Chapter Nine: On Repentance and the Right Path

Come, you whose life has slipped past seventy years: were you asleep, that it all blew away on the wind? You spent your days gathering supplies for staying, but never made a plan for the leaving. On the Day of Judgment, when they set up the market of heaven, they will hand out rank according to good deeds. You'll carry off wealth in measure of what you brought; if you come bankrupt, you'll carry off only shame. For the busier and more crowded the market, the more scattered and anxious the empty-handed feel. If five coins go missing from your fifty, your heart is torn by the claws of grief. Since fifty years have already slipped from your grasp, treasure the few days that remain. If the poor dead still had a tongue, they would cry out in wailing and lament: 'You who are alive, while speech is still possible, don't seal your lips from remembrance like the dead.' Since our time was lost to heedlessness, you, at least, count the few breaths you have as a chance.

One night in our youth, with every good thing at hand, a group of us young men sat together. Singing like nightingales, our faces fresh as flowers, filling the street with laughter and playful noise. An old man who had seen the world sat apart from us; the turning sky had turned his once dark hair to daylight white. His mouth was shut tight, silent as a hazelnut; not like us, whose lips split open with laughter like pistachios. One of the young men went over and said, 'Old man, why sit here aching in your corner of regret? Lift your head out of the collar of your grief; come, stroll happily among us young folk.' The old man raised his head from his silence; look at the answer he gave, so full of an old man's wisdom. 'When the morning breeze blows over the garden, it is the young tree that is fit to sway and dance. A young shoot sways while it is green and fresh; once it yellows, it just snaps and breaks. In spring the willow puts out fragrant blossoms, but a dense old tree only sheds its dry leaves. It does not suit me to prance with the young, for the dawn of old age has already broken on my face. A wild hawk holds me in its grip, and moment by moment it tears at the thread of my life. It is your turn now to sit at this feast, for we have washed our hands of such pleasures. Once the dust of age has settled on your head, do not expect the joys of youth again. Snow has fallen on my raven black feathers; I can no longer roam the garden like a nightingale. Let the beautiful peacock show off its splendor; what can you want from a hawk whose wings are plucked bare? My grain has already been reaped and stored away; for you the new grass is only just sprouting. The freshness of my garden is gone; who ties a bouquet from flowers that have withered? My son, my life now leans on a cane; to lean on life any longer would be a mistake. Leaping up on his feet suits only the young; old men must push themselves up with their hands.' Look at my rosy cheeks, once pure gold; they sank away, like the sun when it turns yellow and sets. Reckless craving is not so ugly in an unripe child as it is in a raw, foolish old man. I ought to weep like a child out of shame for my sins, not to live like a child. Luqman said it well: not living at all is better than living for years in error. To keep the shop shut from the very morning is better than losing both profit and capital. By the time a young man carries his dark hair toward the light, the poor old man has carried his white hair to the grave.

An old man came to the doctor, groaning, so close to death. He said: place your hand on my pulse, wise one, for my feet can no longer lift from the ground. This body of mine, lying here, is like a man sunk deep in mud. Go, said the doctor, let go of this world, for your feet will only rise from that mud on Judgment Day. Don't look for youthful joy in the old: flowing water never returns to the stream. If you kicked up your heels in youth, in old age keep your wits and good sense about you. Once your life has passed beyond forty, don't flail your arms and legs, the water is already over your head. Joy began to flee from me the moment my evening began to turn to dawn. It is time to drive desire out of the mind, for the season of chasing pleasure is over. How can fresh greenery gladden my heart when the grass is soon to sprout from my own grave? Amusing ourselves in whim and desire, we walked over the dust of many who came before. And those still hidden in the unseen will come and walk over our dust in turn. What a pity that the season of youth is gone, spent on play and idle pleasure. What a pity for that soul-nourishing time that swept past us like a flash of Yemeni lightning. Obsessed with what I would wear and what I would eat, I never made time to care for my faith. What a pity, we busied ourselves with the worthless, strayed from the truth, and lived heedless. How well the teacher put it to the child: we got nothing done, and life slipped away.

