Ghazals

In grief for your love, my heart has reached such a state that your faithfulness cannot ease its burden even for a moment. I have no need to stroll through the garden, for from grief for you a hundred kinds of flower keep blooming out of the thorns in my heart. Lay the weight of your own sorrow and pain upon my heart; how could I refuse, when you have become its only comfort? Like a fish thrown out onto the shore, far from the sea, so does my heart lie in torment, cast far from its beloved shore. It was impatience that turned my days black: you were near, and then came separation, the fate of my heart. The day of parting has returned; my heart, cry out at least, for may my days grow darker still, the fortune of my heart. How long, like Mohyi, must the heart wait on your road? My heart has burned away like a shadow on the road of waiting.

If you had not planted in me the longing to be with my love, my life, you would never have left me alive to carry the grief of separation. My cypress, my beloved, is soaked in the blood of my heart's tears; I don't care if the gardener refused to let me stay in the garden. There is no difference now between me and my own shadow, so thin has this burning heart worn me down in its fire. My state has become like the old man of Canaan, and now, when I see you, a flood of tears pours from my weeping eyes. The garment of my soul is torn in the wilderness of love, and still on every side a hundred thorns of grief cling to my hem. Lord, may no one be left as I am, cut off from union with the beloved, you who cast me out from my love's company. This patience I show with people is all for your sake; otherwise, when would I ever care what slanderers say of me? My house is a furnace and my carpet is made of ashes, so that, like Mohyi, you may call me the ruined and helpless one.

Frenzied nightingale, which of us is the madman, you or me? Which of us seeks the beautiful face of the beloved, you or me? You love the flower garden, I love the sight of her; in the pain of parting from her, which of us stands brave, you or me? You are locked in a cage, and I sit alone in my solitude; drunk and mad in your corner, which of us is that recluse, you or me? In spring and in the dead of winter, drunk on love for her beauty, crying out and wailing wildly, which of us is that voice, you or me? Nightingale, love for you has run into my veins and sinews; for that blood-red wine, which of us is the cup, you or me? You see nothing but the flower, and I see nothing but the friend; to all but our own beloved, which of us is a stranger, you or me? You are wounded by the thorn, and me they would hang on a gallows; on the tongues of the people, which of us is the legend, you or me? You are a lover and so am I; hold your breath and be here, or by God, today, which of us is left in this house, you or me? They say a treasure lies hidden in the heart of every drunk; for such a treasure, which of us is the ruin that guards it, you or me? Mohyi came to the garden and joined the moaning nightingale: O wailing nightingale, which of us is the beloved, you or me?

Come into my little home unveiled, with nothing hidden; for no one lives here but your remembrance. If you visit the ruined tomb of my grave, you will find my home watered with heart's blood. Do not stir up chaos, do not loosen your musky curls; my mad heart cannot bear those chains. I am a bird of the heavenly garden, and in this crumbling ruin the light of God's manifestation becomes my seed. In the narrow grave I will say to the One God: Beloved, you alone are my familiar, and everything else is a stranger to me. If the questioning angel comes and asks, tell me who your Lord is, I will say: the one who stole away this mad heart of mine. Where is the one who denied my cry and quarreled with me? Let him hear my drunken shout until the Day of Judgment. Thanks be to God that I did not die, but reached the Beloved; bravo to this manly resolve of mine. Mohyi was burning on the candle of your beauty's light; the Beloved said: well done, the resolve of my moth.

If you don't lift the veil from your eternal beauty, the hearts of your carefree lovers will stay burnt like roasted meat. If the highest seat in paradise comes without the beloved, call it the pit of hell; let the shallow-sighted rush toward such rewards. Lovers want neither the beautiful maidens nor paradise for their own sake; they have no care for a comfortable household, for their home is already ruined by love. The maidens of paradise keep their eyes lowered and modest; but look at the lovers' tents, rope after rope stretched wide. On Judgment Day the lovers tear through the veil of the gathering, rising from their graves with hearts full of fire and eyes full of tears. With wounded hearts they weep and cry out: where is he, the one who promised to meet us on the day of reckoning? Without the sight of your beauty, on the day of resurrection Mohyi will say, standing among the strangers: I wish I were only dust.

