Masnavis

In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful: it is a young sapling from the garden of the Wise One. The proud palm tree of the garden of holiness, the standout line in the great book of the sacred. With the alef of the divine alphabet it stands as God's tablet, guiding the child of reason toward reason. What is the alef? The root of every letter, a single drop of water that fills countless vessels. What is the alef? Pure being without name or trace; all else is just a name, whether soul or body. To one who knows its worth, the alef shows that the shape of every letter is merely the alef's clothing. Every letter was born from repeating the alef; whatever was born of it returns to it in the end. Look toward the alef in its undetermined state; see that every determined form has no foundation of its own. Distinction is nothing but a matter of perspective; in the undetermined, one and a thousand are the same. Strip even the drawn shape of the alef away from the alef; blind the eyes of the shallow-sighted. The drawn form is a stain upon the true alef; clothing is only an ornament for the blind of heart. When the eye's capacity grew too narrow, colorless being appeared in a hundred colors. If you cleanse your eye of its inflammation, you will see one single form where there seemed a hundred. Once the secret of the alef is laid bare, strand by strand, seek out the bond between Bismillah and the Quran. All that is in the Quran is nothing but Him; that is all shell, this alone is the pearl. Every chapter and verse within the Quran is the one Unity flowing through multiplicity. The whole of the Quran is gathered in Bismillah; not just Bismillah, but the very seal-spell of God. You reach the named only through the name; be a true man if you would break this spell. If you become aware of what Bismillah means, you become like the sun, giving the moon its provision. If you fill your eyes with this collyrium, you will rise above everything you can imagine. But this is not within the reach of mere desire; stop chasing profit, this is pure madness. Who has carried off the longed-for pearl from this sea? Who has died satisfied at the edge of this spring? Love draws only a little dew from this garden; reason too drags itself a single step behind. In this meadow this rose lights up the whole garden; at this spring the parched lip still burns with thirst. Only the one whose own rose no one picked has gathered the rose; only the one who saw before all others reached the goal. If you take refuge in the Named One, you become a master in the art of this name. The name cannot be unveiled except through the Named; only divine power can break this spell. He of whom the entire world is but a name, the treasure of both worlds is held within His spell. He brings into being all that is outer and inner, a being beyond both absolute freedom and determined form. The rare architect of the mansion of existence, the farmer of the field of generosity. He lines the dark, languid, longing eye with kohl, dyes the garments of the garden's children. He gives the rose its beautiful coloring, tailors the lofty robe of the rose. He paints the angry, coquettish eyebrow with indigo, and sprinkles dust on the head and face of supplication. He gives splendor to the graceful stature of the cypress, and kindles the flame in the grieving heart of the pheasant. He lines beauty's seductive narcissus eye with kohl, and sets the disheveled lock of beauty curling. The display-seller at the head of love's bazaar, the one who draws the circle with love's compass. He lights a lamp inside the shrine of the bud, and sets a scarred candle in the tulip's basin. He nurtures the body of dust with a soul, and tends the garden of the body with flowing water. Who gave the breeze its soul a body of flowers? Who gave the moving candle the basin of a body? Who made the secret of the waist appear? Who revealed the mystery of the mouth? Who created the quarrel in the coquettish glance? Who made the mechanism of laughter so narrow? Who gave the soul its savor through speech? Who gave a smile its intoxicating rapture? Who makes the locks of the lovely heart-stealing? Who lines the dark eye with kohl? Who steals the heart with a sidelong glance? Who stirs the lovely ones' temper into anger? Who hands the spiteful eyebrow its battle-sword? Who makes the child-like glance so playful and bold? Who raises the house of the rose from water? Who pitches the tent of heaven without ropes? Who can pull the ear of the sky? Who can cut the navel-cord of the earth? Who turns the April raindrop into a flawless pearl? Who dyes the fingers of coral red? With a single twitch of His spiteful eyebrow He set off the trembling earthquake of the planet's body. Wondrously, from sleight and color, He blended the sweetness of peace into the bitterness of war. The plain of eternity-past is entirely His arena; the realm of eternity-to-come is His field of play. He is the polisher of the mirror of every breast, the one whose reflection the mirrors display.

Come, cupbearer, set out the wine; open the seal of the jar in God's name. The God from whom the turning heavens come, from whom the earth of the body and the seed of the soul arise. The wise One who set the heavens spinning, and poured the wine of the soul into the jar of the body. From Him the earth and time are fresh and fine; from Him comes the oil that lights the lamp of reason. He shapes the flask, the cup, the pitcher; the clay of the jar and the clay of the goblet are His making. He raises the vine from the garden; He kindles the bright wine to its glow. He draws the lamp of wine out of the vine; He raises such fire out of mere dust. He grants a soul to a fistful of clay; to dust He gives the cup that shows the whole world. If plain and desert exist, all are His garden; if tulip and rose bloom, all bear His mark. Before His face, candle and moth are the same; in His lane, mosque and tavern are the same. In the name of such a Powerful One who needs nothing, who finds the cure for every door shut to remedy: Come, throw open the tavern's lock; call the world to come and drink the wine. Come, before the uproar begins, before dawn breaks open over the face of night. Lift your head from sleep, light as a flower; the flask is sleeping, wake it up. Tell the goblet to make its