English
Elegy for the Blessed Chief, Glory of Islam
Do not set your heart on the ways of the world; do not take on suffering by your own choice.
The flower you long for will not bloom from this thorn; do not make yourself a thorn for nothing.
Your ego is your enemy; on your road, do not keep its desires close beside you.
What is its shape? Like a long snake. Do not put your hand into the mouth of that snake.
In a place where the flood of annihilation rises, build nothing but sturdy foundations.
This base world is only a passage of disaster; do not set your heart on it, hoping for peace.
The heart's jewel is a precious gem; do not throw it away on the road and its passersby.
Happiness never passes through this place; do not keep your eyes fixed on the road, waiting.
Time itself declares its own nature: our deeds are only a pretext it looks for.
There is no room for concealment in your heart; so there is no self satisfied soul like you.
Since weeping leaves no mark on your heart, the tears you shed outside are nothing but mockery.
If the world turned to fire and flood, you would stay unbothered, since nothing harms you.
There is not a hand's breadth of sky that is not pierced by the sigh of some wretched soul.
No swift steed running faster than the wind of breath can escape the roads of death.
Lessen your greed, for nothing blindfolds reason and knowledge worse than greed.
For the neck of life, death has no better noose than the days and nights.
How can anyone accept our counsel who takes no lesson from this death?
No straw is left on the moon's threshing floor; it scattered all upon the head of the world.
Open the eyes of awakening; unlock the lock upon the door of grief.
Sometimes close, sometimes open your eyes and lips, letting out the secret of loud weeping.
The master's procession has arrived along the road; form your ranks and clear the way.
And if today he grants an audience, draw back the curtain from the court.
With the fingertip of idleness, undo that black banner from his lance.
First shut the door of the house, then open the door of the hospice.
He will never mount again; loosen the saddle girth at last.
Since he will not pass through this door again, close it or open it as you please.
My heart is full of fire at your going; your coming was worse than your leaving.
One should not mourn only a little; there is nothing else left to do.
In such a grief, the source of tears should be no less than the blood of the heart.
The dust of his grave, dry as our lips, should be moistened with nothing but blood.
After what the world does to us like this, one should not even look its way.
From now on, one must place no trust in youth or fortune.
With such a creditor chasing after us, one should not step out of the house.
Since one must sleep beneath the earth, one should not roof the house with gold.
He set out on his journey, and left this saying: one should not travel in the month of Safar.
The years of your life are like the stations of the moon: short when measured against its feet.
Wherever we look, left or right, there is dread, darkness, hardship, and disaster.
The air has darkened with the smoke of my heart, or else the eye of my reason has gone blind.
The whole troop and retinue have returned, but the one who led them cannot be found.
Perhaps he took another road, unaware that our master is waiting.
Ask again of the trusted servants whether the master is ahead of you or behind.
Is he too weak, or fast asleep? Why has his foot slipped from the stirrup?
The one we came out to welcome was only the master's body; where is the master himself?
The way things look to me now, this is a moment for cries of grief and lament.
Let us stretch out a daring hand and open the lid of the master's coffin.
To see what color his face has now, or what color the rubies of his court have become.
To see whether the parrots of his eloquence, caged now, eat sugar or gnaw at the liver in grief.
To see where his narrow pistachio mouth has carried its sweet laughter by the load.
Or whether they have sifted the dust of misfortune over his two cheeks through the sieve of death.
Alas, from the dust of the road and the pain of travel, his face is no longer as bright as itself.
The pearls of his teeth no longer glisten; his ailing eye is no longer whole.
The fierce wind of death has disheveled his musky locks and the folds of his turban.
Fire rose swiftly from his soul; quickly his wind and his market settled and were gone.
You are far from us, though you are near, like fire hidden within the darkness.
You saw all his fortune and his youth, and all his kindness and his sweet speech.
My heart turns to madness whenever it reflects on his meanings and depth.
His name stands higher than the sky; his trace has gone beneath the ground.
I offered my sweet life as his merchandise; the heart's pain was the gift he brought.
The angel of death is truly stone hearted, to have shown no mercy for his youth.
Perhaps he meant it so, lest his own gentleness undo his task of taking souls.
My heart held its life upon its lips like the dawn, waiting to give him the good news.
Whatever was taken from his life added, all of it, to the life of the Pillar of Faith.
Do you not see that the shortness of the night is the very cause of the length of the day?
This is the outcome of time's turning; this is where everything ends.
How long shall we run about in vain, left and right, when this is the end of the road?
How long these varied, mistaken reckonings, when the final sum of every count is this?
You who are drunk and proud on the cup of life, this hangover is the wine of your days.
Do not grieve over any task, for it burdens the heart, since this is where all work and toil end.
You who spend all your days in grief and pain, pain is the gift, and this is what time is.
A heap of dust lies before us; this is all that remains of such a great master.
Though this is a bitter, difficult event, what can be done? This is the decree of the Creator.
The soil of Ray was a stranger's enemy; otherwise, why was it ever his time to go?
Grievous is the place of Ismail; where now is the splendor and presence of Ismail?
Alas, the heart cheering face of Ismail is now boarded in by annihilation.
The Feast of Sacrifice has always been a torment for the soul of Ismail.
If it were accepted, we would all give our lives for the survival of Ismail.
You from whose hand the grace of generosity gushed, like Zamzam springing from Ismail's feet.
From that world you came to kiss the hand; be glad, O faithfulness of Ismail.
If until now the melody was yours, now you yourself are the song of Ismail.
I come to prayer, and in this season prayer is answered, Ismail.
May the souls of Masud, Saed, and Mahmud live forever in the house of existence.
May your life exceed even your wishes; may generosity be your nature and goodness your habit.
When you deliver the teaching of the sacred law, may the office of Jupiter be given back to you.
If the sharp headed arrow is not your praiser, may the hand of adversity wear it away.
May the Universal Intellect, like me, be struck with wonder before this presence and profit from it.
Though this kingdom does not belong to any human, may all of it be yours, whatever you desire.
May your generosity take his hand on the Day of Gathering; may his lot be the sorrow of exile and martyrdom.
Whatever regard you show to the people of virtue and learning, may your regard toward me be even greater.
Before they suddenly tell you, 'may so and so have happiness.'
O Creator of the world, by your power, drown that young man in your mercy.