The people's grieving cry burned the very soul of souls; it scorched the wounded breast of every lover driven mad. This sigh of mine set fire to hearts already roasted; what a scorching sigh, that burned so many hearts to ash. I spoke to the teacher of a mere spark of my heart's fire; and that flame fell into his soul and burned him head to foot. If one day you reach Joseph, tell him: dear one, the fire of your love burned Zuleikha from head to foot. In early spring I went toward the plain, weeping; my burning sigh scorched the green of hill and field. Mohyi does not realize that his friends drift on heedless; it burned their cloak, their prayer beads, their toothstick, and their prayer mat.

Three hundred and sixty times I look upon my servant with care. Just see how high I have raised my servant's rank. Do not be faithless, and do not stray far from my door, for from eternity past to eternity to come, I am devoted to you. If your face is unwashed, stained with the grime of sin, my mercy is the warm water that washes it clean. On the day of reckoning I will place your record in your own hand, so that no one else will know what it contains. For one good deed I will give you tenfold in this world, and in the next, seven hundred and seventy more are yours. If some wrong comes from you, in my generosity I will forgive it. Who besides me, my servant, offers such kindness and grace? What can the fire of hell do to you? Why fear it, when your outside and inside are all made of God's light? Ask me for anything you want, and do not be ashamed. Mine, my servant, is to answer; yours is to stay faithful. Ask me for firewood, milk, salt, the cooking pot; I am the one who provides for you, so ask me for whatever you deserve. I have granted faith, I have granted it freely. How could I take it back from a beggar to whom it was given as charity? I am with you everywhere, so why do you fear Satan? Since I am your refuge, tell the devil to come if he dares. All the faithlessness comes only from your side, Mohyi; from me, who am God, there is nothing but love and loyalty.

Do not grieve, for in the end your place is the highest seat of paradise; your heart's face is turned forever toward God's pleasure. Do not grieve, for when the bird of your soul flies from your body, its home and nest is a seat of truth. Do not grieve, for when this body of yours sinks into the grave, its dust is bathed in the waters of mercy until resurrection. Do not grieve, for God chose you above all creatures; this comes from the beauty of His grace, not from the perfection of your service. Do not grieve, for day and night, three hundred and sixty times, God's grace looks upon you; all of this is out of love. Do not grieve, for wherever you are, your God is with you; when you seek God, servant, tell me, what trouble is there? Do not grieve, for He mixed His own love into your clay; your God's love is your companion, woven into the root of creation. Do not grieve, for another is with you, beyond your own self; He is not you, nor are you Him, and to name Him is itself a mercy. Do not grieve that you have become drunk and ruined without wine; tell the town's censors this is the wine of paradise. Do not grieve, for God has called you His servant; being God's servant, Mohyi, is the mark of true fortune.

Ask for the clear wine, my soul, for drinking the dregs is hard. Give me some sign of the wine-server, since there are so many drunks here. In the end this passion for love will cost you your head. When your head itself is going, master, why worry about the turban? You must draw out some coin from your full purse; such work suits a light-fingered thief, a skilled pickpocket. A night-watchman cried out at every man's shop: Don't be careless tonight, master, the guard is in league with the thief. Since the king has become the thieves' friend, bring the thieves good news: no hands or feet are cut off, there is no prison and no gallows. That king gave the good news: do not be afraid, you empty-handed ones, for the treasure of the Merciful's mercy is scattered upon every sinner. At night, when the king himself goes about spying in disguise, only one who is himself a roaming night-rogue learns this secret. When you stand at the Resurrection, your sins will come to light. Don't be afraid of that, you rebel, for your Lord covers over faults. Why grieve, servant, when in the end, out of grace and generosity, your God is the buyer of you, faults and all? God says: my servant, I am that king full of kindness, so that whenever you come to my threshold, you are granted audience. If the lover's face turns pale, it is neither jaundice nor consumption; the physician of lovers knows what he is really sick with. Drink so much of love's wine that you can't tell your head from your feet, for those drunk in the Presence are ashamed of being sober. When the camel gets drunk, it shuts its mouth to the fodder; if you are drunk on God, why is your greed still set on thorns? If you are drunk, you dance your way across the desert; if you are sober, you fear that the road to the Kaaba is full of thorns. You make one pilgrimage a year, but in the street of our Beloved the one who is a suffering lover completes a pilgrimage every moment. Circle the Kaaba, pilgrim, and leave me in her street, for the lover's greatest pilgrimage is circling the Beloved's street. Martyrs are not washed for burial; so do not stay alive, Mohyi, for in the creed of the free-spirited, whoever has died is mere carrion.