ablutions; wash the eye and the rim of the cup with wine. Don't sleep, the sun is rising; the flask's prayer time will be missed. Your companions lie scattered everywhere, restless from the pain of last night's hangover. Through love of you they have stayed bound to this lane; on your kindness they have pinned their hopes. Pass a cup of wine into every hand; bring these thirsty ones to water. First give it to me, so I may drink it down, and reciting my prayers, drain it to the dregs. My God, by my unavoidable shortcomings, by my nearness to You and my distance: By the patience that brings an ache to the heart, by the ache that stays unspoken in the heart: By that grief-nursing, pain-born heart that turned to blood yet showed no color outside: By the hand stretched out toward the goblet, by the eye fixed open on the cupbearer's face: By the stature the wine-flask has raised, by the hand that has lifted the measuring cup: By the pure conviction of the wine's surge, that has spread its prayer rug on the surface of the water: By the foot that kneaded the clay of the pitcher, by the soil that nourished the gourd seed: By the gardener who tended the soil, by the water the vine drank from his hand: By the drunkard who caught the wine's scent, by the shoulder that carried the weight of a pitcher: By the carefree wanderer whose mind the wine carries off, by the drunk men carry home on their shoulders along the road: By the self-restraint of the pious ascetic, by the carefree ways of the wine-cup rogue; by a discipline whose freedom is no shame, by a piety that does not war with joy; by the clear minds of the drunken wine-lovers, by the tumbling collapse of those wholly drunk; by the hopes of elders whose hearts have hardened, by the dreams of young men born to luck; by a back bent double from the weakness of age, by a leg that leans upon a cane; by the helplessness of lust-driven youths, by the patience of rivals who have lost their hands and feet; by the foot of the greedy man gone numb, by the hand of the generous man left penniless; by the shyness the lover feels before the beloved, by the rapture so fierce the blood can hardly stay in the skin; by the curls the lover loosens knot by knot, by the face the mystic gazes on; by those who dwell in the desert of nothingness, by those who keep solitude in the realm of eternity; by those who have lost their way in the city of being, by those who, in the gathering of witness, do not know themselves: warm my heart with the cup of oneness, and soften this iron of mine in that fire. A hard heart in love is wretched, ill-fated; in this furnace melt me like wax. Work upon my copper with this alchemy, free me from every grief, make me pure as gold. Temper me like a blade with a single stretch, then give me water from the spring of fire. Polish away my rust like a dagger, then let my true essence show. Make my heart single-faced like a mirror, turn my face from this side toward that. I have come to you with a face full of error, denying all I have ever done. For I have done the unforgivable wrongs, I have committed faults beyond all measure. Youth, drunkenness, love, and madness weaken reason and inflame desire. Reason is humble, desire rebellious; madness and lust are cotton and fire. To flee from you because of my sins is wrong; but to flee from you into you is right. Though distance is the only trade I practice, you are near, so there is no need to worry. You know; what need have we to speak? Our hope in your grace is our excuse for failing. Though our rebellion springs from drunkenness, our soul cannot get along with sober reason. In sobriety, between speech and silence, we found nothing but the same loss of sense. Better, then, that we play openly, and flee once more from drunkenness into drunkenness. Cupbearer, give that wine the color of light, whose radiance wipes the rust from the face of light. Cupbearer, give that light from the eternal cup, that lifts the rust of grief from the mirror of the heart. Give that bitter, riot-rousing wine, now from the cup's clear top, now from the dregs of the jar. Give me that wine which sets the heart's blood boiling, and makes every hair on the body cry out. A wine hotter than blood, fluid like the spirit; a fire both warm and flowing, like the soul itself. A wine warmer than blood in its nature, agreeing with every temperament the way the soul does. To keep the body well, this tulip-red wine is as necessary in every frame as blood. A wine whose tavern is the heavens, and in that cup the sun is the measuring glass. From every brick of this wine's tavern, the very light of the sun shines clear. If this wine showed itself through the glass, the bowl of the sky would tumble from its wheel. And if this wine were stripped bare of its garment, judge by it the pain a shirt feels on the body. A wine that cures the affliction of reason, a remedy for every wretched disease. A wine that sets the mind ablaze and lights the lamp of longing within the head. It comes out of the glass with such majesty that meaning itself springs forth from thought. A wine from which the sea of oneness roars, a wine from which the blood of Mansur boils. If I could get even one glass of it, I would shatter the crystal vault of heaven. Hand me the brimming cup, to spite all sorrow, for a full goblet leaves grief diminished. It is morning, cupbearer, and the flask is empty; we are hungover, and any other thought is foolish. To swear off wine for fear of people is foolish; to abandon wine for hypocrites' piety is plain infidelity. It would be a loss; how could anyone trade a single drop of wine for a hundred prayer beads? Don't say the wine's exhilaration is a mere accident with some purpose behind it; you wouldn't claim substance is no real attribute. When divine grace gives you refuge, it grants you a path to the wellspring of the glass. Come, cupbearer, bring the dregs of that primal cup, the cup of 'Am I not?', from whose rapture the Universal Mind is drunk. From that wine all things are alive; from it the moon and the sun shine bright. A single drop of that wine fell upon the heavens, and the sun is the burn-scar that wine left behind. Give it to me, for the blood has frozen in my body, and grief's grip has crushed my every vein and root. How many candles of thought I have lit, burning my mind like a wick