Ghazals

When the sun of your face rose into view, the atoms of both worlds became visible. When the sunlight of your face cast its shadow, from that shadow all things came into being. Every atom, from the sunlight of your face, took on the nature of the sun and shone clear. The atom exists because of the sun, and the sun reveals itself through the atom. The sea of being began to surge, and flung a single wave toward the open plain. That wave sank down and rose again, wearing a lovely garment and enchanting form. The violets of meaning sprang up, like the graceful, elegant script of a beautiful hand. The poppies of truth burst into bloom, and a thousand tall cypresses stood revealed. All of this was nothing but that wave itself, and what was the wave but the sea itself? Every part is identical to the whole, so the whole, from end to end, is its parts. And what are the parts but manifestations of the whole, what are the things but shadows of the divine names? And what are the names but the sun's appearing, and the sun is the beauty of the exalted Essence. And what is the plain but the ground of possibility, which is the very book of God Most High? Maghrebi, let this discourse rest; do not lay bare the secret of the two worlds.

Throw off the veil of names from the face of the Essence; do not hide the true One behind a mere label. Cast off the veil and set out for the open plain; leave the corner of solitude and, for a moment, take in the sight of unity. Even though the radiance of the Essence would dissolve all things the instant this veil falls away. Though there is an 'us' and an 'I,' they too are nothing but You; for a single moment, take this 'I' and 'we' away from me. Though the world is the shadow of the mythical Anqa of the West, still that shadow has become a veil over the Anqa itself. The many patterns of the waves on the sea's surface are veil enough to hide the sea's inner oneness. The glow of your own beautiful face keeps itself hidden; like a lovely maiden's cheek concealed from the heartsick lover's eye. It is not fitting that you stay hidden from those who can truly see, for you yourself are the light of every seeing eye. Since it is You, Maghrebi, who beholds your own beautiful face, do not hide that lovely face from him, my friend.

Cupbearer, bring that cup of pure clarity; for a moment set us free from ourselves. For God's sake, if you can do something, then do it, do something, do something, for God's sake. As you have made your own eyes drunk, make drunk our hearts, our minds, our souls, our sight. The world is full of counterfeits and cheats; come, work your alchemy on these false hearts. You could remake us into a whole new self, if only you and we had the desire. A beggar becomes a king the very day that you seat that beggar on your own throne. The first painting is crowded with figures and designs; O beloved, wipe every image from the heart. Come, cleanse the world-reflecting mirror clean of every picture of this world. Once you have wiped away the world's design, adorn its face with the image of your own face. Before the sky of the heart, like the sun, sweep every star from the tablet of the heavens. Come, cast a ray of light upon the setting west; in the name of love, turn this faint star into the sun.

The whole world shines in your life-giving face, and your face is revealed in the mirror of all creation. When the beauty of your face looked into the mirror, it saw its own reflection and lost itself in wonder and longing. Each moment your face offered its own beauty to itself, appearing before its own eyes in a hundred lovely forms. From the eyes of lovers it cast a glance, so it could gaze at its own beauty in the faces of the beautiful. To display itself, your face made a mirror, and it gave that mirror the name of Adam and Eve. It saw the beauty of its own face in every face, and so it became the mirror of all the names. Since you are both the one who sees and the one who is seen, and no one exists but you, then why did all this uproar arise? Maghrebi, the horizons fill with clamor when the sultan of your beauty pitches his tent in the open plain.

What love was this the Beloved kneaded into our clay, what treasure did the Friend lay hidden in our heart? For forty mornings the eternal gardener worked by hand, finding no rose-seed he did not plant in our soil. What moon was this that came down from the sky and settled, serene and at ease, in our house and constellation? What angel was it that fell into the pit of Babylon? What spells lie deep in this well of ours in Babylon! What waves keep breaking, moment after moment, from the surge and stirring of His sea onto our shore? The heart takes on a thousand shapes in a single instant; see how ready our receptive heart is to be imprinted. With every knot He loosens from His own hair, a hundred thousand of our troubles come undone. If you long to be accepted at His court, come and become the servant of the one who is our fortunate one. Like Maghrebi, close your eyes to the images of this world if you seek perfection from our Perfect One.

