Rubáiyát
of
Omar Khayyám

AND

Salámán and Absál

Boyle, Son & Watchurst,
Printers, etc.
Warwick Square, London, E.C.

[Pg iv]

Old Fitz, who from your suburban estate
Where I used to stay for a while,
Looks at the changing world around
And greets it with a friendly smile;
I still see you, as you sit there
Under your protective garden tree,
Watching your doves flutter by
And land on your shoulder, hand, and knee,
Or perch on your head with their soft feet,
As if they know your diet doesn't allow
Anything that comes to the full spread
Sit down with Peter while he prays;

Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

But nobody can say
That Lenten food sparks Lenten thoughts,
Whoever reads your beautiful Eastern poem, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
None more brilliantly crafted,
In English more than this;
A star shining as bright as the sun;
Which created it, that great non-believer
Your Omar: and your Omar received
Loud applause from our best
In modern literature....

Alfred Tennyson.

[Pg 1]

Edward FitzGerald was born in 1809 at Bredfield House, close to Woodbridge, Suffolk. He was the third son of John Purcell, who, after marrying a Miss FitzGerald, took on the name and coat of arms of his wife’s family.

St. Germain and Paris were his childhood homes, but in 1821, he was sent to the Grammar School at Bury St. Edmunds. While he was there, he studied alongside James Spedding and J. M. Kemble. In 1826, he moved on to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he met W. M. Thackeray and other notable people. The friendships he formed in school and college would turn out to be lasting, just like all the relationships he would create afterward.

One of FitzGerald’s main traits was what could almost be described as a gift for friendship. [Pg 2] He didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, but once he formed connections, they were never broken by any lapse in kindness and affection on his part. Throughout his long life, even when he showed some irritability and moodiness (as the translator of “that large infidel” did at times), it never overshadowed the simple and sincere genuineness of the man in the eyes of those he counted as friends.

From Oxford, FitzGerald moved to the 'suburb grange' at Woodbridge, as mentioned by Tennyson. There, simplifying his physical needs to a Pythagorean diet, he lived a genuinely simple life surrounded by books and roses, along with a few close friends. His yearly trips to London in the spring helped maintain connections from earlier days and brought him additional friendships, especially with the Tennyson brothers.

Among the languages, Spanish appears to have been his first love. His translation of Calderon, driven by the guidance of Professor Cowell, presented him to the world as a master of the unique art of expressing the nuances of a poem originally created in a different language to an English audience.

[Pg 3]

At the request of the same mentor, he later focused on Persian, with his initial effort being an anonymous version, in Miltonic verse, of ‘Salámán and Absál’ by Jámi. Shortly after, the Bodleian library's treasure trove revealed to him the gem of his literary work, the verses of “Omar Khayyám,” a gem whose stunning beauty had previously been shown to only a select few, and that through a version published in Paris by Monsieur Nicolas.

FitzGerald’s rushed and poorly thought-out marriage to Lucy, the daughter of Bernard Barton, the Quaker poet and friend of Lamb, was brief and doesn’t need further discussion. They decided to go their separate ways.

In his later years, the poet spent most summers on his yacht “The Scandal” (named after the local specialty) with ‘Posh,’ as he called Fletcher, the fisherman from Aldeburgh, whose letters to FitzGerald have recently been published.

To the end, he loved the sea, his books, his roses, and his friends. That end came to him during a visit with his friend Crabbe, with the gentle kindness of sudden death, on June 14, 1883.

[Pg 4]

Besides the works already mentioned, FitzGerald was the author of “Euphranor” [1851], a Platonic Dialogue on Youth; “Polonius”: a Collection of Wise Sayings and Modern Examples [1852]; and translations of the “Agamemnon” of Aeschylus [1865]; and the “Oedipus Rex” and “Oedipus at Colonus” of Sophocles. Of these translations, the “Agamemnon” probably ranks next to the Rubáiyát in quality. Two more plays were added to the six dramas of Calderon, released in 1853, in 1865. Among these plays, “Life is a Dream” and “The Wonderful Magician” stand out in quality.

His “Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám” was first published anonymously on January 15, 1859, but it didn't create much buzz and was mostly forgotten until it was brought back to the attention of the literary world the following year by Rossetti. It's interesting to note how much Rossetti acted as a literary midwife. FitzGerald, Blake, and Wells all owe him for his timely help in reviving works that seemed like they would barely survive the struggles of their creation. Mr. Swinburne and Lord Houghton were also taken by its qualities, and its popularity gradually grew. However, it took eight years before the second edition was published.