to its core. How much learning I gathered from the master, how many subtle points I committed to memory. I have spent so long with book and prayer, so devout, so abstinent and pious. I carried my notebooks tucked under my arm, and if any wildness lived in me, I kept it hidden. Sometimes in the branches of the law, sometimes in its roots, I wrestled with every pompous quibbler. What nights I had no sleep in my cell; how could there be bread when I had no water? I found no leisure even to eat; my belly was filled with nothing but the smoke of the lamp. Law and tradition, principles and theology, commentary and the whole art of philosophy: I chased after all of them for a lifetime, and gained a heavy share from each. At times I turned to poetry too, and worked a miracle from the magic of words. And what shall I say of the prayer I faked? My whole concern was bowing and kneeling. I rubbed my head so often at the prayer leader's feet that I wore down completely, like a frayed toothpick. From none of these did I get any joy. I am dizzy now, and the road of wine lies open. Now for years, in the lane of wine, I have had no food but the scent of wine. From now on, if life grants me leave, I mean to let wine be the strength of my soul. I will serve as an apprentice to the wine jar in the tavern, and like the cup brighten my eyes with wine. In the tavern I have another duty: like the bottle, my head is laid on the path of the cup. How fine is the tavern floor and that gathering, how blessed the head that has fallen at the foot of the wine jar. What a feast, the feast of the morning drinkers: surely it gives a sign of the feast of oneness. From every side they line up in waves, troop after troop, the cup riders moving like a sea onto the field. Wine and intoxication wear a single shirt; the flask and the cup speak tongue to mouth. It hides no one's thought from anyone; I salute the clear heart of the glass. Whoever raised his head high like the glass is one who hid no secret from all the world. I have heard that many a deep ship sinks down to the floor of the vast sea. In our tavern the difference is just this: here the sea is drowned inside the ship. From it the longing of a hundred destitute souls is fulfilled. Yes, this wine ship has the heart of a sea. Cupbearer, hand me that cup full of delight, for I hold my soul as wine's pledge upon my lips. Give me the wine that frees me from myself and makes me a chosen one at the tavern door. Long is our distance from the tavern, far; and far from the tavern, we are near the grave. Lord, shall we ever taste joy from this life? Shall we pass by the tavern once again? Shall we become one heart with the tavern's friends, and like a drop merge into that sea? Reason cannot reach that place by reckoning; the mind takes fright at its own shadow there. On this road the blood of proof is spilled freely; on this path the guide himself goes astray. Unless the cupbearer takes the lead on this road and lights the way's lamp with the glow of wine. How wretched I am, parted from wine. Perhaps the reed flute's voice will grant me a tune. A moment of weeping makes my chance feel narrow, while the reed plays and the bottle softens with sorrow. The song of my reed carried me out of myself; my heart turned to blood from the weeping of the glass. When my weeping hands me over to the storm, perhaps the ship of wine will save me. Cupbearer, pour that source of grace, wine like a mirror that reveals all secrets. So I may learn what this lament is for, and for whom my heart bleeds inside its glass. Where did the glass learn to weep like this, and why has my breath turned to burning sighs? I have no strength to explain this secret; I draw breath, but no sound comes out. No one told it to me, and I tell it to no one; this secret can be known through wine alone. Come, you who are the substance of my life, the trickle from the spring of my delight. Our vigil through the night is in your memory; come, candle of those who keep the night awake, come. Stop bleeding my heart further, enough; you have wronged it lifetimes over, now enough. The heart broke head to foot from the cupbearer's cruelty; long live the cup, our heart has shattered. What a cupbearer! Earth and time are drunk on him; the drinker's very soul rests in his hand. The cupbearer's eyebrow reflects in the cup like a new moon set against the dusk of evening. From the corners of his black, intoxicated eyes, a glance drips down like wine from a goblet. His lips put the rose petal to shame; his lashes breach the fortress of the heart. A mouth tinier than an ant's waist, where a smile has forced its way in. When reason sees his mouth smile, it imagines existence in what is nothing. The down on his lip casts a shadow round it, like ants swarming toward a jar of sugar. That down has drawn a circle over beauty's work; his mouth is the center point of beauty's compass. His glance can arm an empty, wineless cup the moment it falls on it, half drunk. When he takes the cup of coquetry in his grip, he smashes the glass of heaven against a stone. When he keeps serving cups of feigned neglect, the kingdom of the body yields, yawning for wine. His reflection has barely touched the wine before the flame has sunk its roots into the water. Once a hand has held the cup he serves, how could it ever let that goblet go? The cupbearer has worn me out to the soul; he has rid me of both faith and unbelief. Neither fully sober nor drunk as I wish, the forbidden is lawful to me, the lawful forbidden. Cupbearer, give me back my honor, that same water that washes me clean. So it cleanses me of the stain of repentance, and if I turn to piety, lays me in the dust. Where has the singer gone, where is the minstrel? Why is the lute's string a vein without the blood of song? The cupbearer is the Messiah, so why this deadness of heart! The wine is fire, so why this frozen gloom! Singer, tell some melody to begin, to wet its lips at the wellspring of song. Tell the musician to set the music going, to open the lute's veins with his pick. Singer, freshen your mind with wine; with a single note plunder my weary yawns. First strike up the tune of lovers, play it to my heart, my soul, my longing. With the trills of soaring melodies, bind the hearts and souls of those who are drunk. Make a fresh song in every branch of the