Chapter Three: On Love, Rapture and Passion

Blessed is the state of those maddened by the grief of love, whether they receive a wound or its healing balm. They are beggars who turn their backs on kingship, patient in their begging, holding only to the hope of Him. Cup after cup, they drink the wine of pain, and even when it tastes bitter, they swallow it in silence. The hangover of longing hides in the pleasure of wine; the thorn stands guard beside the king of flowers, the rose. The patience endured in remembering Him is not bitter, for even bitterness is sweet when it comes from the beloved's hand. The drunk lovers of the friend bear reproach lightly; a drunken camel carries its load more easily. His captive wants no release from the chains, His prey seeks no escape from the snare. Kings of solitude, beggars of the Living One, they know every waystation, yet have lost their own path. How can ordinary people find their way to them, when, like the water of life, they dwell hidden in darkness? Like Jerusalem, full of domes within, while the outer walls are left in ruin. Like a moth, they set themselves on fire; not like a silkworm, wrapping itself in its own thread. Holding their heart's ease close, still they search for it; lips parched with thirst though they stand at the water's edge. I do not say they cannot reach the water; they stand on the banks of the Nile, dying of thirst.

A love for someone made of the same clay as you can steal away all your patience and peace of mind. Awake, you are captivated by her cheek and the beauty spot; asleep, your feet are bound by her image. You lay your head at her feet so sincerely that beside her the whole world seems like nothing to you. When your gold means nothing in the eyes of the one you love, then gold and dust look the same to you. You can no longer bear to breathe a word with anyone else, for once she fills your heart, there is no room for another. You feel she lives right there in your eyes; and if you shut them, she is dwelling in your heart. No fear of being disgraced before others, and no strength to stay patient for even a moment. If she asks for your life, you offer it up at once; if she lays a blade to your head, you bow your head.

If love that is built on mere desire can be so seductive and so commanding, why should you wonder at the travelers of the path who drown in the ocean of true meaning? Their souls consumed by longing for the Beloved, absorbed in remembering the Friend, cut off from the world. They flee from people to remember God, drunk on the cupbearer who spilled the wine. No medicine can cure them, for no one knows the pain they carry inside. The eternal question 'Am I not your Lord?' still rings in their ears, and they cry out their answer, 'Yes, You are.' A group who live in solitude, doing the work: feet planted in the dust, breath full of fire. With a single cry they can uproot a mountain; with a single moan they can shake a whole city. Hidden like the wind yet swift on their feet, silent like a stone yet always praising God. At dawn they weep until the tears wash the last trace of sleep from their eyes. Their horses worn out from riding through the night, they groan at daybreak, exhausted and spent. Night and day lost in the sea of yearning and burning, so distracted they cannot tell night from day. So captivated by the beauty of the divine Artist that they have no concern for outward beauty. The wise never gave their hearts to the mere shell; if some fool did, he had no sense to begin with. Only one who forgot both this world and the next has ever tasted the pure wine of union.