[Pg 5]

After a quarter of a century, the popularity of the “Rubáiyát” received a significant boost when Tennyson, fittingly considering FitzGerald’s translation of Sophocles’ “Œdipus,” introduced his “Tiresias, and other Poems,” with some delightfully nostalgic lines dedicated to “Old Fitz” on his last birthday. “This,” notes Mr. Edmund Gosse, “was the start of a widespread appreciation for ‘Omar Khayyám’ in English, which has become one of the interesting literary trends of recent years. The beauty of FitzGerald’s verse is so exquisite, the ideas he arranges and connects are so deep, and the overall poetic atmosphere that he creates in his version is so pure that it’s no surprise that the poem has received such universal acclaim from discerning readers.”

Neither the “Rubáiyát” nor his other works are just translations. They’re better characterized as “mostly new creations based on the original texts.” In the “Omar,” which is clearly his best work, he definitely took significant liberties with his source material, adding lines or even entire quatrains that, while they may capture the essence of the original, don’t have a direct counterpart in it.

[Pg 6]

In showing FitzGerald’s ability to capture the essence rather than the exact words of the original, comparing the Ousely MS. of 1460 CE, in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, with the “Rubáiyát” as we know it today is very interesting.

The manuscript goes like this:—

For a while, when we were young, we had a teacher;
For a while, we were happy with how much we learned;
Look at the basis of the discussion!—what happened to us?
We entered like Water, and we leave like Wind.

In FitzGerald's version, the lines are presented like this:—

I often rushed to see the Doctor and the Saint when I was young and listened to their big debates. But no matter what, I always left through the same door I came in.

With them, I planted the Seed of Wisdom
And with my own hands worked hard to make it grow:
And this was all the harvest that I gathered—
“I came like Water, and like Wind I leave.”

[Pg 7]

Similar examples can be found elsewhere, like this:—

From the Start, what will be was written
The Pen writes without pause, ignoring right and wrong;
On the First Day, He set everything that needs to be;
Our sorrow and our efforts are pointless,

develops into:—

The Moving Finger writes; and, having written,
Moves on: neither your Piety nor Wit
Will bring it back to remove half a line,
Nor will all your Tears wash away a Word of it.

The general tendency to amplification is shown again in the translation of the two lines:—

Don't abandon the book, the lover's lips, and the green bank of the field,
Before the earth wraps you in its embrace.

into the frequently quoted lines:—

With me along a patch of grass spread out
That barely separates the desert from the cultivated land,
Where the terms Slave and Sultan are rarely acknowledged,
And I feel sorry for Sultan Mahmood on his throne.

Here with a loaf of bread under the tree,
A flask of wine, a book of poetry—and you
Next to me singing in the wild—
And the wild is paradise enough!

[Pg 8]

And in the lines of Omar:—

In a thousand places on the road I walk, you set traps.
You say: “I will catch you if you step into them,”
In no small thing is the world independent of you,
You control everything—and call me rebellious!

majestically shaping into FitzGerald's version:—

Oh, You, who set traps and snares
Along the path I was meant to tread,
You won't trap me with Predestination.
And blame my downfall on Sin?

Oh, You, who created Man from common earth
And who created the Snake in Eden;
For all the sins that have marked humanity
Grant forgiveness to Man—and take it back!

To what school did FitzGerald belong? Who were his literary influences? Lucretius, Horace, and Donne definitely played a significant role in shaping his ideas and crafting his verse. The unrhymed line, often echoing with a lingering sound that isn’t picked up by the next stanza, clearly reminds us of Horace’s Alcaics.

[Pg 9]

Epicurean, in the usual sense of the word, he definitely is, but more in the earlier style. Cyrenaic would be a more accurate label; the “carpe diem” message of the poem is too crude and sensual to have appealed to the true Epicurus. Intense fatalism, alongside total uncertainty, is the central theme of the poem. Although these two "isms" are theoretically contradictory, in practice they are often inseparable companions.

The theory of reincarnation is the only thing that can fully explain FitzGerald’s incredible success as a translator.

Omar was FitzGerald and FitzGerald was Omar. They both dropped their shields and went back to their tent, not to sulk, but to find in quiet reflection the peace and satisfaction that truly comes to those who stick it out until the end. Their time away gave them all it could offer, an even deeper understanding of the emptiness of things and their unknowability. This holds a special appeal for most people in the Rubáiyát; in clear, melodic verses, it expresses the mixed beliefs and doubts of those who are neither monsters nor saints, neither strict religious followers nor devil-worshippers, but simply human beings.