scale; with one voice make both worlds ring with fame. Do not lie in wait on a single flower of song; like the nightingale, move from branch to branch. The heavens are vast and we are small; the earth is our cradle, and we are children. It is not right to put on greatness for the base, nor to hear taunts of smallness from worthless men. How long must we keep company with these worthless men? How long endure low notes beneath this turning sky? In this house, abasement and lament have killed me; the loss of wine and of drinking has killed me. Singer, play the songs of parting, for the longing for Iraq's melody has set my soul afire. Arab Iraq is my one desire; yet not a drop of the Tigris is in my jug. How sweet that moment when, snatched from death's grasp, I break my jug on the banks of the Euphrates. The same one who pours the wine of Kowsar is my cupbearer; the wine of his love still lingers in my heart. Come, cupbearer, bring me to union through the wine; see my branches and lead me back to my root. From the pain of a hangover I am as weak as a frail ant beneath an elephant's foot. But if the strength of wine becomes my ally, even Solomon would not dare sit beside me. Now for ages, parted from wine, I have been frail and mournful as the reed-flute's cry. Give me wine that increases my strength, a wine that steals me away from myself. When I am with myself, the whole world is my enemy; when I leave myself, even fire is a flower garden. Better that I flee from myself, for with myself I am my own worst enemy. Since with myself I am cut off from myself, that is why I cannot bear to be without intoxication. If the veil of the mind were not in the way, for one hour you could behold your own face. If you long to see your own face, in intoxication you can witness your own self. Give me wine, so I may strip myself of my head, and for a moment gaze upon myself. In this narrow corridor of fear and hope, a filthy image has made me a prisoner of myself. Perhaps the wine will take me away from myself, and free me from this tight place. At dawn the joy of thought lifted the crown from my head; my soaring fancy carried me to the heavens' ascent. In thought I went beyond the sky, and set my foot upon the placeless realm. There I saw a world of pure light, made neither of wind and fire nor of water and earth. In it were people purer than the soul itself, sharper in understanding than the keenest mind. They knew nothing of the body's darkness, and bore no trace of any shadow. No dread of death, no fear of perishing, no envy or spite, no terror or alarm. Every pleasure you might glimpse in a dream was plain there, bright as the sun. Their roofs and doors held nothing but joy and feasting; all their days were festivals and spring. I let my gaze race across that whole world and found nothing but happiness there. Then when I turned to look at myself, I saw only dust, and felt shame heaped on my head. Now I grieve, parted from that world; this grief is killing me in this narrow place. I don't know what it was, or where, or when; perhaps the light of wine will guide me there. If the road to that world can be opened again, it can be ridden back on the rose-red steed of wine. Cupbearer, give me a sip of that fiery wine, the kind that frees me from this world for a moment. So that I might find the way to that homeland; here in exile the blood of my heart has burned away. In exile I have no friend or familiar face; no one is this wretched in his own land. Give me wine, so I may rise from this demon-bound well to the lofty roof of the heavens. Give me wine, so I may leave this cramped, dark corridor and take my place above the nine vaults of the sky. That wine which turns the body light as the soul, and eases this head of its heavy burden. I will leave this heavy load behind in the earth, and shake off this dust into the grave. From the lowest depths up to the highest star I will go, climbing perhaps step by step. Cupbearer, give me the very soul of thought, the fairy-child born in the seclusion of the glass. Give me wine, for the time for delay is past; the flood of thought has already swept past the bridge. I have nothing left for anyone but quarrel and reproach; I have no will left to make peace even with the sun. Reason drains the lifeblood of wisdom; madness drives the head toward delirium. Reason sets its heart on conquering me; madness wears the ring of my chain in its ear, my willing servant. Though reason keeps me company, it is madness that truly provides for me. Though reason's path is clear, it is full of doubt and trickery. Better to overpower reason, for it veils the goal from sight. Madness draws its strength from love and intoxication; give me wine, so reason raises no army against me. I am weary of reason's fables; give me wine, so I may escape this meddler. Reason has become the blight on my harvest; reason is the owl haunting my ruins. Come, cupbearer, give me that cup bright as the sun, the one that swells my radiance and glow. Give me a wine that lights up the heart, that sets this dark gathering aglow. A wine so pure it scours the rust from the heart; before its light, even fire is mere ash. If a single drop of this ancient wine, a wine drawn from the fire of Sinai, fell on a stone, it would turn to pure ruby; dripped on the dust, it would become a sun. You can have your preacher, your palace, your maidens of paradise; give me the cupbearer, that beautiful soul. Embracing your heavenly maiden is just a thought; but my arm is already around the neck of the bottle. Go, preacher, get away from us; the drinkers here are reckless, so cover your eyes and leave. You are too dry and our fire too fierce; like dry straw, you would be scorched by our flame. Don't lay a hand on this water-colored glass, for from this water a fire leaps like sparks from stone. May the sweetness of life be yours; just keep your distance from the bitterness of wine. You know nothing of wine but its bitterness, so don't wrap your turban around your head over it. Pour, cupbearer, that fire-kindling water, the very thing that drives grief away and burns up sorrow. Give me wine, for the pain of separation has killed me; loneliness and helplessness have destroyed me. The breeze, the roses, the nightingales are all drunk; it is right that we wash our hands of repentance. In this fresh spring when