I heard that once a beggar's son had set his eyes upon a prince. He went about nursing a hopeless passion, biting his lip against his own longing. He was never absent from the prince's field, standing beside his horse all day like a great pillar. His heart bled and the secret stayed locked inside, yet his feet, from all his weeping, stuck in the mud. His rivals learned of his suffering and told him again: do not linger here. He left for a moment, but the beloved's face came back to mind, so he pitched his tent again at the door of that street. A servant broke his head, his hands, his legs: didn't we tell you not to hang around here? He walked away, but had no patience, no peace; he could not endure being far from his beloved's face. Like a fly, they cruelly drove him from the sweetness, and at once he came flying back. Someone said: you reckless, half-mad man, what strange patience you have for these blows of stick and stone! He said: this cruelty falls on me from his hand, and it's no fair thing to complain of a friend's hand. Here I am, still declaring my devotion, whether he loves me or counts me an enemy. Don't expect me to bear being without him, when even with him I can find no rest. I have no strength to endure, no ground to fight, no way to stay, no legs to flee. Don't tell me to turn my head from this royal door, even if he drives my head into a noose like a nail. Isn't the moth that gives its life at the beloved's feet better off than one alive in a dark corner without him? The man said: what if he strikes you with his polo mallet? He answered: then I'll fall at his feet like the ball. He said: what if he cuts off your head with his sword? He said: even that I would not grudge him. I am hardly even aware of my own head, whether a crown sits on it or an axe. Do not scold me for being impatient, for in love no patience can take shape. Like Jacob, even if my eyes turn white with grief, I will not give up hope of seeing my Joseph. One whose heart is happy with another does not take offense at every little thing. One day the young man kissed the prince's stirrup; the prince flared up and pulled his reins away. The youth laughed and said: don't turn your reins away, for a king does not turn away from a nobody. With you existing, no existence is left for me; remembering you, no self-worship remains in me. If you see a fault in me, don't blame me: you are the one who has risen up out of my very collar. I dared lay my hand on your stirrup only because I no longer count myself as anything. I drew a line through my own name; I set my foot upon my own desire. The arrow of those intoxicating eyes already kills me: what need to raise your hand to the sword? Just set the reeds on fire and pass on by, for neither the dry nor the green stalk will be left in the thicket.

I heard that to the tune of a singer, a dancer beautiful as a fairy rose to dance. From the restless hearts of those around her, the candle's flame caught the hem of her robe. She grew troubled and angry. One of her admirers said: what does this matter? The fire, my friend, only scorched your hem, but it burned my whole harvest to the ground. If you truly love, say nothing of yourself, for holding onto self alongside the beloved is idolatry. I recall this from a wise old sage: a love struck man set out for the wilderness. His father, missing him, could not eat or sleep. They scolded the son, and he replied: From the moment my beloved called me her own, no other bond with anyone remained for me. By the truth: once the Truth showed me its beauty, all else I saw seemed only a passing illusion. He who turned his face from all creatures is not lost; rather, having lost himself, he found himself again. There are scattered ones beneath the sky whom you might call both wild beasts and angels. Like angels, they never rest from remembering the Kingdom; like beasts, night and day they flee from people. Strong of arm yet empty handed, wise yet mad, sober yet drunk. Sometimes serene in a corner, stitching their patched cloak; sometimes wild in a gathering, burning it to ash. No craving for themselves, no concern for anyone; in their private union with God, no room for anyone else. Their reason unsettled, their senses scattered, their ears sealed to the words of any advisor. The duck will never drown when it enters the sea; how would the salamander know the torment of fire? Empty handed but full of patience, they cross the deserts on the trail of the caravan. Dear ones hidden from the eyes of the crowd, not idol worshippers merely draped in a holy robe. They do not seek the approval of the people, for the approval of God is enough for them. Full of fruit and casting shade like a grapevine, not blackhearted and blue eyed with envy like us. They bow their heads within themselves like an oyster, not like the sea that throws up worthless foam. People are not just bone and skin, nor does every form hold the soul of meaning within it. The king does not buy every slave, and not beneath every tattered rag is a living soul. If every hailstone turned into a pearl, the market would be as full of them as cheap beads. Like a wrestler, they do not tie a wooden leg to themselves, thinking a false leg will carry them firmly along. Companions of the eternal covenant's hidden chamber, drunk from a single sip until the trumpet of judgment sounds. They do not grip the sword out of self interest, for piety and passion are glass and stone.