Whatever comes to my soul from those hard-hearted ones is sweet; if faithfulness comes, it is sweet, and if betrayal comes, that too is sweet. How long can I keep catching the scent of the rose on the dawn wind? yet if her fragrance rides in on the morning breeze, it is sweet. I am content with whatever comes to me through the pain of loving you; even if only sorrow and hardship reach my soul, it is sweet. On a cloudy day you hold your head out like a begging bowl; even if stones fall from the sky instead of raindrops, it is sweet. Love makes life beautiful for everyone, Mohyi; if the scent of the rose rides in on the morning breeze, it is sweet.

The heart's feet are stuck knee-deep in mud on the street of your love; take courage and stand with me, for this is hard work. I don't know what this mad heart is after, since it always leans toward my own wandering and confusion. Even Mahmud's mighty elephant would collapse if it dreamed of the heavy load your pain lays on my heart. O wandering heart, how long will you speak? Say nothing, for in that street a hundred thousand feet are stuck in the mud. My companion is a sigh, my confidant is sorrow in the days of youth; what a bitter yield to reap in the season of joy and springtime. On my own I pour out words and weep bitterly; surely the beggar's tears are the only confidant of the exiled and lonely. Mohyi, if you imagine you have walked the path of truth in this life, know for certain you have not; it is only an empty thought.

The one who sets fire to people's hearts is my beloved, and the one burning in that fire's glow is my very soul. Since I went mad, the king's palace looks like a ruin to me, for the turquoise sky is just the arch above my own hall. I kept my love hidden, but alas, now the tale of my secret love is the gossip of every gathering. If the heavens want to lay people's homes in ruins, tell them not to bother: my weeping eyes already do that work. What passes in an instant is a night of union with the beloved; what has no end is my day of separation. Mohyi died, and everything dressed in black to mourn him; wherever a page lies scattered, it is a leaf from my book of verse.

If you have sinned, my friend, just say I did it, for after a wrong deed, repentance is a fine thing. Even if sinning has become your habit, forgiving your sin is likewise my nature. At night press your face to the dust and weep, for that weeping of yours is dear to me. The breaths of sinners who turn back to me smell sweeter to me than fragrant musk. Since my grace stands behind you, old friend, why grieve if your back is bent double? For the one who has no worse in all the world, my word 'do not despair' is meant for him. With the blessings of paradise I nourish your marrow, even if the skin has dried upon your bones. Since the Merciful is good to you, there is no sorrow, even if Satan is evil and holds a grudge against you. The fish of a living heart will never die as long as the pure stream of God's mercy runs in this river.

With you, sinner, I am at peace; there is never war between us, since in your narrow heart there is nothing but longing for me. Turn your pale face toward me, for at my door no face is more welcome than one gone yellow with regret. In the depth of night, throw the rope around your neck and repent; for a servant, there is no shame in repenting before God. Say 'God.' If you drank wine or smoked yourself senseless, repent; remember me now, while your mouth is not full of wine and smoke. I will turn all your wrongs into good; my way with wicked servants is nothing but this. In the hardened heart of the wrongdoer lies the hope of my grace; after all, precious jewels are found only inside stone. The sinners look to me, and I look to them; since I have made my peace, no one has room for war. The lame mosquito, weighed down by its heavy load, goes stumbling and rising, though it is no leader of the way. Even if the good men of the world grasp at obedience, you, penniless Mohyi, hold nothing but the grace of God.