Young one, take the path of devotion today, for an old man never gets his youth back tomorrow. You have peace of mind and strength of body; the field is wide open, so strike the ball. Fate stole years from me, years whose every day was worth a whole night of glory. I did not value those days back then; now I understand, when I have already lost the game. What effort can an old donkey make under its load? Go on, you, while you still ride a swift horse. A broken cup, even if they mend it neatly, will never fetch the price of a whole one. Now that it has slipped from your hand through neglect, there is no remedy but to bind it back together. Who told you to throw yourself into the river? But since you have fallen in, at least keep swimming. Through carelessness you lost the clean water; what can you do now but purify yourself with dust? Since you failed to win the race against the nimble runners, keep going anyway, stumbling and rising. If those swift-footed ones have raced far ahead, then you, helpless as you are, at least get up from where you sit.

One night in the desert of Fayd, I slept, and exhaustion had chained my feet from running any farther. A camel driver came, alarmed and impatient, and struck the camel's reins on my head, shouting: get up! Have you set your heart on dying where you lie, that you don't rise when the caravan bell rings? I too, like you, feel sweet sleep in my head, but the long desert still lies ahead of us. If you won't rise from that pleasant sleep at the call to depart, how will you ever catch up on the road? The camel driver beat the drum of departure, and the head of the caravan reached the next stop. Lucky are the wakeful, the fortunate ones, who pack their bags before the drummer sounds. By the time those asleep on the road lift their heads, those who have gone ahead leave no trace behind. The traveler who rose early wins the lead; what use is staying awake after the caravan has moved on? One who scatters barley in springtime, what wheat can he gather at harvest? You must wake now, you who sleep; for when death drags you from your sleep, what good is it then? When gray hair descends upon the face of youth, your night has turned to day: open your eyes from sleep. The day I lost all hope of life was the day white hairs fell into my black ones. Alas that this precious life has slipped away, and these few remaining breaths will slip away too. What passed in wrongdoing has passed; and if this too passes without your grasping it, it is gone. Now is the time for sowing seed, if you would tend it, if you hope to reap a harvest one day. Do not enter the city of Judgment empty-handed, for sitting there in regret will do you no good. If your mind has eyes, prepare for the grave now, while the ants have not yet eaten your eyes. With capital, my son, one can turn a profit; what profit comes to the one who devours his capital? Make your effort now, while the water is only at your waist, not when the flood has already risen over your head. Now, while you still have eyes, shed a tear; while your tongue is still in your mouth, offer your apology. The soul will not stay forever in the body, nor will the tongue keep turning in the mouth. You must apologize for your failings now, not when the speaking soul has fallen silent. Listen today to the words of those who know, for tomorrow the angel Nakir will question you in terror. Treasure this precious breath of life, for without its bird the cage has no worth. Do not waste your life in sighs and regret, for opportunity is precious, and time is a sword.

Fate cut the thread of a living man's life, and another tore his collar in grief at his death. A sharp-witted observer said this, when the crying and wailing reached his ears: If the dead man could raise a hand against you, he would tear his own shroud in protest. He would say: don't twist yourself so in sorrow and pain over me; I only set out a day or two before you. Have you forgotten your own death, that mine has left you weak and wounded? The truth is, whoever throws earth on a corpse should burn not for the dead but for himself. Why moan over losing a child who went into the ground? He came pure and left pure. You too came pure, so stay watchful and pure; it is a disgrace to go to the grave unclean. Tie down this bird now, not later when the thread has slipped from your hands. You sat in many another person's place; someone else will sit in yours. Whether you are a champion or a swordsman, you will carry off nothing but a shroud. Even if the wild ass snaps its snare, once it is trapped in the sand its feet are bound. Your strength of arm lasts only as long as your foot has not sunk into the sand of the grave. Don't set your heart on this ancient dwelling, for the dome will not keep even a walnut resting on it. Since yesterday is gone and tomorrow is not yet yours, reckon only with this one breath you have.

A beloved of Jamshid died and went into the ground; they wrapped him in a silk shroud, soft as a silkworm's thread. After some days he came to the tomb to weep over him with bitter, burning grief. When he saw that the silk shroud had rotted away, he spoke to himself in thought like this: I once tore this silk from the silkworm by force; now the worms of the grave have torn it back from him. In this garden no cypress ever grew tall that the wind of death did not uproot from its base. Fate never shaped a face as fair as Joseph's without the fish of the grave swallowing it, as the whale swallowed Jonah. One day two lines of verse turned my heart to fire, when a singer sang them to the sound of the lute: Alas, for many a season without us the flowers will bloom and spring will burst open. Many a summer, winter, and spring will come and go while we are only dust and clay.