A man had a beautiful beloved in Samarkand, so sweet you would say he held sugar in place of a smile. A beauty that outshone the sun, whose playful glance toppled the foundations of piety. God be praised, such beauty to the utmost degree, that you would think him a verse of mercy itself. He walked by, and all eyes followed, while the hearts of his lovers surrendered their lives. This lover gazed at him secretly, the beloved caught his stare, and said sharply: You reckless fool, how long will you chase after me? Don't you know I am no bird for your snare? If I ever see you again, I swear by the blade, like an enemy I will cut off your head without mercy. Someone told him: now save yourself, chase after some easier goal than this. I don't think you'll win this desire; beware, don't throw your life away for a heart's whim. When the true lover heard this scolding, he let out a groan of pain from deep within: Let the wound of the deadly blade roll my lifeless body in blood and dust. So that friend and enemy alike might say: this is one slain by his hand and his sword. I see no escape from the dust of his street; let the tyrant spill my dignity if he will. You order me to repent, you self-worshipper? Repenting from such talk suits you far better. Have pity on me, for whatever he does, even if he seeks my blood, he does it well. Each night his fire burns me to ashes, yet at dawn I come alive with his sweet scent. If I die today in the beloved's street, on the day of judgment I will pitch my tent beside him. As long as you can, never turn your back in this battle, for Saadi still lives, though his love was the death of him.

A thirsty man, as he was giving up his life, said: How lucky is the one who dies in water. A naive boy said to him: How strange, since you're dying anyway, what does it matter, wet lips or dry? He answered: Won't I at least wet my mouth, so that I pour this sweet life down my own throat? A thirsty man may fall into a deep pool; who would think the drowning one dies still thirsty? If you are a lover, seize the hem of the Beloved; and if He says, give up your life, say: take it. You'll taste the paradise of ease only when you've first passed through the fire of the trial. Those who plant the seed endure the hardship; when the harvest comes in, they rest content. In this gathering, the one who won his desire was the one who caught the last cup at the final round.

Here is a tale I have from the men of the path: the poor are truly rich, and beggars are kings. One morning an old man went out to beg; he saw a mosque and called out for alms. Someone told him, 'This is not a house of ordinary people where you'll be given something. Don't stand there being a nuisance.' He answered, 'Then whose house is this, that has no mercy on anyone's condition?' The man said, 'Quiet! What a wrong thing to say. The Lord of this house is our own Lord, God.' The old man looked, and saw the lamp and the prayer niche; from the depths of his soul he let out a burning cry. 'It would be a shame to move on beyond this place, a pity to leave this door with empty hands. I have never left any street ashamed and empty; why should I turn away pale from the door of God? Right here I will stretch out my hand in need, for I know I will not go back with nothing.' I heard that for a whole year he stayed there, his hands raised like one crying out for help. One night his life's foot sank into the mud; from his weakness his heart began to flutter. At dawn a man carried a lamp to his bedside and found in him only the flicker of a dawn candle. Yet joyfully, bubbling over, he kept saying, 'I knocked at the door of the Generous One, and it opened.' The seeker must be patient and enduring, for I have never heard of an alchemist growing weary. How much gold they bury in black earth, hoping that one day they will turn copper into gold. Gold is good for buying something, but you will never buy anything better than the memory of the Friend. If your heart grows weary of one beloved, you can find another comfort to hold. Do not carry away a bitter life over a sour face; put out that fire with fresh water elsewhere. But if the beloved has no equal in beauty, do not abandon them over a little heartache. You can turn your heart away only from someone you know you can live without.

I heard of an old man who kept vigil through the night, and at dawn raised his hands to God in need. A voice from the unseen dropped these words in his ear: 'You waste your time. Turn back and mind your own way. Your prayer is not accepted at this door. Leave in disgrace, or stand here weeping in vain.' The next night too he did not sleep, but kept to remembrance and worship. A disciple learned of his state and spoke: 'Since you have seen the door shut in your face, why pour out so much effort for nothing?' Tears the color of rubies fell over his face; grieving, he said: 'My boy, if I turned away from this road in despair, tell me, what other road could I ever find? Do not imagine that because he pulled back the reins, I would let go of his saddle-straps. When a beggar is turned away from one door, what does it matter, if he knows no other door to try? I have heard I have no path in this street, yet there is no other street for me to walk.' He was in this state, his head pressed to the ground in surrender, when a call came to the ear of his soul: 'He is accepted, even if he has no merit, for he has no other refuge but Us.'

Do you know what a man in Nishapur once said when his son fell asleep, skipping his duties? Never expect, my son, that anyone gets anywhere without effort. The lazy one who takes no step forward is an existence as useless as nothingness. Hope for gain and fear loss, for those who stay idle are cut off from both harm and reward.

