Second Opening: In Praise of the Prophet

Before the palace of your power, this blue dome of the sky has bowed its head low like a violet, ashamed of its own ugliness. This vaulted, ornamented arch has bent its back so it can kiss your threshold like a humble servant. There is no room for you in this six sided hut of the six directions; your essence is a pearl that belongs to another ocean. The sky is full of holes, always, just like my heart, longing for your worthy gathering to be its incense burner. Everything would be hard and barren if your pure being were not at the center; you made the origin its origin and the source its source. The sand of your desert gives water to the pearls of Eden; the thorn on your road collects tribute from the freshest rose petals. Before your hand the sea holds its breath like a whirlpool; before your generosity the cloud weeps from shame at being outdone. Your pure body casts no shadow, because your shadow itself is brighter than the eastern candle's light. When your foot grazes the crown of the heavens, the dust of your feet becomes a crown on the sky's head forever. The splitting of the moon was the work of a single finger of your miracle; tearing open the heavens was just a glimpse of your ascension. If the ignorant think tearing the sky impossible, what does it matter? A true miracle must accomplish the impossible. I prove this matter correctly with reasoning, so no one imagines it is mere poetic fancy. To suppose it is essentially impossible is pure ignorance here; if you look closely, tearing is easier than creating from nothing. Breaking a habit is one thing, but a miracle is the very breaking of the natural order; how could one claim prophethood without overturning nature? In philosophy, yes, breaking the outermost boundary is impossible; but count nothing the limiter except the surface of the highest sphere. On the night of ascension no one spoke of anything beyond that highest sphere; I know this from the traditions about that night. O Messenger of God, best of the messengers, seal of the prophets, you whose praise leaves even the free intellect bewildered. I describe your glory only to the measure of my own understanding, though I know your worth is far beyond the reach of any knowledge. I am one of the servants in the circle of your service, though I have my failings in this servitude. Though my sins are beyond count, in the reckoning before your forgiveness they are a blade of straw before a roaring storm wind. I can no longer bear this distance from your court; though I am unworthy, you have the power to draw me near. I love your household and your pure family; I know no other fit for mastery and leadership. As long as your pure family are my leaders and masters, God forbid I should accept serving anyone else. Anyone who boasts of faith without love for your family is, to me, no different from a faithless enemy. You boast of love and longing, Fayyaz, and then talk of patience and restraint? If you truly love the household, weep tears of blood from grief. Where is loving while staying calm and far from the beloved? For lovers, patience away from the beloved is faithlessness. A lover's share is dry lips and wet eyes; until the lover's hand loses patience, it should be tearing his collar. May my restless hand never fall short of clutching my heart's collar; may my eyes never go a moment without tears in this love.