English
In Praise of Imam Zayn al-Abidin
Thanks be to God, I have no business with the turning sky;
not a speck of dust from either world clouds my heart.
I am the free spirit who has set foot upon the world;
no grief of the heavens, no sorrow of the age, weighs on my heart.
With a noble nature I need neither high nor low;
in my temper, heaven and earth are worth nothing at all.
This is pride enough for me in all the world:
I turn my face in need to no door but God's.
Except the door of need, which is the absolute threshold,
my heart hopes for nothing from any other door.
Let whoever is my enemy die of envy;
this is God's gift to me, and there is no escaping it.
Let the wheel of fate carry off my very bones;
my nature is that of the phoenix, not something base and wretched.
What does the sun's display do to one like me?
Even rubies are no cure that I have need of.
Sky, do not grow more haughty with me than this;
even your worn old canopy will not last.
I am a jewel nobler than the sphere and the elements;
my essence is not made of these seven heavens and four elements.
The garment of detachment suits my body best;
this cloak of brute matter holds no value for me.
I am the very form itself; what use is raw matter?
It is only a curtain hung before my form.
I am so full of the world's ways that, it seems,
the world to me is nothing but a house full of snakes.
In the exile of existence I have grown this worn and broken;
otherwise no one is wretched in his own homeland.
The prison of the body has made my being wretched and worn;
look closely, and there is no one like me in this land.
Do not see me as lowly: the honor of love crowns my head;
whoever love has ennobled is never base.
The fear and hope of love have split my heart in two;
for this throne of heaven has no earring but my heart.
From nothingness I have arrived at the form of being;
a pity this fine secret is not clear to everyone.
Take the minted coin of your own existence from love;
this counterfeit coin of yours has no worth.
Your existence is base, false silver; cast it from you;
here only the coin of non-being has any value.
Do not set your heart on the world, for this raging flood
leaves no crossing except by passing beyond your own life.
Speak little of the earth, do not boast of the heavens;
motion is at its peak and stillness has no permanence.
This one is dust already settled, that one dust still rising;
from dust and grime you gain nothing but darkness.
In the alley of becoming nothing rises but dust;
the whole world is dust, yet there is not a single rider.
Though no one in the world is truly idle,
I walked among the work and found not one true worker.
The fool, even light as a breeze, is a burden on the mind;
the wise man, even as heavy as a mountain, is no burden at all.
Let go of the world's heights and depths, for a flood
finds no fixed place among high ground or low.
Let go of long ambition and sit still, for this striving
is a shoreless sea that has no edge at all.
In the end, except the firm rope of the Friend's good pleasure,
whatever the hand of ambition grasps gives no firm hold.
Through humility I have reached the place of heights;
my ascent has no foothold but my own lowliness.
How can I give thanks that, for so many reasons,
you are ashamed of me, while I feel no shame toward you?
Sitting in blood, I thank my grief and sorrow;
my heart is torn to shreds like a flower, yet there is nothing to do but smile.
Scar upon scar sits in my heart like tulip after tulip,
yet, unlike the tulip, my heart's wound is not on show.
Not a single hair's breadth of my heart is without love's brand,
yet not a hair of it is scarred by the turning sky.
We are without bread or water; how could fate ever brand us?
The piece of my heart is no stranger to the blood of grief.
Every atom trembles with longing for the divine;
in the prison-city of love, even the earth finds no rest.
If I speak less of the heavens, it sits better in the heart,
for to reason, no word is ever cheap or pitiful.
Whatever I turn my eyes from, I find sweeter to leave,
except one threshold whose builder is not mere time.
The court of the king of both worlds, so exalted
that if the sky comes uninvited, it gains no entry there.
That king of the realm of faith, so high in rank
that the sun cannot pass over the summit of his glory.
The prince of earth and time, Zayn al-Abidin,
a king the like of whom this age has never seen.
Faith is his keepsake, as he is the keepsake of faith,
for the Family of the Prophet has no remembrance but him.
If anyone were to count the servants of his court,
none stands outside it except God the Lord himself.
His obeyed command runs so absolute and effective
that such authority belongs only to the Lord besides him.
Armies of intellects take grace from his sign;
the host of souls has no counselor but him.
The stars borrow their light from the radiance of his mind;
the heavens have no axis to turn on but his door.
On any ground his thought makes luminous,
no dense, dark thing casts a shadow ever again.
In his court, of which the world is but a shadow,
the nine heavens are no more than a single curtain, like one tray.
The whole world goes on foot before him;
in all creation there is no rider but him.
Victorious in the war against the lower self,
no one fights that battle so skillfully as he.
The cry of the greatest triumph belongs to his name;
no one stands so firm in conquering himself as he.