A young bride went complaining to an old man about her unkind groom. She said, 'Don't let my days pass in such bitterness beside this boy.' 'The others who share this house with me, none seem as heartsick as I am.' 'A husband and wife should be such close friends, like two kernels wrapped in a single shell.' 'In all this time I have never once seen my husband smile at my face.' The old man, blessed and wise, heard her words; he had seen many years and knew how to speak. He gave her a sweet and gentle answer: 'If he is handsome, then bear his burden.' 'It is a pity to turn your face from someone whose equal you will never find again.' 'Why defy the one who, if he rebels, could strike out the very letters of your existence?' One day I pitied a slave whose master was putting him up for sale, and the slave kept saying, 'You may easily find many slaves better than me, but you will never find another master like you.'

In Merv there was a physician with a face like a fairy's, whose figure stood tall as a cypress in the garden of the heart. She had no idea of the wounds she left in aching hearts, nor any notice of her own captivating, languid eyes. A lovesick stranger tells the story: for a while my head was happily busy with a physician. I did not even want to get well, for then my physician would come to me no more. How many a strong, commanding mind the madness of love has forced into submission. Once passion has boxed reason on the ears, good sense can no longer lift its head again.

A man forged an iron gauntlet for his fist, meaning to test his strength against a lion. But when the lion pulled him in with its claws, he felt no strength left in that fist at all. Someone shouted, 'Why lie there helpless like a woman? Strike it with your iron fist!' I heard the poor man answer from beneath the beast: 'A fist like this is no argument against a lion.' When love overpowers the wise man's reason, it is exactly like this: the fist against the lion. Once you are caught in the claws of a man-slaying lion, what good will an iron fist do you? When love arrives, say no more of reason, for the ball lies helpless in the grip of the mallet.

A marriage was arranged between two cousins, two children of a noble line, each bright as the sun. One of them was delighted with the match; the other was unwilling and rebellious. One had the grace and beauty of an angel; the other had turned his face to the wall. One dressed and adorned himself for the day; the other begged God to let him die. The village elders sat the unwilling young man down and said, 'You feel no love for her, so give her a marriage payment and let her go.' He laughed and said, 'For a hundred sheep, freedom from this bond is no bad bargain at all.' The angel faced bride tore at her skin with her nails, crying, 'How could I ever bear to be parted from my love?' 'Not a hundred sheep, but three hundred thousand, none of it is worth not seeing my beloved's face.' Whatever keeps you from your beloved, if you want the truth, that thing has become your comfort instead of the friend. Someone wrote to a heart lost in love: 'Do you long for hell or for paradise?' He answered, 'Do not ask me such things. I want only what my beloved wants for me.'

Someone said to Majnun: You who walk a good path, what has happened to you? Why don't you come to her tribe anymore? Has the passion for Layla left your head? Have you changed your mind, with no desire left? When the poor man heard this, he wept bitterly: Sir, let go of my sleeve, leave me be. My heart is already wounded and in pain; don't rub salt into my wound as well. Staying away is no proof that I've grown calm; it's only that a great distance was forced upon me. The man said: You faithful one, blessed in nature, if you have a message for Layla, tell it to me. He answered: Don't mention my name before my beloved; my name is unworthy of any place where she is.

Someone found fault with the king of Ghazni: 'How strange, Ayaz has no real beauty.' A flower with neither color nor scent, it's odd that a nightingale should long for it. When someone told this to Mahmud, he turned the thought over and over in his mind. 'My love, sir, is for his character, not for his handsome height and figure.' I heard that in a narrow pass a camel stumbled and fell, and a treasure chest broke open. The king waved his sleeve, giving the spilled wealth away as plunder, and quickly spurred his horse from there. The riders scattered after the pearls and coral, abandoning the sultan to grab the loot. Of all the proud young attendants, none stayed at the king's side except Ayaz. The king looked and said, 'My curly-haired darling, what did you carry off from the plunder?' He answered, 'Nothing.' 'I was riding close behind you; I would not leave your service for riches.' If you have any nearness at the royal court, don't let a robe of honor make you forget the king himself. It goes against the mystic path for saints to ask of God anything other than God. If your eye is fixed on the Friend's gifts rather than the Friend, you are bound to yourself, not to the Beloved. As long as your mouth hangs open with greed, the secret from the unseen won't reach the ear of your heart. Truth is a beautifully adorned house, but desire and craving stir up dust. Don't you see that where dust has risen, the eye cannot see, even if the man has sight?

