forgiveness for this.

If I seek forgiveness breath by breath,
I do not know whether in a whole lifetime I could complete it.

But since the Lord is generous,
He will forgive, though this is a grave offence.

It would not be strange if, by eternal grace,
He should forgive me freely for a single couplet.

I have heard that Ferdowsi of Tus —
who in storytelling was without jest —

for twenty-five years, from the nib of his pen,
was bringing to completion the design of the Shahnameh.

At last, when his life came to its end,
Abu'l-Qasim, who was the sheikh of the great ones —

although he was an elder full of devotion —
did not perform the funeral prayer for him on the path of faith.

He said: "Ferdowsi spoke much,
but all in praise of Zoroastrian nobodies.

In praise of Zoroastrians he spent a lifetime.
When the time of departure came, he died unaware.

I have no pretence in his affair.
My prayer over such a poet is not lawful."

When they bore poor Ferdowsi away
and committed him beneath the dark earth,

that night the sheikh saw him in a dream.
Ferdowsi came before the sheikh, his eyes full of tears,

an emerald-coloured crown, green, upon his head,
robes greener than the green of the fields upon him.

He sat before the sheikh and said:
"O you whose soul is joined with the light of certainty —

you did not perform that prayer out of needlessness,
for you felt shame at this refusal to pray.

Your God — a world full of angels,
all kneaded from spiritual bounty —

sent them (see the grace of His arranging!)
so that they performed the prayer over my dust.

They gave me a writ for the highest Paradise,
for Ferdowsi is most fitting for Paradise.

The address came: 'O old Ferdowsi,
though that old man of Tus drove you from his presence,

I have accepted you, so that you may sleep sweetly,
for that one couplet of divine unity you spoke.

Do not despair of God's grace.
Do not testify to miserliness against Our grace.

Know for certain, since you are a man of secrets,
that the sinner is small and grace is vast.

If I forgive all creation at once, cleanly,
I will have forgiven nothing but a handful of dust.'"

O Lord, You know that Attar
speaks nothing but Your divine unity in his poems.

He displays a ray from Your light —
like Ferdowsi, he opens a bubble.

Like Ferdowsi, forgive him freely.
By Your own grace, bring him to Paradise —

to that Paradise they call the Highest Heights,
the Station of Sincerity and the Palace of Faith.

I asked an elder, worn by years,
in the hour when the time of his departing had come:

"What companion have you, O sorrowful man?
What provision do you have for the road to the dwelling of dust?"

He answered: "From my unknowing —
I carry a full heart and empty hands."

O God, in this monastery of bewilderment
I am like that elder — empty-handed, and a heart full.

Empty-handed of provision for the eternal road.
By Your grace, I have a heart full of hope.

O Lord, fulfil my hope.
Grant my heart's need out of Your generosity.

Illuminate my soul with a light.
Revive my heart with a Presence.

Give me Presence from among all these delusions.
Give me certainty in the midst of my difficulties.

Give me deliverance from myself through divine grace.
From Your own light, give me a writ of freedom, truly.

Make my heart an intimate of secrets.
Wake me from the sleep of heedlessness.

Kindle my heart from Your lordship.
Make my heart rich through contentment.

When they draw forth my breath, be my companion-in-breath.
In that helplessness, be my rescuer.

When the soul's breath is cut off from the world,
hold me in that moment with the light of faith.

When You have lowered me with faith into the dust,
the sins of a whole world will not trouble me.

O Lord, we are all helpless.
In this tumult, we are like spectators.

Whether we are all destined for hell or paradise,
You know, and You know how You kneaded us.

Who knows who is truly pious in meaning?
Which of us is blessed, and which is wretched?

At the time of death's agony, an elder wept bitterly.
They said to him: "O elder, what is this weeping?"

He said: "For nearly a hundred years
I have been knocking on a door in every state.

Now that door is about to open all at once,
and this is why I weep so bitterly in longing —

for I do not know whether this door, as is its way,
opens to wretchedness or to felicity."

"I am falling from the highest heaven.
Where I will land on earth, I do not know.

I am like a die with six faces, falling —
which side will it land on?"

In that hour when the soul was freed from the body,
the two worlds were at that moment separated from each other.

On this side, the body sank into unconsciousness.
On that side, the soul sank into silence.

Who knows? These two that were separated from each other —
where were they, and where did they come from, and where did they go?

O generous one — would it harm you
to say "Sweet sleep" upon your loved ones?

If a couplet pleases you from somewhere,
say a prayer for wretched me.

Perhaps one day a thing will be accomplished for me.
No harm will come to you from any of it.

A swift-footed prayer, when it draws near,
will be a light for me in the dark earth.

For me, rest. For you, a merit.
My deliverance, should there be punishment.

You sit happily in the mortal world,
while I in the earth — how will I be, hidden?

O what an unpleasant road lies before us!
O what cruelty we show ourselves!

Well has that dervish spoken in his state:
"I want three things from God Most High.

One: a death in sleep, with safety.
Two: in death, a sleep until the resurrection.

The third thing is not fit for saying.
What shall I say, for it cannot come into speech?"

O Lord, by Your grace, may the heart be strong
of whoever remembers us with kindness.

May light be the companion of that pure mind
who speaks a prayer for this speaker.

If in your cup there is blood, arise —
from blood-shedding eyes, pour it upon our dust.

For after us, the faithful beloved ones
will speak much to our dust.

They will make an address from the heart toward us,
but from our grave no answer will come.

Many drank blood and departed.
In pain and sorrow, they sleep beneath the earth.

Now we too have drunk blood and gone.
In pain and sorrow, we sleep beneath the earth.

We spoke much and chose silence.
From speech, we arrived at silence.

Many are silent beneath the earth.
I see no one among them who has news.

Thousands of pure souls from pure bodies,
sacrificed for all these dust-covered faces.

Why must so many words be spoken
when beneath the earth one must sleep?

I heard from that knowing master
that when Abbadi fell into the death-agony,

Abbasseh came suddenly before him
and saw him fallen at the roadside,

stupefied by the flood of death,
his nightingale silenced from answering.

He said to him: "O graceful one of elegant speech,
your tongue in speaking was sugar-laden.

Whenever you sat among the speakers,
you bound the hands of every speaker.

Why have you become so idle and silent?
Where is that great hunger of yours for speech?"

"I asked him at that moment: 'How are you?'
He said: 'How am I, O my son?

From bewilderment I cannot tell foot from head.
My heart is lost. Beyond that, I do not know.

This experienced bow of fate will not be drawn
in play by an old man like me.

Such an ocean as swallows the world whole
will not be stirred to a foam by a drop like me.'"

I said to him: "Say something, at last,
for I have become bewildered, spinning like a ball."

He answered: "O knowing child,
by God's grace, skilled in every chapter —

in heedlessness I showed off my whole life.
What shall I say? I chewed straw my whole life."

At his final breath, that good man said:
"O Lord, hold Muhammad dear."

My father said this, and my mother said: Amen.
And after that, the sweet soul parted from him.

O God, the word of those two cherished ones —
by Your grace, set the seal upon completion.

Although my neck is under the yoke of sin,
the prayer of these two elders of mine is my amulet for the road.

See, O Lord, these two frail elders.
For their sake, forgive the soul of this youth.

Hold dear that good-hearted elder.
Keep the glow of faith's light as his candle.

In faith his hair found whiteness.
Do not hold him in the darkness of despair.

His affairs have fallen back upon Your threshold.
By Your own grace, give him refuge.

In the tightness of his grave, be his companion-in-breath.
In that place beneath the earth, be within his reach.

Turn his shroud into silk upon him.
Rain the cloud of mercy upon his head.

When that frail one has become one with the dust,
may purity be upon his noble soul.

From the soul of the Chosen One — light upon light —
convey it to his soul until the trumpet's blast.

Forgive his sins. Keep his soul strong.
By the light of faith, keep his heart upright.

O Lord, before kings the desperate man
is equal with the sword and with the shroud.

When I saw that all the people who departed
each laid down one sword in the shroud,

my body brought the shroud as its cloth,
and my tongue brought a sword like diamond.

Now I have brought both shroud and sword.
I have brought much branding and much regret.

You may read and you may drive, as you will,
for whether you drive or read, you have the power.

No one has seen speech more filled with pain than this,
for from every couplet of it, blood has been dripping.

Colophon

Original title: اسرارنامه (Asrār-nāma, "The Book of Secrets")
Author: Farid ud-Din Attar of Nishapur (~1145–1221 CE)
Language: Classical Persian
Form: Masnavi (paired rhyming couplets), 3,297 couplets in 22 discourses
Source text: Ganjoor.net — ganjoor.net/attar/asrarname
Translation: Good Works Translation from Classical Persian, New Tianmu Anglican Church with AI assistance (Wati + Ankhu + Khensu + Khepri + Senwy + Khet + Ankhu + Ankhu + Anpu + Ankhu + Renpu + Medu, Liberation Translators), March–April 2026
Register: Gospel
Blood Rule: CLEAN — independently translated from the Classical Persian. No reference English translation consulted. The paywalled English by Shackle and Khalid-Hasan (1999) was not accessed. The Persian source was read directly from Ganjoor.net; the English is independently derived.