the world is at ease, my chest is a battlefield where fire runs wild. Grief has so seized me, head to heart, that even my fortune mourns at my pain. The dawn of hope is a disgrace to my night, like a white speck on the pupil of an eye. For me the dawn of hope is nothing but evening; the dark night is mine, and only in name a day. Perhaps the glow of wine will come to my aid, and the dark night will brighten with drink. Dawn, don't breathe your light upon my face; the wine rising in my glass is dawn enough for me. For me a furnace becomes a rose garden in the wine's reflection; my night is lit by the glow of the cup. May my golden cup never run dry of wine, for an empty body is better than an empty cup. Say what remains of my life is a single breath; the wine that remains is the whole of my life. Give me, cupbearer, that cup red as a tulip, so I can soothe a wound a hundred years old. Come, you whose beauty is the very grace of the rose, in whose face the rose lights its lamps. As long as you walked through the meadow, the rose breathed in a fresh delight. Tonight, when you have stepped away from the garden, look how the rose still keeps its joyful air. It is spring, cupbearer, and the air is generous; if we grow drunk like the rose, it is only fitting. The meadow is lovely, the rose garden lovely, the rose lovely; the breeze is laden with amber, and the air enchanting. The air is mild as the nature of a generous soul, the water flowing clear as the mind of a wise man. My nature grew so fond of the rose that the meadow felt like a house of exile to my eyes. The garden rose, so full of color and shine, drinks wine from its cup the way a rose drinks dew. The longing for the garden took hold of me sweetly; I saw the rose, and it set me on fire. How could anyone escape catching fire, when the rose has a face of flame and the nightingale a breath of fire? The rose's scent cut me off from the whole world; the nightingale's lament filled my heart with pain. In this moment, when the nightingale is drunk on the rose, the garden is as lovely as the cupbearer's face. Better that I make my prayer rug of joy and play at love with my own cupbearer. Why think of nightingale or rose, what kind of thought is this? The rose is my wine cup, the nightingale my flask. While everyone's lap is filled with roses, a lapful of wine roses is enough for me. When I light up my chest with wine, instead of roses I fill my lap with fire. I am the disciple of wine, reckless and drunk, the cupbearer's curl in one hand, the goblet in the other. The heart of the cup will strike me down if I ever turn my head from the line of the wine measure. For I am the servant of the old tavern keeper, one of those who drink the blood-red wine from the bowl. I have seen many hardships in the taverns; I have circled many times around the wine bowl. Now, when I share my home with the flask, it is all the bloom of drunkenness and the surge of madness. Cupbearer, give me that powerful wine that can tear sorrow out by its very roots. That same wine that makes the flask glow bright, just as your love brightens every thought. With a careless hand, make the cup's rose laugh; from the flask, make a thousand drunkards weep. Drink wine until you are drunk among the drunk; light up your face until you become a garden. Tell your lashes to hold their heads high; let your hair loose to do its mischief. Adorn the marketplace of your lashes with coquetry; with your dark eyes, throw open the door of seduction. The rose bursts into flame before your face; the hyacinth falls into disarray beside your hair. Your lips turned the tulip's measure red with blood; from this fever, the bud's lip broke into a cold sore. Longing for a kiss from those unveiled lips, the bud's mouth has become a cup of wine. Do not say the flask lies there empty, for it has given up its life from being parted from your face. Such an uproar rises from you at the feast that both the sober and the senseless are utterly drunk. When I count the lovers of your street, ask anyone you like, my heart bleeds more than them all. Just your name is enough for me; everyone seeks union, but I seek only your pleasure. I am a lover, but not like everyone else; from one person to another there is a vast difference. At nightfall, when my heart was drowned in blood, fortune lay asleep at my side. Make my head a pillow of grief, give me pain; brand my bed of suffering with a burning mark. Not a single friend is left to me, and no one comes or goes except my own breath. No confidant to pour out my heart's pain to, no sigh from which I might draw out a fire. Such a flood of tears overcame me that the storm itself, in fear, took refuge in a boat. Your image came back into my memory, and my cry rose up to the highest heaven. I pictured you and became a rose garden; remembering your lips, I grew drunker than the drunks. Parted from you and burning like this, my night turns into day, my day into night. At night my hand clings to your skirt; when I wake, it is only my own collar I grip. When will any rest show itself to my eyes, when death would come before sleep ever does? At dawn, when my heart remembers you, my dwelling becomes a doomsday of grief. Before sleep can come, I lift my head; seeing you not there, I pour dust on it in despair. Come, cupbearer, in kindness for a moment; sprinkle on me a drop from the fire of the wine. Scramble together the pages of my learning, throw the fine robes of my vanity into the fire. Wash away my book of knowledge with the water of wine, for the dust of nothingness covers my knowledge. Let my tongue fall silent from all its talk, let everything I have read be forgotten. My rescue is the curl of your bewitching hair; my cure is the slightest motion of your brow. You, who claim to know, though you are wise, you are a total stranger to faithfulness. Better for you than to burn for the beloved is to sew up a collar you never tore. Fleeing in the moment of action is no quick win; stepping into the fire is not the work of every wisp of smoke. The smoke of fire alone unsettles you; how then could union with the fire ever delight you? You see only that the fire burns away; you do not see how it blazes into light. Whether the fire's flame pleases you, or whether you are mere straw that the rising flame consumes, if your desire has truly turned