What we seek lies beyond what every seeker seeks; our drinking is of a wine no other cup can hold. No one has ever tasted a single sip to his heart's content from the wine our own lips keep drinking without pause. Our starry sky lies beyond all the skies, for the sacred essence itself is our sky of stars. Many spurred on the horse of the heart, yet no rider, however swift his soul, ever caught up to our steed. When the days and nights of creation did not yet exist, his face was already our day, his hair our night. Whoever gave up life and world bought his love, and came to know the loss and gain of our trade. Only that one grasps the meaning of our sighs and prayers who, like us, has been burned by our cry of 'O Lord.' Take up our faith, root and branch, for the true religion is the one we follow. First wash the tablet of your heart clean of all creation's marks, if, like Maghrebi, you mean to enter our school. What love was it the Friend kneaded into our clay? What treasure did the Beloved lay within our heart?

For forty mornings, from the dawn of creation, with its own hand it planted; no seed of any rose was seen until it was sown in our clay. What moon was this that came down from the sky and settled sweetly, at home, in the tower of our dwelling? What angel was it that fell into the pit of Babylon? What spells lie at the bottom of our Babylonian well? What waves keep arriving, moment after moment, from the surge and stirring of his sea onto our shore? The heart takes on a thousand forms in a single instant; see how ready to receive every shape our willing heart is. With each knot he loosens from his hair, a hundred of our difficulties come undone. If you long to be accepted at our court, come, become the servant of his dark locks, for that is our path to fortune. Like Maghrebi, fix your gaze on the very essence of all being, if you seek perfection from the one who is perfect among us.

Do you know who we are, and who you are? We are the shadows cast by the sun of God's light. A shadow is the shining of that sun, and the sun's shining is the very light itself. The sun is not far from its own rays, and the shadow is never separate from the sun. Shadow and sun are one and the same: He is one, though He appears as many. Since the shadow of the sun is a single thing, then Lord, where did all this multiplicity come from? Turn your gaze away from the surface of creation, and the shadow will reveal itself to you as one. Move past the shadow, for what you call a shadow is, everywhere, the sun itself. Explain how a single thing can become the very being of all things. There is one essence, and all these individual beings; there is one named, and all these names. Essence and aspect, name and epithet and attribute, intellect and soul, nature, form, and faculties, all of them are marks of His self-determinations, whatever exists on earth and in the sky. In thousands upon thousands of strange forms, He shows Himself to Himself. He is present in the world, old and new; His latest name is Adam and Eve. Sometimes He becomes Majnun, sometimes Layla; sometimes He is Vameq, sometimes Azra. What I call waves is a mirror of His radiance, appearing dressed in the guise of 'me' and 'us'. The pattern of this wave on the endless sea is Maghrebi, and Sanai, and their light.

Come, plunge into the sea and let go of this 'I' and 'we,' for until you become the sea yourself, you will never know the sea's true essence. If one day a wave from that sea sweeps you into this desert, it will drown you so completely that you forget the desert ever existed. If you see the waves of the sea as nothing but waves, not the sea itself, I know for certain you will never see the named reality behind the names. Once you have made all your numbers into one, nothing remains but the One; when you become a single tomorrow, you see yesterday and tomorrow as one. Move from multiplicity toward unity, then from unity back to multiplicity; only by the path of unity and multiplicity can you truly know the names. What do you know of what lies beneath and above the earth and sky, when you, such as you are, have never even seen your own below and above? Since you are drunk on the beloved's essence, sink deep into yourself and be still; both this hidden and this visible arise from that same hiddenness and appearing. Listen, Maghrebi: if you speak of the Phoenix of the West, you must seek that Phoenix somewhere beyond both East and West.

Come and let your beautiful face shine before the lover's eyes, for only a true lover knows the perfection of a beloved's beauty. Come to the open plain of the lover's heart and pass by displaying yourself; adorn the world with your lovely face. For a moment step out from the solitude of oneness into the open field; look upon those who watch, and see the crowd that has come to gaze. What kind of sun is this, I cannot tell, that sets the whole world ablaze, yet from its own face keeps granting light to every seeing eye. O Joseph of the Egypt of loveliness, how long will you keep this heartbroken Jacob and the grieving soul of Zuleikha in sorrow? You have hidden your sweetness away, leaving all the flies to circle in confusion; if you want a swarm of them, bring your sweets out into the open. O plundering beloved, come and carry off my soul as your spoils; my heart will not give you up, nor will you give up plundering. My beloved's sweet lips fill the world with uproar, for such lovely ones always delight in commotion and turmoil. O westerner, speak little to the man of the desert, for one of the desert cannot understand the language of the people of the sea.