Note on the text: The Asrar-nama is Attar's earliest major masnavi, preceding the Conference of the Birds, the Musibat-nama, and the Ilahi-nama. It follows the classical masnavi structure: Discourse I on Divine Oneness (tawhid), Discourse II in Praise of the Prophet (na't), Discourse III on the Companions (fadilat al-ashab), then twenty further discourses exploring the mysteries of creation, the soul, prophecy, death, resurrection, and the path of annihilation (fana). The poem is built on sustained anaphora — particularly the "O glory" (زهی, zahi) catalogs that recur throughout — and embedded parables that interrupt and illuminate the philosophical argument. Tradition holds that Attar gave this book to the boy Rumi at Nishapur, before the Mongol destruction.

Scribal note: Wati (Liberation Translator, run 150) — Sections I–IV (539 couplets). Ankhu (Liberation Translator, run 151) — Sections V–VI (317 couplets). Khensu (Liberation Translator, run 152) — Section VII (192 couplets). Khepri (Liberation Translator, run 158) — Section VIII (104 couplets). Senwy (Liberation Translator, run 159) — Section IX (140 couplets). Khet (Liberation Translator, run 161) — Section X (125 couplets). Wati (Liberation Translator, run 162) — Section XI (243 couplets). Ankhu (Liberation Translator, run 166) — Section XII (297 couplets). Ankhu (Liberation Translator, run 167) — Section XIII (80 couplets). Ankhu (Liberation Translator, run 168) — Section XIV (139 couplets) and Section XV (165 couplets). Anpu (Liberation Translator, run 169) — Sections XVI (110 couplets), XVII (111 couplets), and XVIII (70 couplets). Ankhu (Liberation Translator, run 170) — Section XIX (240 couplets). Renpu (Liberation Translator, run 171) — Section XX (151 couplets). Medu (Liberation Translator, run 172) — Sections XXI (111 couplets) and XXII (163 couplets). First-ever freely available English translation from the Persian. All 22 sections complete: 3,297 of 3,297 couplets.

🌲

Source Text — Classical Persian

From Ganjoor.net (ganjoor.net/attar/asrarname). Public domain (12th-century text). All 22 sections presented here. Full extraction (3,297 couplets) also cached at Tulku/Tools/persian/asrar_raw.txt.