toward the fire, then come, pass beyond all being and non-being. Come, tear off the borrowed garment; when you walk into the fire, do not carry cotton with you. Give, cupbearer, the mirror of the cup, the one that reveals who is ripe and who is raw, so that I may see in it the reflection of my own face, and scatter away the traces of my own self. Let it shake from me the dust of my own attributes, and show me my own pure face. Lift, for a moment, the veil from before me, for I am dying of longing to see myself. Once again love has made me young; it has turned my earth into sky. I have carried the baggage of illusion out of my house, and truth has opened its door to me once more. I have fallen for a new kind of sorrow's delight; I have plunged into a love that is real. I cannot tell whose love I am breathing out, that I stir this world and the next together into chaos. What did my cupbearer pour into the cup of my heart, that I belong neither to the inner self nor the outer world? From this wine a different ecstasy fills my head; my cupbearer must be the one who pours from heaven's spring. Ali, the saint, the king of this world and the faith, the key to the garden of certain truth. Again the joy of drunkenness has come over me, the craving for wine and the worship of wine. From sheer joy I do not know where I am going, for like the scent of a flower I rise into the air. Fortune lends my fate its honor, for my longing carries me to the soil of Najaf. It must be that I have set foot on the path of my lucky star, for my head presses on toward the road to Najaf. Najaf has become my Mount Sinai, like Moses I am called; tell the Kaaba: stop winking at me from afar. Why does the sky not die of envy, that I am the dog at the threshold of Najaf? My eager feet know a certain road, for the sun and moon lie like sandals beneath my steps. I do not walk this road to show off my piety; I walk this road for the sake of God.

One of my truly delightful friends, a man in whom the dust of poverty itself tasted sweet. He had stitched the torn rags of his heart with the thread of poverty, his heart as scorched as it was bound to that thread. You have reached out to take hold of self-annihilation; you have turned your back on the ways of the world. From him the dervish cloak found its proper form and custom; from him poverty gained its pride and dignity. Renouncing the world was the substance of his work; the wearing of plain hide was the very vessel of his songs. For years he was the dust of the road to Najaf, fleeing the cruel sky to find shelter at Najaf. In that court of glory and high station, he set up a busy market by serving at its threshold. His awareness was the interpreter of his fine qualities; his heart was as pure as the pearl of Najaf. One day, among my brightest days, my heart full of joy and empty of sorrow, In the company of a few chosen friends, each one the fruit upon the tree of life, He told a colorful tale that turned the bitterness of life sweet. He said: this wit, a gift to any eager ear, is famous throughout Arab Iraq. When their spirits blossomed at this springtime of words, joy clapped its hands and said: What a pity this old story in its worn garb deserves to be dressed in bright new clothing. When everyone fell silent rather than answer, desire pressed its finger to my lips. Since the nature of desire accepts no excuse, listen for a moment to this account. A good man among the Arab merchants, the hand of seeking had gripped his skirt. His name in the world was Hajji Najm; he had stoned every wayward desire like Satan. He put on the pilgrim's robe to circle the sacred pillar and station, and from Najaf he set out gracefully toward the Kaaba. I do not know why, with his discerning eye, he did not see the Kaaba already present in Najaf to circle there. By way of Egypt he resolved to reach the Hejaz, so that truth might be sought beyond mere appearance. He joined the pilgrims' caravan, sometimes cutting the road with his feet, sometimes with his gaze. Travel on foot does not reach the heart's true goal; on a journey it is the eye of insight that must travel. The camels in that valley, foaming at the mouth, every one of them swept away with joy. Behind the she-camel the Arab travelers went, now singing the camel-driver's chant, now calling on God. Suddenly Najm's gaze fell on a litter that rose so high it seemed to reach the moon. Its curtain's hem given over to the wind, its eye turned aside to gaze upon the truth. In that canopy he saw a girl, the litter itself like a tent of the moon from her beauty. In perfect beauty and good fortune, everything about her blessed with loveliness. From head to foot she was all the eye could desire, yet her hair was white as a moonlit night. A white dawn broke through her night-dark hair: a sun whose eyebrows curved like a crescent moon. His thoughts tangled at this wonder, and his bewilderment kept piling higher. When that moon-faced one looked at Najm, she saw a small volume packed with meaning. She said: You who don't honor the sanctity of the pilgrimage, you walk the path of faith with a crooked eye. Those trusted within this sacred threshold, when do they ever gaze at outsiders? Close your eyes to black and white; open the eye of meaning, the eye that truly sees. The man was stung by the woman's words. He said: Hush, for some suspicion is sin. Bewilderment threw my state into turmoil, for I saw the sun and the crescent moon together. I saw white hair upon the moon's head; I made my eyes blacken at that whiteness. When the moon-faced one grasped, free of any lie or trick, the scent of truth hidden in his words, she said: This tale is long and winding; I'll tell you when you reach the Hijaz. My story is long and the road is short; the thread of this song is not the thread of the road. When the caravan arrived to circle the Kaaba, their faces dusty from the road, the mirror clear within, after the running and the circling of the pillar and the station, what had been forbidden became allowed. Najm longed to see that moon again; his heart lay at the feet of every glance along the way. Until one day they chanced to meet, and, to be brief, the two became companions. The moon took Najm to her own home, spread a cloth and set out bread before him. There he saw an old woman sitting, a meadow that had survived a