Soul-nightingale, how are you inside this cage of the body? How long will you stay here alone, a single body all by yourself? Sweet-voiced nightingale, from that rose garden and that orchard, how did you suddenly fall into these dunghills? It seems that in this ash pit you have forgotten that meadow, that garden, those hyacinths and lilies. Break the cage of the body, then singing your bright song, rise up from the rank of the ash pit and stroll into the gardens. Your fellow singing birds have all left this ash pit; they flew to the garden and took their places there. One cannot make a home among predators and beasts; leave this dreadful place, my soul, and head for safe havens. Bird of the heavens, caught in the snare of an earthly body, for two or three grains you have missed whole harvests. At least, since you cannot get out of this shell, sit by its window and throw all the openings wide. Poor Maghrebi, why settle down here, when over there dwellings have been made ready for you?

When the light of the beloved's beauty shone on my heart, the eye of my soul saw beauty in its full perfection. How could anyone still care for the pleasures of the world once they have tasted, even for a moment, the joy of union with the beloved? How could it stoop to the world's snares and its scattered grain, this heart now caught in the beloved's curling hair and beauty mark? It never even imagines ruling over both worlds, the mind that is never for a moment empty of thoughts of the beloved. In neither world can you find anything to match the beloved, though both worlds are patterned after the beloved's likeness. My inner self is so completely filled with the beloved that if the beloved came, there would be no room left for the beloved. My heart and soul are so full of the beloved that, being lost in the beloved, I no longer even watch for the beloved. What need does the eye have for outer beauty when the beloved's beauty shines from within? When it rose from the east of your heart, a thousand full moons faded before the beloved's crescent.

Your face shines out in the eyes of everything beautiful; all the grace and beauty of the lovely ones belongs to you. On the face of every fairy-featured beauty, only a line or two from the book of your beauty has been written. There is no beloved anywhere except your face; for true rapture, nothing is worth loving but your face. Zuleikha's eyes were fixed on the reflection of your face, seeing the lovely face of Joseph, son of Jacob, as if in a mirror. In the witness and the witnessed, you are both the seer and the seen; in lover and beloved, you are both the seeker and the sought. In the taverns they worship none but you; even the one who bows to stone and clay and wood. The broom of longing for you swept the house of my heart clean; and now this house is swept just as the heart desires. From those scattered locks and that mischievous glance, the whole world, from end to end, was filled with turmoil and unrest. Maghrebi is not veiled from your face, my friend; if anything, he is veiled from your beauty only by himself.

Your ruby lips are my cupbearer, my cup of wine; those two intoxicating eyes keep me forever undone. When the murmur of my beloved's voice is in my ears, what need have I for the sound of harp, lute, or fiddle? Under a lucky star my gaze fell on the beloved's face; the moment my eyes opened, my fortune woke from sleep. In the state I'm in, drunk on the eternal cupbearer, it's a wonder I can still tell real wine from a mirage. Someone who knows nothing of pleasure or of pain has no sense of paradise, and none of torment either. Since beside your being I am nothing at all, do not turn your face away, do not fall into anger. If you don't speak to me, that is no surprise; the sun never bothers to address a shadow. Don't ask Maghrebi for etiquette on the path of love, for no one ever sought manners from the drunk and the lovers.

Your boundless attributes are the talisman guarding the treasure of Your essence; and the treasure of Your essence lies hidden behind the spell of those attributes. The whole world is nothing but the design of the talisman guarding Your treasure; yet no mystery is ever solved by talisman or image alone. Your attributes are the painter working in the workshop of both worlds; the image of all creation is only a shadow of the light of Your attributes. The shadow that is the image of creation appears only from Your light, for its spreading reaches across every possible thing. A shadow is a mere reflection of light; it has no will of its own, and so it never holds still for a single moment. The worthless shadow keeps saying to the light: 'You appear only through me, so I too exist in my own right, just like You.' The shadow looks as if it exists, but it has no real being; if you could tell nothingness from true being, you would find your salvation. How could Khizr ever drink a single draught from the water of eternal life, so long as you mistake mere darkness for the water of life? O heart, lost and bewildered on the western plain, if you are truly seeking the placeless One, pass beyond all places and directions.