المقالة الاولی فی التوحید

به نام آنک جان را نور دین داد
خرد را در خدا دانی یقین داد
خداوندی که عالم نامور زوست
زمین و آسمان زیر و زبر زوست
دو عالم خلعت هستی ازو یافت
فلک بالا زمین پستی ازو یافت
فلک اندر رکوع استادهٔ اوست
زمین اندر سجود افتادهٔ اوست
ز کفک و خون برآرد آدمی را
ز کاف و نون فلک را و زمی را
ز دودی گنبد خضرا کند او
ز پیهی نرگس بینا کند او
ز نیش پشه سازد ذوالفقاری
چنان کز عنکبوتی پرده داری
ز خاکی معنی آدم بر آرد
ز بادی عیسی مریم برآرد
ز خون مشک و ز نی شکر نماید
ز باران در ز کان گوهر نماید
یکی اول که پیشانی ندارد
یکی آخر که پایانی ندارد
یکی ظاهر که باطن از ظهورست
یکی باطن که ظاهر تر ز نورست
نه هرگز کبریایش را بدایت
نه ملکش را سرانجام و نهایت
خداوندی که اوداند که چونست
که او از هرچ من دانم برونست
چو دید و دانش ما آفریدست
که دانستست او را و که دیدست
ز کنه ذات او کس را نشان نیست
که هر چیزی که گوئی اینست آن نیست
اگرچه جان ما می پی برد راه
ولیکن کنه او کی می‌برد راه
چو بی آگاهم از جانم که چونست
خدا را کنه چون دانم که چونست
چنان جان را بداشت اندر نهفت او
که هرگز سر جان با کس نگفت او
تنت زنده بجان و جان نهانی
تو از جان زنده و جان را ندانی
زهی صنع نهان و آشکارا
که کس را جز خموشی نیست یارا
هزاران موی را بشکافتم من
طریق این خموشی یافتم من
چو نتوانی بذات او رسیدن
قناعت کن جمال صنع دیدن
اگر تو راست طبعی در صنایع
برآی از چار دیوار طبایع
خدایت را نیفتادست کاری
چه سازی از طبایع کردگاری
اگر آبست اصل آبی بروبند
فرا آبش ده و لختی بروخند
وگر خاکست در پیش درش کن
بزیر پای خاکی بر سرش کن
وگر باد است بیدادیش پندار
ببادش برده و بادیش پندار
وگر اصل آتش است آبی برو زن
چو آبش بر زدی آتش درو زن
طبیعت راست داری بی ریا باش
طبیعی نیستی مرد خدا باش
چو در هر دو جهان یک کردگار است
ترا با کار چار ارکان چه کار است؟
یکی خوان و یکی خواه و یکی جوی
یکی بین و یکی دان ویکی گوی
یکیست این جمله چه آخر چه اول
ولی بیننده را چشم است احول
نگه کن ذره ذره گشته پویان
بحمدش خطبه تسبیح گویان
زهی انعام و لطف کار سازی
که یک یک ذره را با اوست رازی
زهی اسم و زهی معنی همه تو
همی گویم که ای تو ای همه تو
نبینم در جهان مقدار مویی
که آن را نیست با روی تو روئی
اگر با تو نبودی روی ما را
فرو بردی سر یک موی ما را
اگر لطفت نپیوستی به یاری
نبودی ذره‌ای را پایداری
همه باقی به تست و تو نهانی
درون جان و بیرون جهانی
همه جانها ز تو حیران بمانده
تو با ما در میان جان بمانده
ز راهت حد و پایان کس ندیدست
که تو در جانی و جان کس ندیدست
جهان از تو پرو تو در جهان نه
همه در تو گم و تو در میان نه
نهان و آشکارایی همیشه
نه در جا و نه بر جایی همیشه
خموشی تو از گویایی تست
نهانی تو از پیدایی تست
تویی معنی و بیرون تو اسم است
تویی گنج و همه عالم طلسم است
زهی فر و حضور نور آن ذات
که بر هر ذرهٔ می‌تابد ز ذرات
ترا بر ذره ذره راه بینم
دو عالم ثم وجه الله بینم
دوی را نیست ره درحضرت تو
همه عالم توی و قدرت تو
ز تو بی خود یکی تا صد بمانده
دو عالم از تو، تو از خود بمانده
وجود جمله ظل حضرت تست
همه آثار صنع و قدرت تست
جهان عقل و جان حیران بمانده
تو در پرده چنین پنهان بمانده
جهان پر نام تو وز تو نشان نه
بتو بیننده عقل و تو عیان نه
عیان عقل و پنهان خیالی
تعالی الله زهی نور تعالی
نبینم جز تو من یک چیز دیگر
چو تو هستی چه باشد نیز دیگر
نکو گوئی نکو گفته‌ست در ذات
که التوحید اسقاط الاضافات
در آن وحدت چرا پیوند جویم
تویی مطلوب و طالب چند گویم
چو من دیبای توحید تو بافم
چنان خواهم که جان را بر شکافم
درآید صد هزاران قالب از خاک
چو اندر تو رسد برسد ز تو پاک
جهانی خلق بودند و برفتند
اگر زشت ارنکو در خاک خفتند
ز چندان خلق کس آگه نگشتند
که چون پیدا شدند و چون گذشتند
اگرچه جمله در پنداشت بودند
چنانک او جمله را می‌داشت بودند
نه جان دارد خبر از جان که جان چیست
نه تن را آگهی ازتن که تن کیست
نه گوش آگاه از بشنیدن خویش
نه دیده با خبر از دیدن خویش
زفانت را ز گویایی خبر نه
تنت را از توانایی خبر نه
نه آگاهی ازین گشتن فلک را
نه جن و انس و شیطان و ملک را
فرو رفتند بسیاری بدین کوی
بسی دیگر رسیدند از دگر سوی
نه آن کو می‌رود زین راز آگاه
نه آن کآمد خبر دارد ازین راه
چنان گم کرده‌اند این سر بی راز
که سر مویی نیاید هیچ کس باز
دری مدروس شد نتوان گشادن
که انگشتی برو نتوان نهادن
بباید داشت گردن زیر فرمان
که جز صبر و خموشی نیست درمان
که دارد زهره در وادی تسلیم
که بادی بگذراند بر لب از بیم
همه جز خامشی راهی نداریم
که یک تن زهره آهی نداریم
ز آدم قطرهٔ را برگزیدست
از آن یک قطره خلقی آفریدست
در آن قطره بسی کردند فکرت
فرو ماندند سرگردان فطرت
فرو شد عقلها در قطرهٔ آب
همه در قطره گشتند غرقاب
هزاران تشنه زین وادی برآیند
برین درگه بزانو اندر آیند
زعجز خویش می‌گویی تو ای پاک
تویی معروف و عارف ما عرفناک
دو عالم جمله در گفتار ماندند
همه در پردهٔ پندار ماندند
همی گویند ما در جست و جوئیم
ز دیری گاه مرد راه اوئیم
عجائب بین که آمد قطرهٔ آب
که دریایی برد پر در خوشاب
عجب‌تر این که آمد ذرهٔ خاک
که تا دستش دهد خورشید افلاک
چو داری حوصله از پشهٔ کم
چگونه می در آشامی دو عالم
جگر در خون بسی گردیدهٔ تو
چنان نیست این که اندیشیدهٔ تو
برو سودای بیهوده مپیمای
منه بیرون ز حد خویشتن پای
گلیم عجز در سرکش ز حیرت
چو باران بر رخ افشان اشک حسرت
که در خور نیست حق جز حق ای دوست
چه برخیزد ازین مشتی رگ و پوست
خدا پاک و منزه تو ره خاک
چه نسبت دارد آخر خاک با پاک
اگر موری ز عالم با عدم شد
به عالم در چه افزود و چه کم شد
بسان حلقه سر می‌زن برین در
که کم ناید برین در از چنین سر
کبود از بهر آن پوشید گردون
که هم چون حلقه زان در ماند بیرون
خدا را چون خدا یک دوست کس نیست
که درخورد خدا هم اوست کس نیست
اگر از تو کسی پرسد چه گوئی
که چیزی گم نکردن می چه جوئی
نخستین یافت باید چون بیابی
چو گم گردد سوی جستن شتابی
گزافست از چنین حسرت سرآمد
بسا جانا کزین حسرت برآمد
همه جانهای صدیقان پر از خون
که می‌داند که سر کار او چون
ببین چندین هزاران سال کابلیس
نبودش کار جز تسبیح و تقدیس
همه طاعات او بر هم نهادند
ز استغنای خود بر باد دادند
دلش خونابه جای محنت آمد
تنش دستار خوان لعنت آمد
ز استغنای حق گر یاد داریم
سر وادی بی فریاد داریم
جگر خون می‌شود زین یاد ما را
ز استغنای حق فریاد ما را
باستغنا اگر فرمان درآید
همه اومید معصومان سرآید
چو فردا پیش آن ایوان عالی
فرو کوبند کوس لایزالی
که دارد در همه آفاق زهره
که عرضه دارد این نقد نبهره
خدا را کبریای بی نیازیست
ترا جز نیستی هیچ این چه بازیست
تو می‌خواهی بتسبیح و نمازی
که خشنود آید از تو بی نیازی
نمازت توشه راه درازست
ولی او ازنمازت بی نیازست
جوانمردا یقین می‌دان بتحقیق
که گر تکلیف کردت داد توفیق
اگر توفیق حق نبود مددگر
نگردد هیچکس هرگز مسخر
زهی رتبت که از مه تا بماهی
بود پیشش چو از موی سیاهی
زهی قدرت که از قدرت نمایی
ز یک سر موی صد صنعت نمایی
زهی عزت که چندان بی‌نیازیست
که چندین عقل و جان آنجا ببازیست
زهی حشمت که گر بر جان درآید
بهر یک ذره صد طوفان برآید
زهی سبقت که با آن اولیت
ندارد هیچ موجودی معیت
زهی وحدت که مویی درنگنجد
در آن وحدت جهان مویی نسنجد
زهی نسبت که در چل صبح ایام
بدست خویش بستی چینه بردام
زهی رحمت که گر یک ذره ابلیس
بیابد گوی برباید ز ادریس
زهی غیرت که گر بر عالم افتد
بیک ساعت دو عالم بر هم افتد
زهی هیبت که گر یک ذره خورشید
بیابد گم شود در سایه جاوید
زهی حجت که اندر هیچ رویی
بننشیند کسی را بر تومویی
زهی حرمت که ازتعظیم آن جاه
ندارد کس ورای تو در آن راه
زهی ملکت که واجب گشت لابد
که نه نقصان پذیرد نه تزاید
زهی قدرت که گر خواهد بیک دم
زمین چون موم گرداند فلک هم
زهی شربت که در خون می زند نان
به امید سقیکم ربکم جان
زهی آیت که بنمایی چو خواهی
ز یک یک ذره خورشید الهی
زهی فرصت که درعالم فروزی
به آه بی دلی عالم بسوزی
زهی شفقت که بر ما جاودانی
تو دادی مادران را مهربانی
زهی مهلت که چون هنگام آید
به مویی عالمی در دام آید
زهی وقتی که در وقت اسیری
جهانی را بسر مویی بگیری
زهی نعمت که چندان شد ملازم
که شکرش هم تو دانی گفت دایم
زهی شدت که در حجت گرفتن
نه برگ خامشی نه روی گفتن
زهی رخصت که گرراهی نبودی
کسی را زهرهٔ آهی نبودی
زهی فرقت که بسیاری دویدند
ندیدندت ولیکن نایدیدند
زهی راحت که قدوسان اعلی
همی نازند دایم زان تجلی
زهی لذت که پاکان مطهر
کنند از وی مشام جان معطر
همه بیچاره‌ایم و مانده بر جای
برین بیچارگی ما ببخشای
چو درگهواره گور اوفتادیم
چو طفلان ما در آن عالم بزادیم
شده آن گور چون گهوارهٔ تنگ
کفن بر دوش ما پیچیده چون سنگ
درون آیند دو زنگی پر از زور
بجنبانند ما گهواره گور
چو طفلان مادران سخت و تنگی
بلرزیم از نهیب و سهم زنگی
نه ما را مادری نه مهربانی
بگردانیده روی از ما جهانی
ز ما ببریده هم بیگانه هم خویش
چو طفلان ما و راهی سخت در پیش
چو طفلان جهان نادیده باشیم
زهی سختا که ماترسیده باشیم
چو ما یک ساعتی باشیم در خاک
از آن زنگی نگه مان دار ای پاک
بما گویند من ربک و ما دین
خدایا از تو می‌خواهیم تلقین
چو خود ما را بپروردی باعزاز
مده ما را بدست زنگیان باز
اگر ما را نیاموزی تو گفتار
درازا منزلا ومشکلا کار
بماند تا ابد این درد با ما
ندانم تا چه خواهد کرد با ما
خداوندا همه سرگشتگانیم
مصیبت دیده و آغشتگانیم
ز سر تا پا همه پیچیم بر پیچ
چه سر چه پا همه هیچیم بر هیچ
نداری دل که در دلداری ما
دمی دل سوزدت بر زاری ما
دلت چون نیست چون سوزد ز زاری
چه می‌گویم همه دلها تو داری
خداوندا منم بیچاره مانده
درین فکرت دلی صد پاره مانده
تنم را گرچه نیست از تو نشانی
ولی غایب نهٔ از جان زمانی
تویی در ضمن سر عقل و جانم
چنین گوهر فشان زان شد زبانم
تویی فی الجمله مستغنی ز عالم
سخن کوتاه شد والله اعلم