As fate would have it, an old man and I, both from Faryab, reached the sea on the western shore. I had a single coin; they took it, loaded the boat, and left the poor man behind. The black boatmen drove the vessel off like smoke, for the captain was godless and afraid. I began to weep out of grief for my lost companion; at my crying he laughed out loud and said: Do not grieve for me, you thoughtful one; the same One who took the ship will bring me across. He spread his prayer rug on the surface of the water. Was it a vision, I wondered, or a dream? That night my eyes would not close from astonishment; at dawn he looked at me and said: You are lame and came leaning on a stick; I came on my own feet. A ship carried you, but God carried me. Why do people of true understanding not believe that the saints walk through water and fire? Doesn't a loving mother guard even a child who knows nothing of the danger of fire? So those who are utterly immersed in ecstasy stay night and day within God's protection. He guards Abraham from the blaze of the fire, as He guarded Moses' cradle from drowning in the Nile. Like a child held safe in a swimmer's hands, he feels no fear even where the Tigris runs wide. How could you set foot upon the sea like those true men, when even on dry land your skirt is soaked?

The road of reason is nothing but twist upon twist; for those who truly know, nothing exists but God. You can say this to someone who knows the truth, but those who judge by mere logic will pick it apart. They ask: then what are the heavens and the earth? Who are the children of Adam, the beasts and wild things? You have asked well, clever one; I will answer, if my reply pleases you. The plains, the sea, the mountains, the sky, the fairies and humankind, demons and angels, all of them, whatever they are, are too little to have their existence named beside His existence. To you the sea seems vast with its waves, and the shining sun seems high at its peak. But how can those bound to appearances grasp that the masters of meaning dwell in another realm, where even the sun is not a speck, and the seven seas are not a single drop? When the King of glory raises His banner, the world bows its head into the collar of nothingness.

A village headman and his son were passing on a road, and they came upon the center of the king of kings' army. The boy saw the heralds, the swords and axes, the silk robes, the golden belts. Heroic archers and skilled hunters, slave-warriors with quivers, sharp with their arrows. One wore a robe of fine brocade, another had a royal crown upon his head. When the boy saw all that splendor and rank, his own father seemed utterly small and lowly to him. Meanwhile the father's manner changed and his color drained; out of sheer awe he fled into some corner to hide. The son said to him: come now, you are the chief of a great village, and as a leader you stand above the other elders. What happened to you, that you lost all hope of life and trembled like a willow in the wind of their grandeur? Yes, he said, I am a commander who gives orders, but my honor holds only as far as my own village reaches. The great are stained with such dread because they have stood in the court of a king. You, unaware child, are still just in the village, where you can imagine yourself holding some high post. The eloquent have never spoken a single word without Saadi finding a fitting example for it. Perhaps you have seen, in the garden or the meadow, how a little glowworm shines at night like a lamp. Someone said to it: little night-glowing worm, what is it with you, that you never come out by day? See what an answer this fiery little earthborn worm gave, speaking from the heart of its own light. It said: day and night I am nowhere but in the open field, yet in the presence of the sun I am simply unseen.