A devout and God-fearing man once found a brick of solid gold fall into his hands. It so dazzled his clear mind that greed clouded his once bright heart. All night he schemed: with this wealth and treasure, my life will never fall into ruin. I will never again have to bend low before anyone, begging, then straighten up empty-handed. I will build a house with marble floors, its ceiling beams all fragrant aloeswood. A private room for friends, and off the room, a garden inside the courtyard. I am worn out from stitching patch upon patch; the heat of the cookstove has scorched my eyes and mind. From now on servants will cook my meals, and I will nourish my soul in comfort. This rough felt bedding has tormented me; from now on I will spread fine carpets. The fantasy made him senseless and dazed; greed sank its crab-claws deep into his brain. No peace was left for prayer or intimate whispering; his eating, sleeping, remembrance, and worship were all gone. Drunk on this illusion, he wandered out to the open plain, unable to sit still anywhere. There a man was kneading clay upon a grave, meaning to make bricks from that graveyard mud. The old man sank for a moment into thought: O shortsighted soul, take this lesson. Why tie your heart to this brick of gold, when one day they will make a brick out of your own clay? Greed's mouth does not open so wide that a single morsel could ever satisfy its hunger. Let go of this brick, you worthless fool; a great river cannot be dammed with a single brick. You are lost in dreams of profit and wealth while the capital of your life is trampled away. The dust of desire has sewn your mind's eyes shut; the hot wind of lust has burned your life's harvest. Wipe the kohl of heedlessness from your clear eyes, for tomorrow you yourself will be kohl in the eye of the dust.

Between two men there was hatred and war, their heads raised in pride against each other like leopards. So repelled were they by the sight of each other that the sky itself felt too narrow for both. Death sent its army against one of them; his days of pleasure came to an end. His enemy grew glad in his heart, and some time later passed by his grave. He saw the chamber of his grave plastered with earth, the man whose palace he had once seen gilded with gold. Strutting, he stepped up to the head of the grave, lips parted in a smile, saying to himself: How sweet and complete is the fortune of the one who, after his enemy's death, lies in a friend's embrace. There is no need to weep for the death of a man who lived a while after his enemy was gone. Out of spite, with the strength of his arm, he tore a slab from the face of the grave. He saw the crowned head down in the pit, both its world-seeing eyes packed with dirt. His body a prisoner in the dungeon of the grave, his flesh food for worms, plunder for ants. So tightly had the earth packed his bones that they were like an ivory case brimming with kohl. Through the turning of the wheel, his moon-bright face was a thin crescent; from the cruelty of time, his cypress stature a bare splinter. The palm of his hand and his once mighty grip, the days had torn joint from joint. Such pity welled up in his heart for him that with his tears he kneaded mud upon that dust. He grew sorry for what he had done and for his ugly ways, and ordered these words carved on the gravestone: Do not rejoice at anyone's death, for time will not keep you long after him. A wise mystic heard these words and cried out: O all powerful God, it would be a wonder if you showed him no mercy, when even his enemy wept bitterly over him. One day our own body will become like that, so that the hearts of enemies will burn for us. Perhaps mercy will stir in my friend's heart when he sees that even my enemy forgave me. Sooner or later the head comes to such a state that you would say an eye was never in it at all. One day I struck my hoe into a mound of earth, and a mournful, aching cry reached my ear: Take care, if you are a man, strike more gently, for this is an eye, an earlobe, a face, a head.

One night I slept, set on a journey; at dawn I set out to catch a caravan. Then came a terrible wind and dust that darkened the whole world before people's eyes. On the road there was a young girl of the house, wiping the dust from her father with her veil. Her father said to her: my sweet-faced child, you who hold the anxious, loving heart of mine, There won't always be so little dust in these eyes that you can wipe it clean again with a veil. So many breezes will pass over this dust of ours that each speck of us will be carried off somewhere. Your reckless breath, like an unruly beast, drags you at a run toward the edge of the grave. Death will suddenly snap the stirrup loose, and you cannot pull the reins back from the slope.