You asked, 'Who are you to me?' I said, 'Your lowest servant.' You asked, 'Are you drunk?' I said, 'Yes, on your cup.' You asked, 'What is your trade?' I said, 'Loving you.' You asked, 'What is your condition?' I said, 'Grief and reproach.' You asked, 'What state are you in?' I said, 'The state of one who gives thanks.' You asked, 'Where did you fall?' I said, 'Into your snare.' You asked, 'What do you want from me?' I said, 'Pain without limit.' You asked, 'This pain, for how long?' I said, 'Until the Day of Judgment.' You asked, 'What do you worship?' I said, 'The beauty of your face.' You asked, 'What lies between us?' I said, 'Much regret.' You asked, 'How are you without me?' I said, 'Like something half slain.' You asked, 'What do you have?' I said, 'Nothing but debts to pay.' You asked, 'Why do you waste away?' I said, 'From fear of losing you.' You asked, 'With whom do you get along?' I said, 'With one greeting from you.' You asked, 'Who is Mohyi?' I said, 'The very one you know.' You asked, 'What sign do you carry?' I said, 'A hundred signs.'

Lord, at that hour when no one will remember us, let your mercy be our companion until the Day of Reckoning. The book of the righteous is filled with good deeds. What am I to do? My own pages hold nothing but blackness. This flawed merchandise that fills my days, on the day of its market there is nothing but loss to your name. The feast day has come; give us the gift of your mercy, Lord. If you do not give, from whom shall your hopeless servants ask? Do not turn us away, Lord. Back in the market of eternity you saw all our faults and left us disappointed. At night I put the rope around my neck and weep bitterly, grieving for my precious life that I threw to the wind. Now, living so long without him, I do not know how I will surrender my soul when death arrives. Alas for that hour when the angel of death comes for the soul: I must give up my sweet life and cannot open my lips. What will he do with me at the final breath? Alas, alas. Happy is the one whose mother never bore him. They read the record, and the recording angels say: in his whole life this servant never held any fear of God in mind. Have a crier call out before my coffin: here is a servant who sinned much yet trusted in God. Lord, forgive the one who, after my death, remembers my soul now and then with a prayer of praise. If you pass by my grave, or if I come to your mind, offer this prayer: Lord, may his grave be full of light. He will have mercy on me, he will forgive me, when I lay my pale face upon the dust of the tomb. Though Mohyi has done much wrong and has no goodness, still with all his heart he trusts in the mercy shown to the righteous.

May the house of my body have no opening but the wound of her arrow; and above that opening, may there be nothing but the scar of longing for her. God, let no one fall in love with those beautiful idols; and if someone must, my friend, may they never love the way I do. The one whose thorn should never tear even the hem of a garment has torn open my heart every moment with the arrow of cruelty. The sun and moon draw their light from the glow of your face; without you, may the lamps of sun and moon never shine again. Since the lover's paradise after death is the street where the beloved lives, may the bird of my soul dwell nowhere but by that wall and that door. This is my wish: that in your love my sick body never be empty of cries and moaning, never free of weeping. Since even a king's crown ends up level with the dust, may Mohyi's crown be nothing more than the ashes of a furnace.

Maybe one day my joyless heart will find some happiness, but it seems unlikely that this cold, unloving one will ever grow kind. If any joy suddenly reaches my heart, it feels like a stranger arriving in a city, left homeless and lost. Judging by the trouble I see today from that bad-tempered one, it would be no surprise if it turned into the great catastrophe of the end of time. If this time the sky itself tried to lift my heart, it would never budge from its place, as helpless as I am. I thought a balm would heal my heart and make it well; how could I know it would become a sudden disaster for my soul? If I drink a single cup apart from your wine-red lips, right there it turns to blood and streams from my weeping eyes. Mohyi, swallow your sorrow before the madness for your curls rears its head, drives you insane, and disgraces you before the whole world.

You killed me, and now you say my ashes must be thrown to the wind. Why pile so much cruelty on someone already in pain? Everyone is happy because of you, everyone except me, who grieves. Won't you say that this heart, too, deserves a moment of joy? I grew old from grieving over you, though I have been your devoted slave since youth. An old slave, after all, ought to be set free. The tales of his beauty should be told to no one but me. The story of that sweet way belongs only to Farhad. What kind of life is this: at night everyone sleeps in peace, while I must cry out until dawn from the pain of your love.