Someone once praised Sa'd ibn Zangi, may endless mercy rain upon his grave. The ruler gave him money, robes of honor, and treated him kindly, granting him a rank fit for his worth. But when the man saw 'God alone' stamped on the coins, he grew restless and tore the robe from his shoulders. Such a flame of longing seized his soul that he leapt up and set off into the wilderness. One of his companions in the desert asked him, 'What did you see that changed your state so completely? At first you kissed the ground before him; you shouldn't have ended by turning your back and walking away.' He laughed and said, 'At first, out of fear and hope, I trembled like a willow branch. But in the end, trusting that God alone reigns, neither wealth nor any person mattered in my eyes.' In a town of Syria an uproar broke out, and they seized a blessed old man. His words still ring in my ears, from the moment they clapped chains on his hands and feet. He said, 'Unless the king gives the order, who would dare to plunder? One must love an enemy like this, for I know it is the Friend who has set him upon me. Whether honor and high standing, or humiliation and chains, I trace it all back to God, not to this man or that.' Wise one, do not fear the illness when the healer sends you his bitter medicine. Swallow whatever comes from the Beloved's hand; the patient is no wiser than the doctor.

There was a man like me whose heart lay pawned in someone's hands, and he suffered endless humiliation. For all his wisdom and good sense, they beat him publicly, branding him a madman. You endured cruelty from your enemy for your friend's sake, for the great antidote turns out to be the beloved's poison. You took blows from your own companions, offering your forehead like a nail set out to be struck. Her image threw such turmoil into his head that it trampled the very roof of his mind. He had no notice of his friends' mockery, for a drowning man cannot notice the rain. Whoever has stubbed the foot of his heart on a stone no longer worries about the fragile glass of reputation and shame. One night a demon made itself into the shape of a fairy, embraced that man, and overpowered him. At dawn he had no time even for prayer, and none of his friends knew his secret. He plunged into water near the rooftop, while the cold had shut a marble door against him. An adviser began to blame him: 'You are killing yourself in this freezing water.' A cry rose from the fair minded young man: 'My friend, how long will you scold? Be quiet.' For five short days this boy has beguiled my heart; his love has left me unable to bear the separation. He never once asked after me with a kind word, yet see what a burden I carry in my soul for him. Then the One who shaped my body from dust and by His power breathed a pure soul into it, would you find it strange if I bore the burden of His command, when I live always in His kindness and grace?

If you are a man of love, count yourself as nothing; otherwise take the safe road instead. Don't fear that love will grind you to dust, for if it destroys you, you become eternal. No plant grows from a whole seed until its state changes and it first breaks open. Love gives you the kind of closeness with truth that frees you from your own grasp. For as long as you cling to yourself, there is no path into yourself; only the self-forgotten grasp this point. It isn't the musician: even the sound of an animal's footsteps becomes music, if you have love and passion. A fly could not flit past the troubled heart without him striking his head like a fly wringing its legs. The distraught one knows neither high note nor low; a beggar can break down weeping at a single bird's song. The singer never falls silent, but not every moment is the ear open to hear. When the enraptured worship wine, they grow drunk on the creaking of the water wheel. They begin to spin like a water wheel, and like it they weep bitterly over themselves. In surrender they bow their heads into their collars, and when patience fails, they tear their collars apart. Do not blame the dervish, dazed and drunk, for he is drowning, and that is why he flails hands and feet. I won't tell you, brother, what this sacred music is, until I know who the listener is. If his spirit-bird takes wing from the tower of meaning, even an angel is left behind by his flight. But if he is a man of frivolity, play, and jest, the demon in his mind only grows stronger. When the man of this music is a slave to lust, a sweet voice merely wakes the sleeper, not the drunk in ecstasy. A rose scatters at the dawn breeze; it is not firewood that only an axe can split. The world is full of music, drunkenness, and passion, but what can a blind man see in a mirror? Haven't you seen the camel stirred by an Arab's song, how joy sets it dancing? If even the camel has the thrill of joy in its head, then the human who lacks it is worse than a donkey.