hundred autumns. They washed their hands of food and drink, and the way opened amid question and answer. She began her tale, that sweet-lipped moon, a face like the moon at midnight. This white hair is not from old age, for I am still only twenty years old. I am a marvel; my story is strange; the wonder of my state has this as its cause. My father is a chieftain among the Arabs, foremost in his tribe in lineage. My father and mother, going back through the ancestors, uncles on both sides and brothers beyond counting, all distinguished among the Arabs, all with wealth, rank, honor, and pedigree. Yet in faith and creed and community, they are all people of the Sunni tradition. The Sunni faith is widespread among them; they follow the school of Abu Hanifa. Before this we had a brother, in his youth surpassing anything you could name. His love was set in my heart like the stamp on a ring; day and night, serving him was my rule. Not for a single breath were we apart, nor were we close to anyone but each other. Suddenly the harsh wind of death came rushing in, and the angel of life traded his place for a shadow. When they laid his body down in the earth, at once the collar of my patience tore open. His body, like snow, became the grave's container, and vanished the way one letter dissolves into another. I, who had no peace without him, felt my cup overflow with loss of self. I said: this was my beloved brother, as dear to me as my own soul beside me. A precious, tenderly raised soul, accustomed to comfort and to gentleness. The chamber of the grave is cramped, dark, and dim, with a companion neither asleep nor awake. Who will wake him now from his sleep? Who will loosen his robe and his turban? He has fallen into a sleep that has no end, and gone down a road that has no return. The thought reached here and grew fine and sharp: a journey so far, yet the road so near. It is better that I go along with him, to grieve for him at every hour and the late ones too. I went with him, my face fresh as a garden, and became a lamp for the lonely grave. I made this resolve and tore my heart from life, and cast my body down into his tomb. All my kin and tribe gathered over me, weeping bitter tears of blood at my side. They kneaded my fistful of clay with blame, but the ear of my heart heard no counsel. They all left me there and went away; they counted me as dead and went away. In that grave, cramped, dark, and dim, I had pulled my heart from life and my hand from all work. I had settled with myself to die, and taken my own blood upon my own neck. Suddenly a corner split open, and a light shone forth like the dawn. A radiant figure came inside, and the dread fled out of my heart. From the glow of that sun's beauty, the dark night turned white as day. With great dignity, over my corpse he came and sat down at the head of my pillow. After a moment, from another side, two more came to the door. One of them was fierce and terrifying, the other had a share of balance and calm. One asked for the right hand, the other went straight to the left side. In his fist was a club of fire, that made every sweetness turn bitter at its sight. Before the poor dead man's coffin he struck the club down like sky upon earth. From the terror of that sound in the dark night, the dead man woke from the sleep of death. Out of dread I went out of myself; my shell stayed behind, and I departed. From the touch of that comforting one, my living self died, and my dead self came alive. When I came back from my faint to my senses, I saw white hair fallen on my shoulder. The day turned dark in my aching heart; this black-haired night of mine had gone white. When I cast my eyes upon my brother, for a long while I lost all sense of myself. I saw him risen from the sleep of death, the departed soul rejoined to his body. He found himself in a state of disbelief: no father before his eyes, no mother. His shroud had become a garment, his food was regret; four walls of wood, the planks of the coffin. His bed was dirt, his pillow a brick; loneliness was his oldest companion. No way to come or go, neither forward nor back; only his choked breath was left to speak with him. Tears sprang from his eyes, a sigh from his heart; he cried out on every side, 'Oh, my father!' When he got no answer back from his father, he sent the messenger of his call toward his mother. When despair of his mother knocked at the door, he cast the lot of his cry upon his brother. When he gave up hope of his brother too, the names of his uncles rushed to his tongue. When his heart grew cold toward uncles as well, he brought my name, warm, to his lips. I wanted to draw a breath to answer, but my own breath threw a noose around my throat. When no answer came back from anyone, he began to beat his hands upon his head. He set out to weep and wail, and the weave of a hundred moans tore the shroud thread by thread. No helping hand, neither present nor unseen; at times he tore his hem, at times his collar. The fever of madness rose from his heart; he pulled out the coffin's wood and struck his own head. That moment he understood this was the night of the grave, that the hem of life had slipped from his grasp. His eyes woke from sleep just at the moment he found every remedy bolted shut. Alas, awakening that lasts forever brings no gain when the hands and feet of any remedy lie still. He kept crying for help, but no rescuer came; no road ahead, no way to step back. His breath, from wailing, caught in his chest; his eyes fell upon Munkar and Nakir. All at once his hands and heart gave up; little worth seeing, much unseen and dreadful. Munkar came forward to question him; first his tongue was struck dumb with terror. He asked him first about God; he sought from him what he had never known. His tongue silent, lost in dread, even what he once knew he had now forgotten. A man of light at the head of the grave prompted him with the answer. He spoke, to make the dead man aware: 'There is no god but God,' all on his own. After that he questioned him about the Prophet; the test left his stammering tongue mute. His tongue froze in answering, until the one who unties all knots loosened it again. Then he was asked: tell me, who is your guide? Who is the source of your pride and honor? The one without whom no prayer is valid, and without whom the prayers of