Do you know, you cage of bones, that your soul is a bird whose name is breath? Once the bird leaves the cage and breaks its bonds, no effort of yours will catch it again. Seize the moment, for the world is only a breath; and to the wise, a single breath is worth more than a whole world. Alexander, who ruled over an entire world, when the moment came and he had to leave it behind, could not manage to give up that world in exchange for a single moment's reprieve. They all left, and each reaped what he had sown; nothing remained but a name, whether good or vile. Why set our hearts on this roadside inn, when our companions have gone and we are still on the road? After we are gone, this same garden will bloom, and friends will sit together as before. Do not tie your heart to the world's sweet charm, for it has never stayed with anyone without breaking that heart. When a man lies down in the dust of the grave, the Day of Resurrection will shake the dust from his hair. Lift your head from the collar of heedlessness now, so that tomorrow you are not left bowed down in regret. It is not like arriving in Shiraz, where you can wash the dust of the journey from your head and body. So you, dust-stained with sin, soon you will set out for a strange, distant city. Let a stream flow from the two springs of your eyes, and if any stain clings to you, wash it away yourself.

I still remember my father's time, may mercy rain on him at every moment, when I was a child, he bought me a slate and notebook, and he bought me a golden ring. Suddenly a peddler tricked the ring off my hand for the price of a single date. A small child doesn't know a ring's worth, so with a little sweet you can take it away. You too never knew the value of your life, throwing it away on sweet pleasures. On Judgment Day the good will rise to the heights, lifted from the depths of dust up to the stars. But your head will hang low with shame, as your own deeds circle around you. Brother, feel shame for any wicked act that will disgrace you before the eyes of good people. On that day when deeds and words are questioned, even the steadfast prophets tremble with dread. In a place where even the prophets grow fearful, what excuse do you have for your sin? Come, tell me. Women who devote themselves willingly to worship surpass men who lack virtue. Aren't you ashamed of your manhood, when women outdo you in devotion? Women, for a certain valid reason, must at times set aside their worship, but you sit idle like a woman with no excuse. Go, you who are less than a woman, and don't boast of manhood. What place have I for fine speech? Onsori, the king of poets, said it best: «Once you stray from what is right, you turn crooked; what kind of man is one who is less than a woman?» Suppose you have pampered yourself with luxury and delight, and in the meantime made your enemy strong. A man once raised a wolf cub, and when it was grown, it tore its master apart. As he lay down giving up his life, one eloquent tongue told him to his face: You raise such a darling enemy, didn't you know you'd inevitably suffer its bite? Didn't Satan mock us, saying nothing but evil comes from these humans? How I grieve at the evils within our own souls, for I fear Satan's suspicion may prove true. Since that cursed one delighted in our defeat, God cast him out for our sake. How can we lift our heads from this disgrace and shame, when we are at peace with him and at war with God? A friend rarely looks your way when your face is turned toward the enemy. If you want a friend you can benefit from, you must not obey the enemy's orders. A friend has the right to grow distant from anyone who takes the enemy as a housemate. Don't you know a friend will hardly set foot inside when he sees the enemy living in the house? With base silver, what do you hope to buy, that you would cut your heart from the love of Joseph? If you have any sense, don't turn from the friend, so that the enemy cannot even dare to look at you.

A man once picked a fight with a king, who handed him to his enemy and said: spill his blood. Trapped in the grip of that vengeful foe, he cried out every moment in grief and pain: If I hadn't turned my own friend against me, when would I ever have suffered at an enemy's hands? My dear, the enemy's cruelty flays the skin of the man who has driven his own friend away. If you have any sense, don't turn from your friend, for then the enemy won't dare even glance at you. Be of one heart and one word with your friend, and the enemy will be uprooted from the ground. I don't believe it can ever be right, this ugly deed: hurting a friend to please an enemy.