God be praised, what beauty is this: when the veil falls away, even a heart of iron melts like wax. All the beautiful ones take pride in their own beauty, but it is His beauty that gives their beauty its pride. It is the way of the fairy faced to keep company with madmen; so I went mad for that fiery tempered love who will not keep company with me. Do not fault me, you who accuse, if I cry out apart from my love, for I make peace with separation, but my heart will not. How could Mohyi care that he is a stranger in this world? He is so absorbed in his work that he pays no heed even to himself.

Even if I were sorrow and grief from head to toe, it would still be less than the pain I carry because of you. How could you not touch the sky with your head? Your worth is so high that wherever you set foot, others lay their heads beneath it. My heart, treasure even the presence of pain and grief, for time keeps no faithful promise; a moment together is a prize worth seizing. From the beautiful, a little cruelty and a little kindness is fair enough; but from me you get love and loyalty, and from you only cruelty and pain. A single sip of water from a dog's clay bowl in my beloved's street is sweeter to me than the wine poured in the cup of Jamshid. If you want release from mere existence, become a lover, Mohyi; for the first step in loving angel-faced beauties is to vanish from the self.

I don't know how long he will keep hurting me. I won't say it, but in the end my heart will grow sick of him. If he stays this cruel for even a few more days, my body will fall ill and my soul will break apart. My luck has fallen into the sleep of death, and my friends tell me: cry out and wail, and maybe he will wake. For God's sake, don't set out for the garden with a face like that, for I know the gardener will feel ashamed before his own flowers. Don't wave your hand about so freely, my graceful cypress, for the very wits of my soul are wounded by the play of your hand. How can I describe to people my beloved's cruelty and my own pain, when, without offering comfort, they tell me he will become your friend. How long will Mohyi carry this grief, this torn heart and burning liver? This is love, and things like this will only keep multiplying.

I won't say it's the cruelty of the times that's killing me; it's the enemy's taunt and my love's broken promise. Being far from her leaves me restless: several times a day the grief, the ache, the burn of waiting kills me. I love that hot-tempered one in secret, yet she kills me in public, to make an example for the world. If I walk down a street, I become the children's plaything; if I sit in a corner, the thought of you wears me down. I spend the night lost in dreams of you, and by day, what becomes of me? The memory of those dark nights of weeping kills me. The longing to see you was killing me before, and now the wish for a kiss, the hope of your embrace, kills me too. A doctor takes the trouble to treat me, unaware that, like Mohyi, the fire in my wounded soul is what kills me.

The season of the nightingales' rapture has come; it's as if the rose has arrived in the garden. Nightingale, be silent here, and stay present; listen to this secret that has just been shared. The gathering of those drunk on the love of God: you cannot swagger in there merely lighthearted. You love color and fragrance, nightingale; that is why your place is at the foot of the rose. But we, who are drunk on the very color of God, our home is the garden beyond all place. Your eye is fixed on the world's rose, while my gaze rests on the Maker of the world. Go, you belong to a marketplace and its bargaining; a shop is the place for the merchants. Wait, nightingale, let me lament, for all creation has broken into crying. Don't sing in front of me, for your wailing is only a cry that rises to the tip of the tongue. Hear my lament, for at the Beloved's door it rises, burning, from the very heart of the soul. Lovers cannot be contained in this world; how could this cage ever be a home for you? Your love for the rose lasts only a few days; our love is a love that lasts forever. Weeping over this house of water and clay, this is the way of the delicate and fickle. Mohyi saw the traces of God's power, as spring arrived and autumn arrived.

Someone who already has their beloved, why would they set their heart on another? Let love be forbidden to anyone whose eye wanders to someone else. This fire I carry from longing for her is no wonder; so when that moon comes to my pillow, she finds only ashes. The whole world has burned a lifetime in the sun's heat, for the sun itself burns with envy, seeing something finer than itself. When a lover moans from the heart, tears mean nothing to him, even if a lancet pierced his skin at the root of every hair. That heartless one showed no mercy, yet I know her heart would ache for me if she saw a fellow unbeliever turned toward me. How sweet that hour when Mohyi walks joyful through the lane of the beautiful, a bottle in one hand, a cup brimming with wine in the other.