[Pg 10]

Those wanting more information about Edward FitzGerald's life and his role in literature can check out Jackson’s “FitzGerald and Omar Khayyám” [1899]; Clyde’s “Life of FitzGerald” [1900]; Tutin’s “Concordance to FitzGerald’s Omar Khayyám” [1900]; and Prideaux’s “Notes for a Bibliography of FitzGerald” [1901], as well as his “Life” [1903].

For an insightful discussion on the true nature of Omar, check out the Introduction to “Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám” in the “Golden Treasury” Series.

W.S.

[Pg 13]

Omar Khayyam, or Chiam, was born around the middle of the 11th century in Naishápúr, Khorassán, and he died in that town around the year 1123.

Little is known about the details of his life, and the facts that are available mainly come from the Wasíyat or Testament of Mizam al Mulk (Regulation of the Realm), who was a fellow student of Omar at the school of the famous Imám Mowafek or Mowaffak. This is referenced in Mirkhond’s History of the Assassins, from which the following extract[A] is taken.

“‘One of the greatest wise men from Khorassán was Imán Mowaffak of Naishápúr, a highly respected and honored man—may God bless his soul. He lived for over eighty-five years, and it was widely believed that any boy who read the Koran or studied traditions in his presence would surely achieve honor and happiness. [Pg 14] Because of this, my father sent me from Tús to Naishápúr with Abd-u-samad, the law doctor, so I could focus on studying and learning under that esteemed teacher. He always looked at me with kindness and favor, and as his student, I developed deep affection and devotion for him, spending four years in his service. When I first arrived, I found two other students around my age who had just arrived: Hakim Omar Khayyám and the unfortunate Ben Sabbáh. Both were incredibly sharp and gifted, and the three of us quickly became close friends. After the Imám finished his lectures, they would join me, and we compared notes on what we had learned. Omar was from Naishápúr, while Hasan Ben Sabbáh’s father was Ali, a man with a strict lifestyle but considered heretical in his beliefs. One day, Hasan said to me and Khayyám, “It’s a common belief that the students of Imám Mowaffak will achieve great things. [Pg 15] If we all don’t make it, surely one of us will; what should be our promise to each other?” We replied, “Whatever you want.” “Alright,” he said, “let’s vow that whoever achieves success will share it equally with the others and not claim any superiority.” “Agreed,” we both answered, and we made that pact. Years went by, and I traveled from Khorassán to Transoxiana, then wandered to Ghazni and Cabul; when I returned, I was given a position and became the administrator of affairs during the Sultanate of Sultan Alp Arslán.’

“He continues by saying that years went by, and both of his old school friends tracked him down, coming to claim their share of his good fortune based on the promise made during their school days. The Vizier was generous and kept his promise. Hasan asked for a position in the government, which the Sultan granted at the Vizier's request; however, discontent with a slow rise, he got caught up in the intrigue of an Oriental Court. After failing in a dishonest attempt to overthrow his benefactor, he was disgraced and fell from grace. After many misfortunes and travels, Hasan became the leader of the Persian sect of the Ismaílians, a group of extremists who had been long simmering in obscurity but gained a notorious reputation under his strong and wicked influence. [Pg 16] In A.D. 1090, he took over the castle of Alamút in the province of Rúdbar, located in the mountainous region south of the Caspian Sea. From this mountainous stronghold, he gained the infamous title among the Crusaders as the OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS and spread fear throughout the Muslim world. It remains a topic of debate whether the term Assassin, which has persisted in the language of modern Europe as their dark legacy, is derived from hashish, or the hemp leaf opiate (the Indian bhang), which they used to drive themselves to a state of grim desperation, or from the name of the dynasty's founder, whom we previously observed during his quiet days at Naishápúr. One of the many victims of the Assassin's dagger was Nizám al Mulk himself, his old school friend.”

“Omar Khayyám also approached the Vizier to request his share; but he didn't ask for a title or position. ‘The greatest blessing you can give me,’ he said, ‘is to allow me to live in a corner, enjoying the shade of your success, to promote the benefits of Science, and to pray for your long life and success.’ The Vizier tells us that when he realized Omar was genuinely sincere in his refusal, he didn’t press him further, but instead granted him an annual pension of 1,200 mithkáls of gold from the treasury of Naishápúr. [Pg 17]

“At Naishápúr, Omar Khayyám lived and died, 'focused,' adds the Vizier, 'on gaining knowledge of all kinds, particularly in Astronomy, where he achieved a remarkable level of excellence. During the reign of Sultan Malik Shah, he traveled to Merv and received high praise for his expertise in science, and the Sultan bestowed many favors upon him.’”