A man swindled people out of their money by fraud, then, once caught, he cursed the Devil. On the road the Devil said to him: I have never seen such a fool. You and I are at peace, friend; so why raise your neck against me in war? It is a pity to be commanded by an ugly demon, for the hand of the recording angel will write your deeds down. Would you let your ignorance and shamelessness allow the pure ones to record your filth? Find a way and seek reconciliation; send an intercessor and offer your excuse. For once the cup is filled by the turning of time, no reprieve is granted, not even for a moment. And if you have no power to act, then like the helpless raise your hands in weeping. If your wrongdoing has gone past all measure, once you admit the evil is done, good has come to you. Step forward when you see the road to peace still open, for suddenly the gate of repentance may close. Do not walk under the burden of sin, my son, for the porter grows weary on the journey. You must hurry after the righteous, for whoever sought this happiness has found it. But you keep trailing the vile demon; I do not know how you will ever reach the good. The Prophet intercedes only for the one who walks the path of the Prophet's law. Walk the straight road so you reach your destination; you are not on the road, and that is why you fall behind. Like the ox at the oil press whose eyes are blindfolded: it runs until nightfall, and by night it stands right where it began. A man covered in mud set out for the mosque, marveling at his own wretched luck. Someone rebuked him: May your hands wither, do not tread the clean place with your filthy hem. A tenderness came into my heart at this, for the highest paradise is pure and joyful. In that place, the hope of the pure, what business has one smeared with the mud of sin? Paradise is won by the one who brings obedience; whoever wants payment must bring goods to trade. Do not delay; wash your hem clean of the dust of sin, for suddenly the stream may be dammed from above. Do not say the bird of fortune has flown from my snare, for you still hold the end of its thread in your hand. And if you are late, be swift and eager; coming late does no harm to the sincere. Death has not yet tied your hands from asking; raise your hands to the court of the Giver of justice. Do not sleep, you sinner sleeping so sweetly; rise, and shed some tears in apology for your sin. Since it must be so, let the honor of your tears be poured out upon this dust of the road. And if no tears remain to you, bring forward as intercessor someone whose honor is greater than yours. If in wrath God drives me from His door, I will bring the souls of the great as my intercessors.

I still remember from my early years, one holiday I went out walking with my father. I got caught up watching the toys and the crowd, and in the press of people I lost my father. I cried out in fear and panic, and suddenly my father reached over and boxed my ear. He said: You reckless child, how many times must I tell you not to let go of my sleeve? A little child cannot go off alone, for it is hard to travel a road you have never seen. You too, poor soul, are a child on the road of striving: go and hold on to the coat of those who know the way. Do not sit with base and worthless people, for if you do, you will wash your hands of your good name in dread. Cling with all your might to the saddle straps of the pure, for the one who truly knows God is not ashamed to beg at their door. Disciples are weaker than children in strength, but the masters stand firm like a solid wall. Learn how to walk from that small child, who steadied himself by leaning on a wall. Whoever sat in the circle of the devout broke free from the chains of the corrupt. If you have any need, take hold of this circle, for even a king cannot do without this door. Go and be a gleaner in Saadi's way, so that you may gather in the harvest of knowing God. You who dwell in the sanctuary of divine intimacy, who tomorrow will sit at the holy table: Do not turn your face from the crowd of beggars, for a truly generous person never drives away a hanger on. Now, while you still can, join company with wisdom, for tomorrow no road back will remain.

A man piled up his grain in August's heat and set his mind at ease against the worries of winter. One night he got drunk and lit a fire; the wretched fool burned his own harvest down. The next day he sat picking through the stubble, for not a single barley grain of the harvest was left in his hands. When people saw the poor man lost and bewildered, one of them said to his own son: If you don't want to end up so miserable, don't burn your own harvest in a fit of madness. If your life has slipped away in wrongdoing, you are just like the man who set his own harvest ablaze. It is shameful to go scavenging for scattered grain after you've burned down your own crop. Don't do it, my dear: sow the seed of faith and justice, don't throw the harvest of a good name to the wind. When a man of ruined fortune falls into chains, the fortunate take a lesson from his fate. Knock on the door of mercy before the punishment comes, for wailing under the stick does no good. Lift your head out of the collar of neglect, so tomorrow you won't stand ashamed before yourself.

A man was caught in the middle of a shameful act when a person of good standing happened to pass by him. He sat there, his face sweating with embarrassment, thinking: how ashamed I am before this respected elder of the neighborhood! The clear-hearted old man heard these words and, stirred, said to him: young man, Are you not ashamed of yourself? God is present with you, and yet it is me you feel ashamed before? Do not worry about the eyes of any person. Go, and keep your attention on God alone. Feel the same shame before your God that you feel before strangers and family.