Your face is the sun and all creation its scattered specks; your essence lies beyond both denial and affirmation. How could specks of dust ever reach the sun? Dust is dust, and the sun is beyond all reach. Every name and attribute of creation is lost, dissolved in delight within your essence. There is no name there, no epithet, no mark, no shape, no fixed form like yours. When manifestation arose from the outward signs, the names and attributes reached their full perfection. And for this purpose the earths, the elements, and the heavens came into being. Clear and defined, the verses were written out upon the page of existence. Through the painted image and its receiving forms, we saw it plainly, with no rival to it. One meaning and a hundred thousand shapes; one shape and a hundred thousand mirrors. The lamp is your face, my beloved; both worlds are the glass and the niche that hold it. Your sun became visible in the west, though it is by that sun the specks of dust are seen.

Your attributes are the veil over the face of your essence; your pure essence is what makes those attributes appear. When the sun of your face began to shine, all darkness was destroyed by its light. Your lips breathed upon a dead world, and from that breath it found new life. That world burst into clamor and motion, like dust particles dancing before the sun of your face. A whole world was nothing, mere non-existence; your life-giving lips brought it into being. Every motion in the world comes from you; otherwise non-existence stays still and fixed. How would the poor world have grown rich, if you had not drawn out the alms from your treasure? And what they call Adam is a copy of the world and the manifestation of the essence. Maghrebi, what they call the world is only the reflection of your face in a mirror.

The whole universe is a mirror of your essence; and to those with true sight, your attributes surpass even the essence itself. The moment your captivating face resolved to appear, all creation became the stage for its display. When the sun of your beauty rose, every particle of the possible world came into being. So much did the cloud of your grace rain down on nothingness that a spring of life burst from the ground of the void. The dust of nothingness did not glance away from your signs; it became the site where your revelations descend. When your beauty shone through the idols of Somnath, the idol worshipper began to adore those very idols. The unbeliever bowed to Lat and Manat out of longing, for in Manat and Lat he glimpsed your beauty. You whose love sets the heavens turning: it is longing for you that gives all the skies their warrant to move. Child of the grace of the Incomparable God, no eye of any father or mother has ever seen one like you. You are the treasury of treasures and its trusted keeper; you are the riddle of both worlds and the secret that solves every riddle. You are the center, the orbit, the being and its bounds; steady like the pole star, yet turning like the restless sky. If I send you a greeting, you are the greeting itself; if I offer you a blessing, you are that blessing too. Tell me at last: how could anyone give you to yourself? You are your own purifier, and you are your own alms. O most beautiful of the beautiful, most charming of the charming; O grace of all graces, O finest of all subtleties. O most comprehensive of appearances, O most perfect manifestation; O barrier between all barriers, O gatherer of all that is scattered. You are both the treasure and its talisman, both body and soul; both the name and the named, both the essence and its attributes. You are both west and east, and the rising place itself; the throne, the earth, the elements, the heavens, and every direction.

Who is the one hidden from both worlds yet plainly seen? And if that one is openness itself, then who is this hidden thing? The one who, in a hundred thousand forms, appears anew each moment, who is it? And the one who, in a hundred thousand displays, reveals its beauty at every instant, who is it? You say it shows itself from both worlds, appearing one by one; who is it? I said, I am always silent; so the one who speaks through every tongue, who is it? You said, I am beyond body and soul; then who is it that wears the garment of body and soul? You said, I am neither this nor that; then the one who is both this and that, who is it? You who keep to the edge and stand apart, by God, in the midst of all this, who is it? The one who keeps shining forth in the grace and beauty of the beloveds, who is it? And the one who showed itself and cast turmoil into the world, who is it? You who linger, thinking you have reached perfection, yet never made certain who holds the bow, who is it? Vanish from Maghrebi's own sight, and through that one's eyes, see plainly who is it.

Even a thousand different cups hold nothing but one wine; though the stars are countless, there is only one sun. Though the sea throws up countless waves, the many are in the waves, yet it is nothing but one water. When it spoke to itself, all creation appeared; so the cause of the world's making is nothing but one word. It asked itself a single question in the world of soul and heart; that is why every spirit is nothing but one answer. Though many books have been written in every kind, we read them all: the craft is nothing but one book. You give the world a face of real existence, yet in the desert of nothingness the world is nothing but a mirage. What is this world whose sign and name you keep asking about? On the ocean of absolute being it is nothing but a bubble. You whose own existence has become a veil over the beloved's face, tear it away, for it is nothing but a veil over that face. Maghrebi has become a veil across the soul's own road, Maghrebi; step past your own face at last, for it is nothing but a veil.

