On the State of the World

My heart, how long will you worship mere appearances? Step over the head of existence itself and be free. How long the grief for all that was and never was? How long these pointless tales? Rise like the free spirits and act with a quick hand; get drunk from the cup of nothingness. Let reason go and wander madly; circle the tavern door like the drunk. For in the tavern you will find real light, and come to know the pure gamblers of love. If you want joy, learn to speak of sorrow; if you want a flourishing life, seek ruin. Do not let your heart's blood boil like a pomegranate; if you want good, wear rough wool like the dervish. And if you want release from suffering, be content with less than what you already have. The throne of power comes at a price; the crown's grief is no light matter. Go, run a needle through the eye of desire; then dip your robe in indigo blue. Greed has grown bold, so shout it down; hurl a stone into the jug of lust as well. I fear that when your time to die arrives, you will gather the wealth and another will devour it. If your soul is unstained and whole, you will reach the straight path. And if you fall in disgrace into the pit of ego, you are excused, for you have no sight. In this lodging that holds both road and pit, every attachment is a demon; flee. Like true men, spur the steed of good fortune; break free of this demon by chanting your spell. You are like a peacock in the garden of the soul, like a falcon whose nest is in the placeless realm. What do you want from this haunt of demons? You are no owl, so why long for a ruin? In this ship whose name is life, the ego's trade is to work the sails. You must not sleep serenely in sweet dreams while the ship has slipped from shore into the whirlpool. In this whirlpool you cannot rest; you must drag your baggage onto the plain. Do not feel safe from this sea for even a moment; that is my word to you, and yet, with such sailing and such captaincy, how will you ever escape this whirlpool? A single gust shatters the market of the world; the world's affairs come to nothing. This is not your home, so lift your heart from this corner; your road lies ahead, go and gather provisions. You have another resting place elsewhere, with sweeter water and greener grass than this. There it is the destitute who have work; in that country the beggars carry the trade. There the sellers of remedy want your pain; they want a lean body and a face gone pale. Arrogance has no currency there; kingship is of no use there at all. On this board do not move crookedly like the queen; the sky is a cheat, so gather up your pieces. Do not play false with crooked words, for a false performer ends up bankrupt. Whether you live in pleasure or in misery, in these ten short days you are tethered here. Like the phoenix, keep to your corner of solitude; do not swarm the tables of others like a fly. Move less among the crowd; like true men, turn your face to the wall of sorrow. Do you not see how the bow keeps to its corner? Yet the twang of its string cannot be avoided. Live detached and laugh in the face of the world; cut yourself off from people and laugh at them. Do not take a wife and stitch up quarrels every hour; do not sew shame upon yourself for the sake of lust. For a piety born of gutlessness, and a household run by a coward, are worth nothing. Attachments will drag you into the dust; become detached, and detachment will set you free. A man's true treasure is in owning nothing showy; the world's real pleasure lies in having no name or repute. The ruined world is not worth a moment's grief; all its feasting is not worth a single funeral. Why race across this endless desert? What prize do you seek on this ruined road? From this lodging that lies before us, we carry a wounded heart and a bruised soul. It is a wilderness with no provisions, holding a road that has no end. Traveling this road is a hard task; neither your goal nor your destination is ever won. In this ruin, though you hold a hundred treasures, and from this dwelling suffer a hundred pains, though you bear the name of Kaykhosrow or Jamshid, and all the people of the world are your slaves, at the hour of departure you will find no companion; from a whole mountain you will not carry off a wisp of straw. How sweetly Nizami puts this truth; listen to it eagerly, my dear soul: «Wealth and estate, children, wife, and strength, all stay with you only to the edge of the grave.» «These nimble companions travel with you, but none comes with you into the earth.» Where is the one who would not weep at this mourning? What stony heart could keep from grieving? In this garden, whatever rose or narcissus you smell, whatever cypress or hyacinth you seek, my heart falls to pieces when I speak of it; yet if you look closely at each of them, one is a lovely face and captivating eyes, another a playful figure and youthful curls. Whoever mounts up to leave this lodging is seen in this lodging no more. Seize your moment like true men and grasp the work; do not be heedless, for this turning wheel does nothing but weave its tricks. A curse on this rigged game and its trickery! Someone once asked a priest, in confidence, about the wheel's cruelty, its end and beginning. He answered, concerning this temple that forever circles round the earth: no one can give a true account of it, and no voice comes back to us from the sky. Though it is fickle and quickly grows tired of you, as far as the eye can see it has turned like this forever. Into this veil the intellect has no road; knowledge holds no power there. This fountain that swells your light, this hall that shows you its revolving, how can the body's feet ever reach it? You must fly there on the wings of the soul. To glimpse such a talisman from afar, how could anyone grasp its rulings? From it you will see nothing but a distant order; better, then, that you choose silence. If we take the priest's counsel to heart, it is better still that we keep our lips silent. There is no helper here but divine grace; there is no work here but surrender. Instability is the world's custom and creed; this has always been the way of the world. No one knows its beginning or its end; better, then, that no one knows its name. If you truly listen to our condition, and keep your wits, you will look at no one's face. You will bind neither love nor heart to anyone, and stop laughing at yourself like a fool. Obeid, empty your heart of the world's affairs; and now, once more, turn back to your tale.