lovers don't hold. Since he had no knowledge of his guide, his tongue grew too dull to answer along. Since the leader of faith had no place in his creed, the prompter gave him no prompting at all. Since he knew nothing of the guide of religion, the same fiery mace came down on his head. A blow of the club struck fire from him, and hair by hair his body caught the flame. His shroud was cotton, the club was fire, flames leaping wild from every thread of him. You'd say the flame ran so hot through it that the shroud on his body was white naphtha. Once more I fainted away, no wits in my head, no voice on my lips. When I came back from that swoon, a silent melody reached my ear. I saw that the terror had been driven from my chest, those two had gone, and only this one remained. Pure in essence, a being of light, with a form like a body, yet truly a spirit. I clung to the hem of his robe, I became an ant circling his harvest. I let tears of shame fall from both eyes, I turned to dust and fell at his feet. I said: O essence of light, light of the eyes, you stand at the head and the height of nobility. By the truth of that glorious God who gave you this greatness and rank, tell me, who are you, what kind of being, you who help the helpless and answer the lost? Are you an angel close to God in deed, or are you a prophet sent from Him? I do not know who you are in honor and rank, you whom both moon and fish obey? As a sweet smile joined his lips, he drew a fragrant breath and what did he say: I am that one who truly knows God, keeper of the boundless treasury of destiny. Heir to the law of Ahmad, the sent messenger, the scholar of the knowledge of the last and the first. I am the one without whose love neither duties nor traditions are accepted. Whoever has no knowledge of me, what good is his knowledge of God? To know me is to know God; love of me is the substance of being Muslim. Hatred of me is the cause of ugly disgrace; in the hand of love for me lies the key of paradise. Without knowing me, your brother was humbled like this before you. Had you carried within you any love of me, your rank would have risen to the very stars. You would have raised your honored head to the sky and rested in eternal bliss. Since my name was not on his tongue, he never spoke even the part he knew. Because my love had no place in his heart, its market sat empty, with no buyers. I said: you who are the pure light of God, you before whom a whole world stands in ignorance, Tell me your name; who are you? Of what kind, of what world, and what are you? For I know no one of these qualities, and have heard of no such person among the ancients. He said: my name is Ali, son of Abu Talib, in every matter triumphant over all. I am that sun that lights the world, whose face no veil of cloud has ever covered. The light of my face burns through every screen; no single atom is empty of my love. When the name of Ali reached my ears, his love became eternal in my heart. I said: may I be a sacrifice to your sweet name; my faith and heart, my reason and senses are offered to you. Though this question is a breach of manners, bewilderment has trampled me with wonder: Why, when that poor wretch was questioned, did you withhold your name from him like this? He saw from you the unraveling of two knots; why was the third withheld from him? He said: in answering the first two questions, the truth of his state was already known to him. But out of dread of the grave and fear of harm, a bond had fallen upon his tongue. It became a duty upon my mercy, no less, for he had received from me those two unbindings. Since he had no belief in my excellence, he recalled my name only by mistake. This knot stayed firm upon his tongue; inevitably he was fit for hell. Had anyone reminded him of my name, out of stubbornness it would not have come to his lips. Such is the decree of the Lord God: that one without sight cannot see the road. I said: alas, dust upon my head; a curse upon my father and my mother. My whole people and clan, every one of them, have gone following Abu Bakr and Umar. May their tongues be twisted and tangled at the Resurrection, for they walked crooked off the straight road. They have all hidden the truth by force, and taken the long way around the near road. What remedy, since I did not walk the road straight? What can I do, when no remedy remains? Since I fell short while I was alive, when will they accept my excuses in the grave? I did not walk it, though the road was bright; my excuse of darkness is no use. Since no other remedy is left, what shall I do? What shall I do, dust on my head, what shall I do? He said, when he heard my weeping, and saw my crying out and my distress: You still have some life remaining; the feast still has its wine, and the cupbearer is still there. You may have rushed toward your own death, yet you have been granted a second life. When you escape from this dark, narrow place, follow our path and become a devoted servant. From now on take the straight road, and whatever you wish to know, ask your aunt. For her faith is sound and her nature is good; she is one of my own special followers. In all the tribe she stands alone in religion and learning; one such woman is worth more than a thousand men. She said this and vanished from my sight, and my chest was left drained of strength and endurance. My father lay in wait for me, having stationed a group to stay awake. So that when they heard my pitiful cry, when they caught the trembling note of my voice, they would hurry to me without delay and rescue my half-living self from death. When this good news made my spirit blossom, my heart, freed from grief, was wedded to joy. But since I found no way out, my heart filled with blood from fear of perishing. At times my soul grew weary with pain, at times it clung to the king's kindness. When my heart handed its reins to despair, my moaning carried word to my companions. Suddenly an opening appeared, as if my heart had unlocked within that cellar. Young and old poured down upon me; my Joseph carried my life from the wolf's claws. I hid nothing of my condition, great or small; I told everything that had happened to my aunt. My aunt showed me the solution, and taught me all that was needed. I have told you my own story without leaving anything out; now hear the tale of my aunt as well.