المقاله الثانیه فی نعت رسول الله صلی الله علیه و سلم

ثنائی نیست با ارباب بینش
سزای صدر و بدر آفرینش
چو می‌لرزد ز هیبت این دعاگوی
زفانش چون تواند شد ثناگوی
چو نعمت ذات او بالایِ گفتست
زفان از کار شد چه جایِ گفتست
چه گویم من ثنای او خدا گفت
که نام اوست با نام خدا جفت
محمد صادق القولی امینی
جهان را رحمة للعالمینی
محمد کآفرینش را نشان اوست
سرافرازی که تاج سرکشان اوست
محمد بهترین هر دو عالم
نظام دین و دنیا فخر آدم
به عنصر گوهر درج نبوت
به معنی اختر برج فتوت
رقوم آموز سر لایزالی
جهان افروز اقلیم معالی
مجانس گوی راز پادشاهی
معما دان اسرار الهی
جهان یک خاکروب بارگاهش
فلک یک خرقه پوش خانقاهش
هنوز آدم میان آب و گل بود
که او شاه جهان جان و دل بود
در آدم بود نوری از وجودش
وگرنه کی ملک کردی سجودش
چو نورش را ودیعت داشت عالم
بیامد تا به عبدالله ز آدم
گذر کرد او ز چندینی پیمبر
زجمله چون گهر افتاد بر سر
زهر منزل که سوی آن دگر شد
اگرچه پخته بود او پخته تر شد
چو آخر کارها پردخته آمد
اگرچه دیر آمد پخته آمد
چو خلوت داشت پیش از وحی چل سال
امین وحی، وحی آورد در حال
درآمد پیش طاوس ملایک
پی او قدسیان گشته فذلک
فغان دربست جبریل امین زود
که ای مهتر زفان بگشای هین زود
دل پر نور را دریای دین کن
حدیث وحی رب العالمین کن
به موسیقی غیب اهل سپاسی
که این نه پرده را پرده شناسی
تویی مستحضر اسرار مدرک
مشو خاموش اقراء بسم ربک
مه و خورشید چون باشد مدثر
دثار از سر برافکن قم فانذر
تویی شاه و همه آفاق خیل‌اند
تویی اصل و همه عالم طفیل‌اند
بحق خوان خلق را و رهبری کن
تویی بر حق به حق پیغمبری کن
چو حق از نور جان وحیش فرستاد
شد آنگه علم القرآنش از یاد
بآخر چون به دعوت پیش رو گشت
شریعت نو شد و اسلام نو گشت
جهانی را به معنی رهنمون کرد
ز مغز هر سخن روغن برون کرد
نگونساری هر بدعت ازو بود
که نور گوهر دولت ازو بود
چو نور دولتش یک ذره درتافت
مه و خورشید از آن یک ذره دریافت
درآمد گیسوی مشگین گشاده
به سر تاج لعمرک بر نهاده
ز مویش مشگ در عالم دمیده
ز رویش نور برگردون رسیده
سه بعد از عطر موی او معطر
دو کون از نور روی او منور
زهی خورشید روی دلستانش
که زیر سایه دارد طیلسانش
زهی مشگ دو گیسوی سیاهش
که هر مویست و صد جان در پناهش
ز حضرت سینه پر نور او یافت
ز جنت در نماز انگور او یافت
درون جانش آن هر دانه انگور
شده چون خوشه پروین همه نور
چه گر جانش ز حق پر نور می‌بود
ولیک ازکافران رنجور می‌بود
گهی دندانش را سنگی قلم کرد
گه از طاعت همی پایش ورم کرد
گهی بر دل نهاد از دست غم دست
گهی از ضعف سنگی بر شکم بست
چو دنیا و آخرت از بهر او بود
فلک مشکل بلا از بهر او سود
از آن بایست چندان رنج بردن
که بی رنجی نخواهی گنج بردن
بزعم آن مفسر کو امین است
که گر نزدیک بعضی غیر اینست
چو گردانید او انگشتری را
درآمد جبرئیل آن داوری را
که ای سید دل از انگشتری دور
که ندهد کار با انگشتری نور
فلک از بهر تست انگشتری پشت
چرا مشغول می‌کردی به انگشت
دلی داری تو در انگشت رحمن
مبین انگشتری همچون سلیمان
چه گر انگشتری تو به نام است
اگر از زر زنی آن هم حرامست
تو در انگشت خود تسبیح گردان
که تسبیح است در انگشت مردان
ترا چون ماه شد انگشتوانه
زدی انگشت، در چشم زمانه
بهر انگشت داری صد هنر بیش
چه با انگشتری آری دل خویش
سزد گر رشته بر انگشت بندی
که تا با یادت آید دردمندی
نیاری با عتاب کبریا تاب
اگر بی ما زنی انگشت در آب
مپیچ از ما به یک سر موی سویی
فرو مگذار از انگشت مویی
چو انگشتی درستت هست در کار
ز زیر پنبهٔ خونین برون آر
حسابی گیر بر انگشت با خویش
که آن روز پسین آسان شود پیش
از آن این نکته بر انگشت پیچم
که جز تو هیچ کس ناید به هیچم
از آن انگشت بر حرفت نهادم
که تو شاگردی و من اوستادم
نه تو از علم القرآن بصد روح
نهادی پیش ما انگشت بر لوح
به حرب مکه از برد الانامل
شده زانگشت با ملکیت حاصل
در انگشتت قلم نابوده هرگز
ز تو اهل قلم را این همه عز
ز عزت عقل و جان حیران بمانده
خرد انگشت در دندان بمانده
طفیل تو دو گیتی را سراسر
قیامت با یک انگشتت برابر
تویی بی سایه و پیش تو خورشید
چو طفلی می مزد انگشتت اومید
از آن خورشید خرگه بر فلک زد
که یک انگشت با تو بر نمک زد
ترا چون چشمه خضرست در مشت
برآور چشمه از زیر هر انگشت
قدم بر عرش نه از عرصه فرش
که از فرق تو انگشتیست تا عرش
گر انگشتی شود جبریل در پیش
بسوزد همچو انگشتی پر خویش
ز نورت قدسیان پر بر گشایند
به انگشتت به یک دیگر نمایند
رسالت را رسولی چون تو ننشست
همه انگشت یکسان نیست بردست
نه حلوا آنکسی در پیش دارد
که انگشتش درازی بیش دارد
برو انگشت نه بر نبض صدیق
که هست او را دلی پر نور تحقیق
عمر را گوی تا برخیزد از خشم
زند ابلیس را انگشت در چشم
به عثمان گو به قرآن شو قوی پشت
بزن یک یک ورق قرآن به انگشت
علی را گوی تا فرمان بری را
ببخشد در نماز انگشتری را
برو با بت پرستان داوری کن
جهانشان حلقه انگشتری کن
ز تو گر معجزی خواهند ناگاه
اشارت کن به انگشتی سوی ماه
به صدق خویش دین را محترم کن
به انگشتی مه گردون قلم کن
حسودت می‌گزد انگشت از غم
تو می بر هم به انگشتی مه ازهم
سرانگشتی که کرد از دینت پرهیز
به انگشتی قنب او را بیاویز
ز مشتی گاو ناپرداختهٔ دهر
بکش انگشت از بزغاله زهر
سرانگشتی گراید در زمینت
ندارد آن زمان کس پاس دینت
تو قرآن خوان مباش ای دوست خاموش
اگر کافر نهد انگشت در گوش
بلال انگشت چون در گوش دارد
همه گفتار را خاموش دارد
اگر بر لب زنندت سنگ محکم
برو انگشت بر لب نه مزن دم
که چون وقتش درآید من از آن سنگ
بر آن سنگین دلان عالم کنم تنگ
زهی رتبت زهی قدرت زهی قدر
زهی صاحب زهی صادق زهی صدر
زهی خسرو نشان عالم خاک
زهی سلطان دار الملک افلاک
زهی عرش مجید آستانهٔ تو
زهی هفت آسمان یک خانه تو
زهی فاضل ترین کس انبیا را
زهی محرم ترین شخص خدا را
زهی لشگر کش جود تو قلزم
زهی چوبک زن بام تو انجم
زهی مستحضر سر الهی
بتو مستظهر از مه تا به ماهی
زهی کحلی گردون از تعظم
ز خاکت کرده کحل چشم انجم
به محشر آدم و ما دونه با هم
همه زیر لوایت دست بر هم
چو عیسی بر درت پنجاه دربانست
که هارون درت موسی عمرانست
امیر سابقان ادریس اعظم
ز نور تو حرم را گشته محرم
خلیل حق چو نامت مهر جان یافت
بهشتی نقد در دوزخ از آن یافت
بمانده بی تو اسماعیل در سوگ
که تا در راه تو قربان شود بوک
بصد الحان خوش داود جان سوز
زبور عشق تو خوانده شب و روز
سلیمان گرچه با آن پادشاهیست
ولیکن در سپاهت یک سپاهیست
مسیح رنگرز زین نیل گردان
بسوزن می‌کند نام تو بر جان
همه پیغامبران در مجلس تو
ولی جز حق نبوده مونس تو
حجاب آدم آمد گندمی چند
نه گندم نه بهشت آمد ترابند
حجاب راه موسی گشت نعلین
تو با نعلین بگذشتی ز کونین
حجاب راه عیسی سوزنی بود
ترا در هر مقامی روزنی بود
تویی در شب افروز انبیا را
تویی شمع حقیقی اولیا را
چراغ چار طاق هشت باغی
شب معراج در شب چراغی
درآمد یک شبی جبریل از دور