The whole world is his servant and he is king, yet
a king whose only work is servanthood to God.
If the dust of his feet sends up its scent on a breeze,
garden and meadow need no spring wind at all.
Wherever his nature breathes its amber-scented air,
there is no need to seek out the musk of Tatary.
On any soil where his presence casts its shadow,
winter holds no quarrel with the flowers and the green.
A garden he passes by in bloom
leaves no knot of grief in the bud upon any branch.
In all four seasons, even the thorn on his path is not without a share;
if it bears no flower, it is at least bound in bud.
Every tulip that watches the dust of his road with its eye
feels no wounded longing burning in its heart.
In any climate his dewdrop is a gift of his grace,
if a tulip breathes out flame, it bears no scar of pain.
In the age when the dust of his path is balm for the eye,
the narcissus no longer hopes for the gift of sight.
In a heart where the flame of his love raises its banner,
the rose finds no thorn pricking it, only the freshness of the meadow.
Without his love, even if the heart is a blooming rosebud,
it is nothing but an arrow's barb meant to pierce the chest.
Wherever the shadow of his generous hand falls,
the spring cloud yields nothing but darkness in comparison.
Before the dripping of the cloud of his giving hand,
even a pearl, like a drop of water, holds no luster.
If anyone dares test the ocean against him,
in the sea of his hand all things count for nothing.
However restlessly it runs in every direction like a wave,
to eternity no path of its own ever leaves his shore behind.
Beside the sea of his hand the ocean is but a fleck of foam,
and the cloud, born of his bounty's vapor, is only vapor.
In the age of his giving, except in the eye of his foe,
a treasure is worth no more than a handful of dust, dust on its head.
When the moon of his knowledge rises from the horizon of his heart,
the land of ignorance has no fear of dark nights.
Except his heart, which holds the infinite of knowledge,
there is no place that can wall in the infinite.
The mountain's steadiness cannot match the shadow of his forbearance;
beside his dignity, the mass of earth is mere dust on his road.
If the heavens so much as imagine his justice, out of fear
they would no longer wage war against the broken-hearted.
His justice has so demanded purity that for all eternity
no dust of dimness can cloud the mirror.
His kindness has so softened the temper of all
that amid colors and breaking there is no discord left.
Since the hue of harmony has been poured among opposites,
hope never flees the lover's mind.
I am lost in wonder at the high resolve of his court,
which does not stoop even to be compared to the heavens.
In his presence Time stands on one foot at attention;
in his service the sky cannot hold steady for a single breath.
One day Destiny complained to Fate and said:
While the king's command holds, I have nothing to do.
Fate cried out at it in anger and said:
O simple one, even this is not clear to you.
Do you know who this is, his rank and his state?
No one in the world equals him in power.
Were it not for his existence, this whole workshop of creation
would hold no worth before God, the Mighty and Glorious.
In short, he is the very purpose of the world's making;
in existence he is not, like you and me, mere filler.
I mean he is the grandson of the Prophet, the guardian;
without his love the world's foundation does not stand firm.
Bow your head in consent, following his way,
for this is nothing other than the consent of the Lord himself.
Otherwise it is between you and the king's wrath,
and should something befall you, no one can help.
A king whose being is the very workshop of power,
to quarrel with him is to wage war with God.
How could I soil my speech with talk of his enemy?
The parrot of my eloquent nature does not feed on carrion.
How could anyone lend an ear to talk of his foe!
This highway of hearing is no hole for a snake.
O king, I am the one whose nature, scented like ambergris,
draws its essence from nothing but the fragrant dust of your door.
Your love has caught fire in my whole being,
so that my heart is nothing but sparks from its flame.
My heart is bright from the smokeless flame of your love,
for this flame is made entirely of light, not fire.
What place have I, and what place has praise of you?
In the sea of your praise the mind finds no foothold.
Your description lies beyond the workshop of imagination;
such fine cloth is not woven from this warp and weft.
Yet I am glad of this, comfort that swells the heart:
beyond the thought of serving you I have no work at all.
Nothing keeps me company but talk of your love;
the lover's only comfort is the word of his beloved.
The unkindness of fate drove my heart away from itself,
a mercy I can hope for from no one but your grace.
Since your kindness has become the guarantor of your friends' tomorrow,
today there is no fear of the cruelty of the age.
I know that, except for acting against your will, on Judgment Day
there is no barrier in the path of the Lord's mercy.
As long as the sun pours light upon the age,
and the age has no rest but in its hurried turning,
may your love keep the heart of your friend radiant with light,
and your enemy as restless as one who has no dignity.
The dust of your road is the polish of Fayyaz's eye,
so that from the heavens nothing settles on its mirror but specks of dust.