“When Malik Shah decided to reform the calendar, Omar was one of the eight scholars enlisted for the task; the result was the Jaláli era (named after Jalal-ul-Din, one of the king’s titles)—‘a method of keeping time,’ says Gibbon, ‘that surpasses the Julian and is nearly as accurate as the Gregorian style.’ He is also the author of several astronomical tables called ‘Zíji-Maliksháhí,’ and recently the French have republished and translated an Arabic treatise of his on Algebra.”

“These intense studies and his poems, which are fewer than those of any Persian poet, and though perhaps written quickly, reflect deep emotions and thoughts. They are likely the most significant work and achievement of his life, leaving little else to document. He probably enjoyed a bit of farming too, since he often mentions the 'edge of the tilth' where he liked to relax with his collection of poetry, his loaf, and his wine. [Pg 18]

“His Takhallus or poet name (Khayyám) means tent-maker, and it’s said that he used to work in that trade, maybe before Nizám al Mulk’s generosity allowed him to become independent. Many Persian poets get their names from their jobs: for example, we have Attár ‘a druggist,’ Assár ‘an oil presser,’ and so on. Omar himself makes a reference to his name in these playful lines:—”

“‘Khayyám, who crafted the tents of knowledge,
Has fallen into the furnace of sorrow and been consumed;
The shears of Destiny have severed the ropes of his existence,
And the dealer of Hope has traded him for nothing!’”

“We have just one more story to share about his life, and it concerns the end; it's mentioned in the anonymous preface that sometimes comes before his poems. It has been published in Persian in the appendix of Hyde’s Veterum Persarum Religio, p. 449; and D’Herbelot references it in his Bibliothéque, under Khiam[B]:—[Pg 19]

“‘It is recorded in ancient chronicles that this Wise King, Omar Khayyám, passed away in Naishápúr in the year 517 of the Hegira (A.D. 1123); he was unmatched in knowledge—truly the epitome of his time. Khwájah Nizámi of Samarcand, one of his students, shares this story: “I often used to have conversations with my teacher, Omar Khayyám, in a garden; and one day he told me, ‘My tomb should be in a place where the north wind can scatter roses over it.’ I was amazed by his words, but I knew they were meaningful. Years later, when I happened to return to Naishápúr, I visited his final resting place, and behold! it was just outside a garden, with trees heavy with fruit stretching their branches over the garden wall, dropping their flowers onto his tomb, so that the stone was nearly covered by them.”’”

[Pg 20]

Much discussion has come up about the meaning of Omar’s poetry. Some writers have pushed for a mystical interpretation, and M. Nicholas even goes so far as to say that Omar dedicated himself “avec passion à l’étude de la philosphie des Soufis.” On the other hand, Von Hammer, the author of a History of the Assassins, describes Omar as a Freethinker and a strong opponent of Sufism.

Probably, when there’s no agreement among experts, the best perspective is that of FitzGerald’s editor,[C] who suggests that the real Omar Khayyám was a philosopher with scientific insight and skills far ahead of his time and place; he had a balanced and practical ambition fitting for a philosopher, and such modest desires that rarely satisfy a debaucher; while the wine Omar talks about is just grape juice, he likely boasted more about it than he actually consumed, maybe as a challenge to that spiritual wine that left its followers in hypocrisy or disgust.

[Pg 23]

Rise and shine! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has tossed the Stone that sends the Stars flying:
Look! The Hunter of the East has captured
The Sultan’s Tower in a Loop of Light.

Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky,
I heard a Voice inside the Tavern shout,
"Wake up, my little ones, and fill the cup."
Before Life's Drink in its Cup runs out.”

And, as the rooster crowed, those who stood in front of
the Tavern yelled—“Open the door then!
You know how little time we have to stay,
And once we leave, we might not come back.”

[Pg 24]

Now the New Year rekindles old desires,
The reflective soul retreats to solitude,
Where the White Hand of Moses touches the branch
And Jesus breathes from the earth.

Irám is truly gone along with all its roses,
And Jamshýd’s seven-ringed cup is lost to time:
But the vine still yields its timeless ruby,
And a garden continues to bloom by the water.

And David's lips are sealed; but in divine
High-piping Péhlevi, with “Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!”—the Nightingale sings to the Rose.
That yellow cheek of hers to blush red.

Come, fill the cup, and in the warmth of spring
Throw off the winter coat of regret:
The bird of time has a short journey ahead.
To fly—and look! The bird is in the air.

[Pg 25]

And look—a thousand flowers with the day
Woke—and a thousand scattered into clay:
And this first month of summer that brings the rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.

But come with old Khayyám and forget the lot
Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú:
Let Rustum do what he wants,
Or Hátim Tai call for dinner—don't pay them any mind.