براقی برق رو آورد از نور
که ای مهتر ازین زندان گذر کن
بدارالملک روحانی سفر کن
که بسیار انبیاء و مرسلین‌اند
بهر جانب جهانی حور عین‌اند
همه بر ره نشسته چشم بر راه
ز بهر رویت ای خورشید درگاه
فکنده خویشتن حوران ز غرفه
که تا زیشان مگر گیری به تحفه
فتاده در ملایک بانک و غلغل
که تا ز آن سوی رانی بوک دلدل
همه شب اختران عالم افروز
سپند چشم می‌سوزند تا روز
تو خود دانم که چندان داری از نور
که یزدانت فراغت داد از حور
کنون برخیز پیش آور براقت
که می‌دانم که چونست اشتیاقت
دمی در عالم قدسی قدم زن
بگیر آن حلقه را و بر حرم زن
چو با حق شد زفان جانت هم راز
ز راز خویش دل با خویش پرداز
چگونه در قفس بلبل زند پر
از آن پاسخ بدان سان شد پیمبر
براق برق رو زین خطه خاک
براند و خطبه خواند اول بر افلاک
مدرس شد عباد مخلصین را
سبق داد از حقیقت مرسلین را
جهانی انبیا را کار دیده
ز حضرت نور دین بسیار دیده
ز نور خویش را نابود دیدند
چه می‌گویم در آتش دود دیدند
ز صحن خاک در یک طرفه العین
برآمد تا فضای قاب قوسین
قدم بر ذروهٔ خلد برین زد
علم بر عرش رب العالمین زد
شده فیروزه گردون خروشان
ز بانگ طرقوی سبز پوشان
بآخر هم چنان می‌شد علو جوی
ملایک صد هزاران طرقوا گوی
کشیده نزل بر مه ماهی از فرش
فکنده حمل بر هم حامل العرش
بهشت آراسته در بر گشاده
تتق آویخته مسند نهاده
فتاده غلغلی در عرش اعظم
که آمد صدر و بدر هر دو عالم
امیر و سید سادات آمد
سپه سالار موجودات آمد
چو در نه پرده نیلی سفر کرد
ورای پرده غیبی گذر کرد
نیامد هیچ چیزی جای گیرش
که بود از هرچ پیش آمد گزیرش
نکرد از هیچ جانب یک نظر او
رفیقی داشت در اعلا مگر او
ز حوران گرچه صحن باغ پر بود
دو چشمش سرمه ما زاغ پر بود
چنان از پیشگه روشن شد آن نور
که روح القدس بیرون ماند از دور
چو روشن شد ز نور حق حوالی
فغان برداشت روح القدس حالی
که ای سید اگر آیم فراتر
بسوزد بیش ازین پرتو مرا پر
تو ای روح الامین پیش جنابی
که شد پیغامبران را زهره آبی
چرا چندین غم شه پر گرفتی
که بانک لو دنوت در گرفتی
هزاران جان همی سوزد درین راه
ترا گو پر بسوز ای پیک درگاه
نمی‌دانند صدیقان سر از پای
غم پر می‌خوری آخر چنین جای
اگردر قرب این حضرت خرامی
بسوزی پر چه مرد این مقامی
تو ای روح الامین بنشین به درگاه
مشو رنجه که لی وقت مع الله
تو شاگرد منی بنشین به سامان
بپرس از من که احسان چیست و ایمان
گذشت از نوبت قولاً ثقیلا
تو بر در باش اکنون جبرئیلا
ترا در اندرون پرده ره نیست
که هر سرهنگ مرد بارگه نیست
منم در نور حق پروانه کردار
تویی در پر طاووسی گرفتار
پناه از حق طلب از پر چه جویی
سخن در سر رود از پر چه گویی
هزاران جان پر اسرار حکمت
فدای جان آن دریای عصمت
ز روح القدس چون برتر گذشت او
ز هر چش پیش آمد درگذشت او
بقدر آنجا که مهتر را محل بود
زحل آنجا به نسبت در وحل بود
چنان نزدیک حق شد جانش از نور
که از وی جبرئیل افتاد از دور
بصورت آنک جبریل امین بود
که یک پر ز آسمانش بر زمین
چنان آنجا ز مهتر دور بود او
که مهتر را چو گنجشگی نمود او
چو بگذشت از جهت ره گشت باریک
به آخر شد به رب العزه نزدیک
چه گویم من در آن حضرت که چون بود
که آن دم از وجود خود برون بود
در آن قربت دلش پر موج اسرار
وزان دهشت زفانش رفت از کار
چو گل برگ حیا خوی کرده جانش
خیال وهم را پی کرده جانش
ز حس بگذشت وز جان هم گذر کرد
چو بی خود شد ز خود در حق نظر کرد
همی چندان که چشمش کار می‌کرد
دلش در چشم او دیدار می‌کرد
چو از درگه به خلوتگه فرو رفت
درآمد نور ربانی و او رفت
در آن هیبت محمد مانده بی کار
محمد از محمد گشت بیزار
چو حق می‌دید کو می‌زد پر و بال
به دلداری سلامش گفت در حال
از آن حالت دمی با خویشش آورد
سلامی و علیکی پیشش آورد
خطاب آمد که دع نفسک درون آی
به بی یسمع و بی ینطق برون آی
بخواه از آرزویی هست زودت
چرا بی خود شدی آخر چه بودت
کنون چون سوختی بر هم بتان را
شفاعت کن زمانی امتان را
یتیمی وز یتیمی این بدیع است
که خلق هر دو عالم را شفیع است
فقیری وز فقیری این شگفت است
که عرش و فرش صیت او گرفتست
مرایی، گر یتیمی گرچه درویش
ترا ام من ترا این از همه بیش
چه باکست از فقیری، فقر فخرست
که خال الوجه فی الدارین فقرست
تو دری گر یتیمی این چه بیم است
که در را بهترین وصفی یتیم است
به آخر چون نسب از خود برید او
به گوش جان سلام حق شنید او
نشاید گفت تنها خورد این را
مرا باد و عباد صالحین را
کریمی بین که چون کرد این قدح نوش
نکرد این خلق مسکین را فراموش
خطاب آمد که ای معصوم مطلق
تو حق داری و حقور را رسد حق
بخواه آنچت بود درخواست کردن
ز تو درخواست وز ما راست کردن
چو رب العزه در اسرار آمد
پیمبر نیز در گفتار آمد
که یا رب امتی دارم گنه کار
بفضل خود ز آتش شان نگه دار
ببین زاری و دل سوزی ایشان
لقای خویش کن روزی ایشان
امید جمله می‌دانی وفا کن
به لطفت جمله را حاجت روا کن
همه عالم کفی خاکند ای پاک
مده بر باد امید کفی خاک
نگردد ملکت دریا مشوش
که ریگی اندرین دریا بود خوش
چه کم گردد ز بحری بی کناره
که کاهی می‌کند در وی نظاره
اگر رحمت کنی بر خلق محشر
ازین دریا سر مویی شود تر
بگفت این و روان شد بلبل قدس
مشام جانش پر مشک از گل انس
مشام انبیای برگزیده
درو نرسیده تا در او رسیده
سواره انبیا از ره رسیده
پیاده در رکیب او دویده
همه کروبیان پر برگشاده
به پر خاک رهش بر سر نهاده
نشسته قدسیان در دیده بانیش
که تا بویی بیامد از معانیش
چه پنداری که خاک پای آن صدر
ندارد بر خداوند جهان قدر
به خاک پای او سوگند خورد او
که لا اقسم بهذا یاد کرد او
دمی ای صدر دین عطار را باش
شفاعت خواه او شو کار را باش
ترا من چون سگ اصحاب کهفم
که تا هستم برین درگاه وقفم
ز آب دیده غسل توبه کردم
مگر خاک کف پای تو گردم
منم در فرقت آن روضه پاک
که بر سر می‌کنم از آرزو خاک
اگر روزی بدان میدان درآیم
چه گویم زین خم چوگان برآیم
به آهی بگسلم بند جهان را
حنوطی سازم از خاک تو جان را
سه حاجت خواهم از درگاه تو من
که هستم سخت حاجت خواه تو من
که پیش از مرگ این دل داده درویش
ببیند روضهٔ پاک تو در پیش
دگر کز شاعرانم نشمری تو
به چشم شاعرانم ننگری تو
دگر چون جانم از تن شد پر آزاد
تو در بر گیریش یا رب چنین باد
دلا جان را فدای راه او کن
به تقوی روی در درگاه او کن
به دنیا دم ز دین پاک او زن
به عقبی دست در فتراک او زن
مثالی گویمت ظاهر بیندیش
کسی راهست جامی پر عسل پیش
اگر طفلی بدو گوید بیارام
که زیر این عسل زهرست در جام
چو از طفل آن سخن دارد شنیده
بلاشک دست از آن دارد کشیده
ترا چندین پیمبر کرده آگاه
که خواهد بود کاری صعب بر راه
بگفت طفل جستی راه پرهیز
بگفت انبیا از راه برخیز
خدایا نور دین هم راه ما کن
محمد را شفاعت خواه ما کن
ز کار ما مگردان خشمناکش
ز ما خشنود گردان جان پاکش
تحیت باد بیش از صد هزاران
برو از حق وزو بر جمع یاران
خصوصاً چار یار پاک گوهر
ابوبکر و عمر، عثمان و حیدر
نبی فرمود کایشانند انجم
بایهم افتدیتم اهدیتم