The bewildered sun asks: where is the sun? Every flood asks: where has the water gone? Last night sleep asked my eyes: don't call this world a dream, but where does sleep itself lie? The drunkard asks: have you seen the drunk? Lord, where is that man beside himself, undone? The wine itself, right there in the tavern, threw a gathering and asked: where is the wine? The beloved walks about unveiled and asks: where is that unveiled beloved? Everyone is lost and restless, yet where is the one who has broken free of restlessness? All of them, behind their own veils, searching for themselves; where is the knower who has escaped the veil? How long will you ask, when you yourself are the key to yourself? What is the key, and where is the door that opens? Maghrebi, you are like an eastern sun yourself; how long will you keep asking where the sun is?

If he were to lift the veil of his attributes from his face, both worlds would burn to ash in the light of his essence. Before the blaze of the essence revealing itself, all attributes are erased, just as they are already slain by the radiance of those very attributes. Do not look for existence or permanence before his radiance, for a fragile bud cannot survive the wind of true endurance. My heart, throw back the veil from his face and ask no more, for you will be consumed in the fire of his glory. By the light of your face, which is the light of all lights, and by the dust of your street, which is both fire and the water of life. Do not fear this destruction; be brave, for that very ruin is the cause of your freedom and salvation. If you are not erased, how will you ever truly be? If you seek permanence, seek it in your own vanishing. The sun of his face is hidden in the West, though every speck of dust shines plainly with his radiance.

The eternal cupbearer, whose wine my soul is drunk on, poured me a drink that has no color and no scent. Without a mouth, my soul drank down that wine, for it is pure and beyond any barrel, cup, or jug. The light of that wine went to work in my soul and heart, its fire in my bones, my marrow, and my skin. In my drunkenness I saw the back of drunkenness itself, and saw a world with no hidden side: all of it turned toward me. When at last the veil was lifted from before me, I saw both worlds entirely, and saw they were all Him. What I had called a mere speck of dust was a blazing sun, what I had called a little stream was an endless sea. Ugly and beautiful they seemed, but were not two: whatever I called ugly and whatever I called beautiful were one. Everyone I had imagined to be my enemy, when I finally saw the truth, turned out to be my friend. Maghrebi, since there is no real difference at all, hold your tongue: this is no place for talk.

I am so drunk, so drunk, so utterly drunk that I can't tell my foot from my head, or my head from my hand. Except for the one whose cup has made me drunk, I no longer believe anyone exists in the whole world. I want to lose myself completely, to leave myself behind, if the cupbearer keeps pouring the wine like this. The pact my heart had made with the world of existence, once it grew drunk, shattered every last piece of it. Reason walked out the moment love walked in; my soul rose and fled the instant love sat down. Drunk or sober, it's all the same to me now; anyone not like this hasn't truly tasted the wine. Someone who has never known anything but the One, what would he know of five or six, of counting at all? I have passed beyond both height and depth; now there is no high or low left before me. Don't go looking for the four-arched dome of the sky, not you, who have leapt free from the prison of the six directions. None can reach the nearness of that intimate presence unless, like an arrow, the heart springs loose from the bow's grip. Even east and west cannot contain him once his being, like the sun's essence, breaks free of the setting place.

What the heart and soul long for is right here, within heart and soul; but the soul that stays unaware of itself is lost and heedless. My heart searches for the Beloved's home with all its heart and soul, unaware that the Beloved already dwells inside that very heart and soul. That heart and soul make their home amid water and clay, though their true dwelling lies beyond this realm of dust and mud. This hidden treasure was granted to every person within themselves, yet each one's own secret is a hard riddle sealed against them. It is all one ocean, and that ocean is our very self, but our sense of self stands as a veil between us and the sea. Only the one who drowns in the sea has eyes that truly see it; whoever stays on the shore sees nothing but the shapes of the waves. No one who merely reflects the sea is complete in either world; know that only the one who becomes the sea itself is the perfect man. The whole world is nothing but the shadow of the light of Being; turn your face away from the world, for a shadow soon fades. If you are wise, choose the shadow that leans on the sun; no one truly wise would trade the sun for a mere shadow. It is not fitting for one who walks the straight path to lean toward whatever the crowd happens to desire. Since you have learned that truth is being and falsehood is nothing, follow the truth and turn away from all that is false. The point of oneness is the very heart of unity, the ocean of Being; it belongs to whoever arrives at the line of justice. Do you know what stands between the soul and the Beloved, Maghrebi? A meeting point that gathers all: an imagined line, a dividing edge.