A sweet lipped youth learned to play the reed flute so well that hearts would burn in his music like the reed itself. His father had scolded him again and again, harshly striking fire into that flute of his. One night the father listened to his son's playing, and the music left him shaken and stunned. Sweat pouring down his face, he kept saying: this time the reed has set me on fire. Don't you know why those drunk with longing throw up their hands and dance? A door opens onto the heart from what floods in, and the hand shakes off the whole world in a dance. For such a one, dancing in memory of the Beloved is pure, for in each of his sleeves there lives a soul. Grant that, like a brave swimmer, you can move arms and legs only when you are stripped bare. So take off the cloak of name, reputation, and pretense, for a man drowns and is helpless in heavy clothes. Attachment is a veil, and it bears no fruit; when you break your ties, you reach union.

Someone said to the moth: You lowly thing, go choose a friend suited to your own rank. Take a road where you can see some hope. You and the love of a candle: worlds apart. You're no salamander, so don't circle the flame; battle takes courage first. The blind mole hides from the sun, for ignorance cannot force its way against an iron fist. Someone you know to be your enemy, it is not wisdom to take him as a friend. No one will tell you you're doing right when you throw your life away for his sake. The beggar who asked the king for his daughter got a beating and cooked up empty dreams. How could he count a friend like you, when kings and sultans turn their faces to him? Don't imagine that in such an assembly he'll be gentle with a pauper like you. And if he's soft with everyone else, do you, poor wretch, think he'll be warm with you? Look now at what the burning moth replied: I wonder, if I burn, what's the harm? Like Abraham, I have a fire in my heart, so that this flame feels to me like roses. It's not my heart dragging me toward the beloved; his love drags my very soul by the collar. I don't throw myself into the fire by choice; the chain of longing is around my neck. I was burning even while still far away, not only now that the fire has caught me. A beloved in his beauty doesn't act in a way you could preach piety to. Who could blame me for loving the beloved, when I am content to die at his feet? Do you know why I'm so eager to be destroyed? Since he exists, it's fine if I do not. Let me burn, for the beloved chose it, so his fire may spread into me too. How long will you tell me: find, within your own station, a companion who shares your pain? Advice to the lovesick is like saying to someone stung by a scorpion, don't groan. Strange one, don't give counsel to someone in whom you know it will never take hold. When the reins have slipped from a helpless rider's hands, no one says, ride slowly, boy. How fine this line comes in the Sindbad tale: love is fire, my boy, and advice is wind. A fierce fire only rises higher in the wind; a leopard grows more vengeful when it is struck. When I saw you clearly, you were doing me wrong, turning my face toward someone like myself. Seek someone better than yourself, and seize the chance; with an equal you only waste your days. The self-worshippers chase after their own kind; the drunkards walk into the dangerous alley. From the moment I set out on this path, I lifted my heart from my head once and for all. The one who risks his head is the true lover; the coward is only in love with himself. Death may drag me down suddenly from ambush; better, then, that my darling kills me. Since it is surely written that I'll perish, perishing at the beloved's hand is sweeter. Won't you one day give up your life in helplessness? Better to give it at the beloved's feet.

One night I remember, my eyes would not close, I heard the moth speaking to the candle. It said: I am the lover, so if I burn, that is fair. But you, why do you weep and burn as well? The candle answered: My poor devoted friend, the honey of my sweet beloved is gone. As the sweetness drains out of me, like Farhad, a fire climbs over my head. It kept speaking, and moment by moment a flood of grief ran streaming down its pale face. It said: You who claim to love, this is not your work, for you have neither patience nor the nerve to stay. You flee at the sight of a single raw flame, while I stand still until I burn away completely. If the fire of love has singed only your wings, look at me: I have burned from head to foot. All night the candle went on with this talk, while its companions gathered to watch it. The night was not yet half spent when a fairy-faced one suddenly snuffed it out. As its smoke rose upward it kept saying: This, my son, is the end of love. If you want to learn how to love, you will find release from burning only in dying. Do not weep at the grave of one slain by the beloved; go rejoice, for such a death wins the beloved's favor. If you are a lover, do not wash your head clean of this sickness; like Sadi, wash your hands clean of self-interest instead. One who gives himself up never lets go of his aim, even if arrows and stones rain down on his head. I warned you: do not go into the sea. But if you go, then surrender your body to the storm.