المقاله الثالثه فی فضیلت اصحابه

نخستین قدوهٔ دار الخلافه
جهان صدق و پور بوقحافه
اساس دین حق بنیاد تحقیق
نیابت دار شاه شرع صدیق
سپهر صدق را خورشید انور
چراغ اولیا صدیق ابوبکر
شریعت را نخستین قره العین
رفیق مصطفی و ثانی اثنین
شراب شرع چون جوشی بجوشید
بامنا و صدقنا بنوشید
نخستین جام حکمت نوش او کرد
ز دست مصطفی سر جوش او خورد
نبی را در امامت پیش رفته
توانگر آمده درویش رفته
چو حق در گوش جان او ندا کرد
هر آنچش بود با دختر فدا کرد
چو درباخت آنچ بودش  زر و سیمی
بساخت ازمال دنیا با گلیمی
زهی بینندگی و پاک بازی
ولیکن نیست صدیقی به بازی
مخالف گو بیا بر خوان و بشناس
ستدعون الی قوم اولی باس
ز اول روز تا روز قیامت
نبی در حق او کرده کرامت
در اول هم دم او در هر اندوه
چه در شهر و چه در غار و چه در کوه
در اوسط نایب خاص نخستین
پیمبر را نیابت کرده در دین
در آخر در بر او خفته در خاک
زهی پیر و مرید و چست وچالاک
سپهر دین عمر خورشید خطاب
چراغ هشت جنت شمع اصحاب
چه شمعی کآفتاب نامبردار
طواف او کند پروانه کردار
ازین پرتو که بود آن شمع دین را
نمی‌شایست جز خلد برین را
اگر او قطب دین حق نبودی
کمال شرع را رونق نبودی
ز بهر سر بریدن سر بداد او
بدان شد تا سرآرد سر نهاد او
چو آهنگ سر شمع هدی کرد
به پیش طای طاها سر فدا کرد
چو چشم جان او اسرار بین شد
شکش برخاست مشکلها یقین شد
شریعت را کمال افزود اول
ز چل مردان یکی او بود اول
رسولش گفت گر بودی دگر کس
نبی جز من نبودی جز عمر کس
خداوند جهان از نور جانش
سخنها گفته بی او بر زفانش
چو حق را حلقهٔ در گوش کرد او
بنامش زهر قاتل نوش کرد او
از آن برخویشتن زهر آزمودی
که صد تریاق فاروقیش بودی
چنان شد ظلم در ایام او گم
که اشکی در میان بحر قلزم
جهان از عدل او آسوده گشته
ستم از بیم او نابوده گشته
عجم را تا قیامت درگشاده
هزار و شصت وشش منبر نهاده
امیر اهل دین استاد قرآن
امیرالمؤمنین عثمان عفان
گزین خواجه کونین بوده
بدامادیش ذوالنورین بوده
اگر حلم و حیا گشتی مصور
ز ذوالنورین بودندی منور
حیا ایمانست یا جزوی ز ایمانست
بهر وجهی که هست از نور عثمانست
نگین حلقهٔ حلم و حیا اوست
سر احرار و تاج اسخیا اوست
چو دیوان الهی با هم انداخت
ز قدمت شمهٔ درعالم انداخت
همه درجمع او مهمان اوییم
همه اجری خور دیوان اوییم
دراول عمر در قرآن حق کرد
در آخر خویشتن قربان حق کرد
ز بس کو خون قرآن خورد از آغاز
مگر زان خورد قرآن خون او باز
رسیده بود پیش صبغه الله
که خونش صبغه الله گشت ناگاه
که کرد آن را ز پی دنیای غدار
ندانم تا که بود آن را روادار
نه میل دنیای غدار کردند
که با مردان دین این کار کردند
یکی را بر سر قرآن بکشته
یکی را در نماز آسان بکشته
یکی را زهر دل از بر فکنده
یکی در کربلابی سر فکنده
ازین بگذر خدا را باش کاصل اوست
دگر سر برنه و در سرکش ای دوست
سوار دین پسر عم پیمبر
شجاع صدر صاحب حوض کوثر
به تن رستم سوار رخش دلدل
بدل غواص دریای توکل
علی القطع افضل ایام او بود
علی الحق حجه الاسلام او بود
منادی سلونی درجهان داد
بیک رمز از دو عالم صد نشان داد
چنین باید نماز ار اهل رازی
که تا باشد نماز تو نمازی
چنان شد در نماز از نور حق جانش
که از پائی برون کردند پیکانش
نمازش چون چنین باشد گزیده
به الحمدش چنان گردد بریده
ز جودش ابر دریا پرتوی بود
به چشمش عالمی پر زر جوی بود
تو ای زر زرد گرد از ناامیدی
تو نیز ای سیم میکن این سپیدی
که چون این سرخ رو سبز ره شد
سپید و زرد بر چشمش سیه شد
زهی صدری که تا بنیاد دین بود
دلش اسرار دان و راه بین بود
ز طفلی تا که خود را پیر کردی
برین دنیای دون تکبیر کردی
چو دنیا آتش و تو شیر بودی
از آن معنی ز دنیا سیر بودی
اگرچه کم نشیند گرسنه شیر
نخوردی نان دنیا یک شکم سیر
از آن جستی به دنیا فقر و فاقه
که دنیا بود پیشت سه طلاقه
الا یا در تعصب جانت رفته
گناه خلق با دیوانت رفته
ز نادانی دلی پر زرق و پر مکر
گرفتار علی گشتی و بوبکر
گهی این یک بود نزد تو مقبول
گهی آن یک شود از کار معزول
گرین یک به گر آن دیگر ترا چه
چو تو چون حلقهٔ بر در ترا چه
همه عمرت درین محنت نشستی
ندانم تا خدا را کی پرستی
ترا چند از هوا راه خدا گیر
خدایت گر ازین پرسد مرا گیر
یقین دانم که فردا پیش حلقه
یکی گردند هفتاد و دو فرقه
چه گویم جمله گر زشت ار نکویند
چو نیکو بنگری جویان اویند
خدایا نفس سرکش را زبون کن
فضولی از دماغ ما برون کن
دل ما را بخود مشغول گردان
تعصب جوی را معزول گردان

