A Tale on the Meaning of Those Who Love

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.