When Zulaikha grew drunk on the wine of love, she seized the hem of Joseph's robe. The demon of lust had so consumed her that she fell upon Joseph like a wolf. The lady of Egypt kept an idol carved of marble, and she worshipped before it morning and evening. In that moment she covered its face and head, so it would not look upon her shameful act. Grief-stricken, Joseph sat down in a corner, his hand raised against his own tyrant desire. Zulaikha kissed his hands and his feet: 'You faithless, stubborn one, come to me.' 'Don't scowl with a heart of stone; don't ruin this sweet moment with your harshness.' Tears ran in a stream down his face: 'Turn back, and seek no impurity from me.' 'You felt ashamed before a face of stone; let me feel shame before the pure God.' 'What good is regret gathered up in the hand once you have wasted the whole treasure of your life?' 'People drink wine to bring color to their cheeks, but in the end it leaves them pale with disgrace.' 'Make your plea and turn back today, for tomorrow no chance to speak will remain.'

When a cat leaves its filth on a clean spot, finding it ugly, it covers it with dirt. Yet you commit shameful things openly, unafraid that eyes might fall on you? Think of the servant heavy with sin who hides from his master for a while. If he does not return in truth and humility, they will drag him back in chains and shackles. Only pick a bitter fight with someone from whom you can escape or find a way out. You must settle the account of your deeds now, not when the ledger is finally unrolled. Even one who did wrong did not do so badly if he grieved for himself before the Day of Judgment. Though a mirror darkens from a breath, the mirror of the heart is polished bright by a sigh. Fear your own sins this very moment, so that on Judgment Day you fear no one.

I arrived a stranger in the land of Abyssinia, my heart free of the world, my mind at ease with simple pleasures. Along the road I saw a raised platform, and a few wretched men chained by the foot to it. I made ready for the journey within myself, and set out across the desert like a bird freed from its cage. Someone said: these prisoners are night thieves; they take no advice and will not hear the truth. If your hand has done no wrong to anyone, why fear even if the whole world's police seize you? The honest official who lets no fraud slip in fears no reckoning from the tax collectors. But if your honesty hides deceit beneath it, when the accounting comes your tongue loses its courage. No one takes a person of good name as prisoner; fear God, and do not fear the ruler. When I do my service well and faithfully, I have no worry about a wrong-minded enemy. If a servant strives as a servant should, his master will hold him dear. But if he grows lazy in his service, he falls from a station of trust down to tending donkeys. Step forward, even if you must pass beyond the angels; for if you fall short, you are lower than a wild beast.

The governor of Damghan struck a man with a polo mallet, until he cried out like a beaten drum. That night, restless with pain, he could not sleep. A devout man passed by and spoke to him. If at night you had carried your pain to the police chief, he would not have shamed you by day. No one stands ashamed on the Day of Judgment who carries the burning of his heart to God's door at night. If you still have peace in your heart, what is there to fear? The Generous One never shuts the door on those who ask forgiveness. Ask of God, the just and merciful judge, at night for repentance for the failings of your daytime sins. The Generous One who brought you from nothing into being, how strange it would be if He did not take your hand when you fall. If you are His servant, raise your hand in need; and if you feel ashamed, let the tears of regret fall. No one came to this door seeking pardon whose sin the flood of remorse did not wash away. God does not disgrace anyone whose eyes pour out enough tears to wash their sins away.

In Sanaa a child of mine died. What can I say of what passed over my heart? Fate has never shaped a face as lovely as Joseph's without the fish of the grave swallowing it, as with Jonah. No cypress ever rose tall in this garden without the wind of death tearing it up by the roots. A sapling takes thirty years to become a tree, and a single hard gust rips it from the ground. It is no wonder a flower blooms from the soil, for so many blossom-bodied ones have slept beneath it. I said to my heart: die, you disgrace to men, for the child leaves the world pure while the old man leaves it stained. In my grief and turmoil for him, I lifted a stone from his grave. From dread, in that dark and narrow place, my state was shaken and my color drained. When I came back to my senses from that shock, a voice from my beloved child reached my ears: If the dark place frightened you, then keep your wits and step in with a light. If you want the night of your grave to be bright as day, kindle the lamp of good deeds from here, while you live. The worker's body trembles with fever, afraid his palm tree may bear no dates. A great many people wrongly imagine they can reap a harvest they never sowed. Sadi will eat only from the tree whose roots he planted; only the one who scatters seed carries off the harvest.