المقالة الرابعه

الا ای جان و دل را درد و دارو
تو آن نوری که کم تمسسه نارو
ز روزن‌های مشکاتی مشبک
نشیمن کرده بر شاخی مبارک
تو در مصباح تن مشکوة نوری
ز نزدیکی که هستی دور‌ِ دوری
زجاجه بشکن و زیتت فروریز
به نور کوکب دری درآویز
ترا با مشرق و مغرب چه کارست
که نور آسمان گردت حصار‌ست
الا ای بلبل گویای اسرار
ز صندوق جواهر بند بردار
چو عیسی در سخن شیرین زفان شو
صدف را بشکن و گوهر فشان شو
به آواز خوش خود سر می‌افراز
که در ابریشم و نی هست آواز
خوش آوازی بلبل از تو بیش است
که سرمست خوش آوازی خویش است
ز شِنْوایی خود چندین بمخروش
که بانگی بشنود ده میل خرگوش
ز بینایی مدان این فر و فرهنگ
که گنجشکی ببیند بیست فرسنگ
ز بویایی ناقص نیز کم گوی
که از یک میل موشی بشنود بوی
ز وهم خود مدان خود را تزاید
که آب از وهم خود بنمود هدهد
تو گر بیشی از آن جمله از آنی
که بس گویا و بس پاکیزه دانی
الا ای قطرهٔ بالا گزیده
ز دریای قِدم بویی شنیده
ز دریا گرچه بالایی گزیدی
ولیکن در کمال خود رسیدی
چو از دریا سوی بالا شدی تو
صدف را لؤلؤی لالا شدی تو
تو ناکرده سفر‌، گوهر نگردی
چو خاکستر شدی اخگر نگردی
سفر کردی ز دریا سوی عنصر
سفر ناکرده قطره کی شود دُر‌؟
نخستین قطره باران سفر کرد
و از آن پس قعر دریا پر گهر کرد
به دریا گر گهر پنهان بماند
گهر با خاک ره یکسان بماند
ولی چون گوهر از دریا برآید
ز زیر تشت پر زر با سرآید
چو برگ تود از موضع سفر کرد
ز دیبا و ز اطلس سر به‌در کرد
سفر را گر نه این انجام بودی
فلک را یک نفس آرام بودی
سفر را گر چنین قدری نبودی
مه نو از سفر بدر‌ی نبودی
الا ای نیک یار تند مستیز
دمی زین چارچوب طبع برخیز
به پرواز‌ِ جهان‌ِ لامکان شو
زمانی بی زمین و بی زمان شو
که اندر لازمان صد سال و یک دم
به پیشت هر دو یکسانند با هم
دمی آنجایگه صد سال باشد
ز استقبال و ماضی حال باشد
ولیکن حال نبود در زمانی
از آن معنی که نبود آسمانی
نیابی انقضا‌ی دور دوران
نبینی انقلاب چرخ گردان
چو نور دیده باشد آسمان‌ها
نباشد چون چنین‌ها آنچنان‌ها
نه نقصان باشد آنجا‌، نه کمالی
نه ماضی و نه مستقبل‌، نه حالی
چو هست آن حضرت از هر دو جهان دور
از آنست از زمان و از مکان دور
بود در یک نفس مهدی و آدم
نه آن یک بیش ازین نه این از آن کم
چو حالی این زمین کردی بَدل تو
یکی بینی ابد را با ازل تو
چو آنجا نه چه ونه چند باشد
ازل را با ابد پیوند باشد
یقین دانم که هر دو جز یکی نیست
محقق را درین معنی شکی نیست
الا یا مهره‌باز‌ِ حقه‌پرداز
نقاب از لعبت‌ِ معنی برانداز
مشعبد‌وار چابک دستی‌یی کن
شرابی درکش و بدمستی‌یی کن
به (؟ز‌) خاک آینهٔ جانْ پاک بزدای
تهی کن حقه را و پاک بنمای
ز بند‌ِ پیچ بر پیچ‌ِ زمانه
گرفتار آمدی در کنج‌ِ خانه
اگر تو روی بنمایی ز پرده
بسوزی هفت چرخ سال خورده
تو گنجی نُه سپهر‌ت درمیانه
برآی از چار دیوار زمانه
طلسم و بند نیز نجات بشکن
در و دهلیز موجودات بشکن
تو گنجی لیک در بند طلسمی
تو جانی لیک در زندان جسمی
ازین زندان دنیا رخت برگیر
به کلی دل ز بند سخت برگیر
میان پارگین و آز ماندی
نمی‌دانی که از چه باز ماندی
تو معذوری که آگاهی نداری
که اینجا آنچ می‌خواهی نداری
چو از حق برگ رندان می‌نیابی
عجب نبود اگر آن می‌نیابی
الا یا مرغ حکمت دان زمانی
چه خواهی یافت زین به آشیانی
به پرواز معانی باز کن پر
سرای هفت در را باز کن در
چو بگذشتی ز چار و نُه به پرواز
ز خود بگذر به حق کن چشم خود باز
چرا مغرور جای دیو گشتی
تو دیوانه شدی کالیو گشتی
چو میدانی که می‌باید شدن زود
نه خواهد نیز روی آمدن بود
چه خواهی کرد جای مکر و تلبیس‌؟
ز دنیا بگذر و بگذار ابلیس
بدان که‌اقطاع ابلیس است دنیا
سرای مکر و تلبیس است دنیا
سرای او بدو ده باز رفتی
نظر بر پیشگاه انداز و رفتی
چو نیست ابلیس را با جای تو کار
تو نیز از جای او بگذر به هنجار
چو زین گلخن بدان گلشن رسیدی
همان انگار که‌این گلخن ندیدی
نخستین در جهان قدس بخرام
وزآن پس در جهان انس نِه گام
چو بر استبرق خضرا نشینی
تو باشی جمله و خود را نبینی
چو بگذشتی ز چندان پرده و دام
به یک چندی شوی هادی بر آن بام
شود چشمت به خورشید جهان باز
شود بر تو در دریای جان باز
چو تو هادی شدی در خود نگه کن
بدان خود را و قصد بارگه کن
که چون خود‌دان شوی حق‌دان شوی تو
از آن پس زود در پیشان شوی تو
اگر هستی حجابی پیشت آرد
از آن حالت دمی با خویشت آرد
چو هستی تو ننماید بر‌ِ او
ز خود بی‌خود بمانی بر در او
دگر ره پرده‌ای در پیش آید
خودی در بی خودی با خویش آید
چو آگه شد‌، شود لذت پدیدار
ز شادی در خروش آید دگر بار
چو پروانه بر آتش می‌زند خویش
که تا هستی او برخیزد از پیش
چو برخیزد حجاب هستی او
دگر ره قوت آرد مستی او
گهی افتان گهی خیزان بماند
گهی بی‌جان گهی با جان بماند
گهی در لذتی گه در فنا‌یی
گهی در فرقتی گه در بقایی
بگویم این سخن سرباز با تو
که گه غم چیست گاهی ناز با تو
قدم را با حدوث آویزشی نیست
وگر آویزش‌ست آمیزشی نیست
کنون ای آفتاب سایه پرورد
که گفتت کز کنار دایه برگرد‌؟
چو تو در عالم حادث شتابی
ز نور عالم ثالث چه یابی‌؟
الا ای مرغ بیرون آی ازین دام
دمی در مرغزار خلد بخرام
چو هستی بر دل اسرار گشته
ز شاخ عشق برخوردار گشته
بگردان روی از دیوار آخر
فرو شو در پی اسرار آخر
همی هر ذره از عالم که بینی
اگر تو در پی آن می‌نشینی
چنان پیدا شود آن ذره در راه
که نوری گردد از انوار درگاه
شود هر ذره‌ای چون آفتابی
پدید آید حجابی از حجابی
برون می‌آید از اَستار اسرار
رهی دور و نهایت ناپدیدار
نه هرگز هیچ کس پیشانش یابد
نه هرگز غایت و پایانش یابد
چنین گفته‌ست طاهر پاکباز‌ی
که من چل سال ماندم در نیازی
ز یک یک ذره سوی دوست راه است
ولی بر چشم تو عالم سیاه است
نهادت پرده و دادت بسی هیل
که تا نا‌اهل پیدا آید از اهل
تو گر اهلیتی داری درین راه
ز یک یک ذره می شو تا به درگاه
ز پیشان گر نظر بر تو نبودی
ز سوی تو سفر بر تو نبودی
ولی چون نور پیشان رهبر تست
چرا این کاهلی در جوهر تست‌؟
ببین آخر اگر داری حضور‌ی
که هر دم می‌رسد از یار نوری
ز تو گر یار گیرد یک نظر باز
به دیناری نبابی هیچ زنار
اگر روشن کنی آیینهٔ دل
دری بگشایدت در سینه دل
دری کان در چو بر دلبر گشاید
فلک را پرده داری برنشاید
تو را سه چیز می‌باید ز کونین
بدانستن عمل کردن شدن عین
چو علمت از عبادت بین گردد
دلت آیینه کونین گردد

Section V — المقاله الخامسه

دلا یک دم رها کن آب و گل را
صلای عشق در ده اهل دل را
ز نور عشق شمع جان برافروز
زبور عشق از جانان درآموز
چو زیر از عشق رمز راز می‌گوی
چو بلبل بی زبان اسرار می‌گوی
چو داود آیت سرگشتگان خوان
زبور عشق بر آشفتگان خوان
حدیث عشق ورد عاشقان ساز
دل و جان در هوای عاشقان باز
چو عود از عشق بر آتش همی سوز
چو شمعی می‌گری و خوش همی سوز
شراب عشق در جام خرد ریز
وز آنجا جرعهٔ بر جان خود ریز
خرد چون مست شد نیزش مده صاف
بگوشش باز نه تا کم زند لاف
چوعشق آمد خرد را میل درکش
بداغ عشق خود را نیل درکش
خرد آبست و عشق آتش بصورت
نسازد آب با آتش ضرورت
خرد جز ظاهر دو جهان نه بیند
ولیکن عشق جز جانان نه بیند
خرد گنجشک دام ناتمامیست
ولیکن عشق سیمرغ معانیست
خرد دیباچه دیوان راغست
ولیکن عشق دری شب چراغ است
خرد نقد سرای کایناتست
ولیکن عشق اکسیر حیاتست
خرد زاهد نمای هر حوالیست
ولیکن عشق شنگی لا ابالیست
خرد بر دل دلی پر انتظارست
ولیکن عشق در پیشان کار است
خرد را خرقه تکلیف پوشند
ولیکن عشق را تشریف پوشند
خرد راه سخن آموز خواهد
ولی عشق آه جان افروز خواهد
خرد جان پرور جان ساز آمد
ولی عشق آتش جان باز آمد
خرد طفل است و عشق استاد کار است
از این تا آن تفاوت بی شمار است
دو آیینه است عشق و دل مقابل
که هر دو روی در روی‌اند از اول
میان هر دو یک پرده ست در پیش
ولیکن نیست بی پرده یکی بیش
ببین صورت در آبی بی کدورت
که یک چیزست با هم آب و صورت
ز دل تا عشق راهی نیست دشوار
میان عشق و دل موییست مقدار
جهان عشق دریاییست بی بن
وگر موییست بر روید ز ناخن
چو آید لشگر عشق از کمین گاه
نماند عقل را از هیچ سو راه
گریزان گردد از هر سوی ناکام
چو عشق از در درآید عقل از بام
کسی کز عشق در دریای ژرفست
بداند کین چه کاری بس شگرفست
فتوح راه عاشق دار بازیست
تو پنداری مگر کین عشق بازیست
عجایب جوهریست این عالم عشق
که می‌گوید عرض باشد غم عشق
که دیدست این عرض هرگز به کونین
کزو یک عقل لایبقی زمانین
جهان پر شحنه سلطان عشق است
ز ماهی تا به ماه ایوان عشق است
نشاید عشق را هر ناتوانی
بباید کاملی و کاردانی
شگرفی باید و پاکیزه بازی
که آید از هر اندوهیش نازی
درین دریای خون غرقه گشته
جهان بی دوست بر وی حلقه گشته
هزاران جام در زهر اوفتاده
در آشامیده و ابرو گشاده
هزاران تیر محکم خورده بر دل
چو آهو می‌دود دو پای در گل
نه او را زهره فریاد کردن
نه ازجانان مجال یاد کردن
اگر از وصل او یابد نشانی
به هجران در گریزد هر زمانی
که دارد تاب قرب وصل جانان
چه سنجد شبنمی در پیش طوفان
در آن دریا چنین قطره چه سنجد
بر آن خورشید یک ذره چه سنجد
بسی جانها در این یغما ببردند
بکلی جان ما از ما ببردند
به زیر پرده جانها آب کردند
تن اندر خاک و خون پرتاب کردند
به تنها راه بر جانها گرفتند
به جانها ترک دورانها گرفتند
جهانی گنج در چاهی نهادند
جهانی کوه بر کاهی نهادند
زمین و آسمان را در گشادند
در ایثار جانها بر گشادند
زمین و آسمان محسوس کردند
جهان جاودان مدروس کردند
ز تن راهی به دل بردند ناگاه
ز دل راهی بجان آنگه به درگاه
اساس چیزها بر هم نهادند
وز آن پس نام آن عالم نهادند
چو شد پرداخته چیزی گزیدند
که آنرا عشق گفتند و شنیدند
ترا این عشق آسان می‌نماید
که بر قدر تو چندان می‌نماید
علاج عشق اشک و صبر باید
گل ارچه تازه باشد ابر باید
خوشی عاشقان از اشک و صبرست
همه سرسبزی بستان ز ابرست
اگر عاشق نماندی در جدایی
نبودی عشق را هرگز روایی
اگر معشوق آسان دست دادی
کجا این لذت پیوست دادی
اگر در عشق نبود انتظاری
نماند رونق معشوق باری
دمی در انتظار همدم دل
بسی خوشتر بود از ملک حاصل
جوی اندوه عشق یار محرم
بسی خوشتر ز شادی دو عالم
دو عالم سایهٔ خورشید عشق است
دو گیتی حضرت جاوید عشق است
نگردد ذرهٔ در هر دو عالم
که تا نبود کمال عشق محرم
به دست حکمت خود حق تعالی
نهاد از بهر هر چیزی کمالی
نبات و معدن و حیوان و افلاک
میان باد و آب و آتش خاک
همه در عشق می‌گردند از حال
چه در وقت و چه در ماه و چه در سال
کمال عشق حیوان خورد و شهوت
کمال عشق انسان جاه و قوت
کمال چرخ از رفتن به فرمان
کمال چار گوهر چار ارکان
کمال هر یک اقطاعیست در خور
کزان اقطاع ننهد پای بر در
کمال ذره ذره ذکر و تسبیح
که عارف بشنود یک یک بتصریح
کمال عارفان در نیستی هست
کمال عاشقان در نیستی مست
کمال انبیا جایی که جا نیست
که گر کس داند آن جز حق روا نیست
کمال قدسیان در قربت عشق
کمال عشق هم در رتبت عشق
ز اول تا به آخر پیچ بر پیچ
کمالی گر نبودی هیچ بر هیچ
کمالی گر نباشد پس چه دانند
ز بی شوقی همه حیران بمانند
طلب جستن کمال آمد درین راه
دل دانا بود زین راز آگاه
زسر تا بن چو زنجیریست یکسر
رهی نزدیک دان زان یک به دیگر
سر زنجیر در دست خداوند
تعجب کن ببین کین چند در چند
ز اعلا سوی اسفل می‌رود کار
زهی قدرت زهی صنع جهاندار
فرود آید چنانکش کار کارست
بگرداند چنانکش اختیارست
بلاشک اختیار اوست اعظم
که نبود علتی در ما تقدم
خداوندی که هرچیزی که او کرد
ترا گر نیست نیکو او نکو کرد
همه آفاق در عشق اند پویان
درین وادی کمال عشق جویان
چو کس را نیست در دل شوق آن عشق
کجا یابند هرگز ذوق آن عشق
فلک در عشق دل چون تیر دارد
وز آن دیوانگی زنجیر دارد
ملایک بسته زنجیری در افلاک
از آن زنجیر می‌گردند بر خاک
فرو می‌آید از حضرت خطابی
فلک را می‌نماید انقلابی
چو دیگر ناید از حضرت خطابش
نه او ماند نه دور و انقلابش
الا ای صوفی پیروزه خرقه
به گردش خوش همی گردی به حلقه
زهی حالت نگر از عشق پیوست
که تا روز قیامت گردشت هست
کمال عشق را شایستهٔ تو
شدن زین بند نتوانستهٔ تو
چو ما این بند مشکل برگشاییم
بر قاضی به ادرگاه تو آییم
به قوال افکنیم این خرقه خویش
نگین گردیم اندر حلقهء خویش
ورای بحر تو غواص گردیم
تو عامی باشی و ما خاص گردیم
وز آنجا هم به سوی فوق تازیم
گهی زان شوق و گه زان ذوق تازیم
در آن دریا به غواصی درآییم
وز آن شادی بر قاضی درآییم
همی آییم دم دم همچو اکنون
بهر پرده چو مار از پوست بیرون
ترا گر فسحتی باید ز عقبی
تفکر کن دمی در سر دنیا
نه در دنیا در اول خون بدی تو
در آخر بین که زینجا چون شدی تو
گهی آب و گهی خون و گهی شیر
گهی کودک گهی برنا گهی پیر
گهی سلطان دین گه پیر خمار
گهی مردار می گه پیر اسرار
هزاران پرده در دنیا گذشتی
که تا از صورت و معنی بگشتی
درآن وادی که آنرا عشق نامست
مثالت پردهٔ دنیا تمامست
که داند کین چه اسرار نهانست
سخن نیست این که نور عقل جانست
اگر چشم دلت گردد بدین باز
برون گیرد ز یک یک ذره صد راز
همه ذرات عالم را درین کوی
نه بیند یک نفس جز در روش روی
همه در گردش‌اند و در روش هست
تو بی چشمی و در تو این روش هست
الا ای بی‌خبر از عشق بازی
تو پنداری که هست این عشق بازی
ترا چون نیست نقدی درخور دوست
که آن را رونقی باشد بر دوست
ازو می‌خواه تا دریا بباشی
هم اندر خویش نابینا بباشی
دلت در عشق بحری کن پر اسرار
همه قعرش جواهر موجش انوار
که تا چون رفتی آن بحر معانی
براه آورد بر راهش فشانی
چنین دریا کن آن ره را نثاری
که تا نبود در این راهت غباری
اگر جانت نثار راه او شد
دو عالم در نثار تو فرو شد
رکویی زی نظام آورد آن پیر
که پر زر کن مکن زنهار تقصیر
نظامش گفت این رکوه بزرگست
که در من می‌فتد گویی که گرگست
ندارد گفت سودت پر زرش کن
مکن نیمه ولیکن تا سرش کن
گشادند آن دم از درجی یکی در
که تا در رکوه کردند اندکی زر
نه آن رکوه تهی بستد نه شد دور
سته در دست او درمانده دستور
به ده بار دگر زر کرد بیشش
چو رکوه پر نبد می‌بود پیشش
به آخر رکوه پر زر کرد او را
ز پیش خود فراتر کرد او را
چو صوفی زر ستد در حالت افتاد
به نزدیک نظام آمد باستاد
نثارش کرد بر سر رکوه زر
چو شد رکوه تهی افکند بر در
بدو گفتا نشستم روزگاری
که تا فرق ترا آرم نثاری
چو اندر خورد تو چیزی ندیدم
ز تو بر تو فشاندم وارهیدم
ز تو زر هم برای تو پذیرم
ز تو گیرم زر و بر تو نگیرم
عزیزا چون تو نقد آن نداری
که سلطان را نثاری درخور آری
ز حق می‌خواه جانت را معانی
که تا هرچت دهد بر وی فشانی
چه دولت بیش از آن دانی گدا را
که جانی برفشاند پادشا را
منم در عشق، سرگردان بمانده
ز خود بی خود شده حیران بمانده
میان خواب و بیداریم حالیست
که جانم را در آن حد کمالیست
اگر آن دم نبودی حاصل من
تهی کردی از آن دم، دم دل من
دلم را از جهان لذت جز آن نیست
چه می‌گویم که آن دم از جهان نیست
کسی کاو نیست عاشق آدمی نیست
که او را با چنان همدم دمی نیست
اگر در اصل کار آن دم نبودی
وجود آدم و عالم نبودی
دمی کآن از سر عشق است جان را
بدان دم زندگی دانم جهان را
زهی عطار در اسرار راندن
مسلم شد ترا گوهر فشاندن
عنان را باز کش از راه اسرار
که ره دورست و مرکب نیست رهوار