With me along a patch of grass scattered
That just separates the desert from the cultivated,
Where the names of Slave and Sultan are barely recognized,
And feel pity for Sultan Mahmoud on his throne.

Here with a loaf of bread under the tree,
A flask of wine, a book of poetry—and you
Next to me singing in the wild—
And the wild is more than enough paradise.

[Pg 26]

“How sweet is earthly power”—some might think:
Others—“How blessed is the Paradise ahead!”
Just take the cash you have and forget about everything else;
Oh, the wonderful sound of a distant drum!

Look at the rose that blooms around us—“Look,
Laughing,” she says, “I burst into the world:
Suddenly, the silken tassel on my purse
Tear it open, and let its treasure fall into the garden.”

The worldly hopes that people chase after
Turn to ashes—or they succeed; and soon,
Like snow on the dusty surface of the desert
It lights up for a short hour or two—then it's gone.

And those who took care of the Golden Grain,
And those who scattered it to the Winds like Rain,
Neither of them has transformed into such a golden Earth.
As, once buried, Men want to be dug up again.

[Pg 27]

Think, in this worn-out inn
Whose doorways alternate between night and day,
How one king after another, with all his glory
Stayed for an hour or two and then went on his way.

They say the Lion and the Lizard guard
The Courts where Jamshýd celebrated and drank heavily:
And Bahrám, the great Hunter—the Wild Ass
Stomps over his Head, and he’s fast asleep.

I sometimes think that no rose ever looks as red
As where some buried Caesar bled;
That every hyacinth in the garden has
Fell into its lap from some once beautiful head.

And this lovely herb with its soft green
Fringes the river’s edge where we rest—
Ah, lie on it softly! Because who knows
From what once beautiful source it grows unseen!

[Pg 28]

Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that removes
Today of past regrets and future fears—
Tomorrow?—Why, I might be
Myself with yesterday’s seven thousand years.

Look! Some we loved, the most beautiful and the best
That Time and Fate of all their Season pressed,
Have experienced their share of life’s events before,
And one by one quietly went to sleep.

And we, who are now celebrating in the Room
They left, and Summer clothes are in new Bloom,
We ourselves must go below the Couch of Earth.
To make a Couch—for whom?

Ah, let's make the most of what we still have to spend,
Before we too end up in the dust;
Dust to dust, and lying beneath the dirt,
Without wine, without song, without a singer, and—without end!

[Pg 29]

Alike for those who prepare for today,
And those who stare at tomorrow,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness calls out,
“Fools! Your reward is neither here nor there!”

Why, all the Saints and Sages who talked
About the Two Worlds so knowledgeably are pushed
Like foolish prophets outside; their words are mocked.
Are scattered, and their Mouths are filled with Dust.

Oh, come with old Khayyám, and leave the wise
To talk; one thing is certain, that life flies;
One thing is clear, and everything else is false.
The flower that once has bloomed forever dies.

When I was young, I eagerly visited
Doctors and Saints, and listened to big discussions
About this and that: but in the end
I always came out the same way I went in.

[Pg 30]

With them, I planted the Seed of Wisdom,
And with my own hands worked to make it grow:
And this is all the harvest that I collected—
“I came like Water, and like Wind I leave.”

Into this universe, and why not knowing,
Nor where, like water flowing unpredictably:
And from it, like wind sweeping through the desert,
I don't know where, blowing aimlessly.

What, without asking, rushed here?
And, without asking, where rushed off to!
Another drink after another to forget.
The memory of this rudeness!

Up from Earth's center through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and sat on the throne of Saturn,
And I untangled many knots along the way;
But not the knot of human death and fate.

[Pg 31]

There was a door for which I found no key:
There was a veil beyond which I couldn't see:
Let's have a quick chat about you and me.
There seemed to be—and then no more of you and me.

Then I cried out to the vast sky,
Asking, “What light does Destiny use to guide
"Her kids tripping in the dark?"
And—“A blind understanding!” the sky answered.

Then I went to the earthen Bowl
To learn the secret Well of Life:
And it whispered to me, “As long as you’re alive
Drink!—because once you’re dead, you can never come back.”

I think the Vessel, that with fleeting
Articulation responded, once was alive,
And celebrated; and the cold lip I kissed
How many kisses could it take—and give!

[Pg 32]

For in the marketplace, one evening,
I watched the potter shaping his wet clay:
And with its completely erased tongue
It murmured—“Easy, Brother, easy, please!”

Ah, fill the Cup:—what’s the point of saying
How Time is slipping away from us:
Unborn Tomorrow and gone Yesterday,
Why worry about them if Today is sweet!

One Moment in Annihilation’s Waste,
One Moment, to sample the Well of Life—
The stars are fading and the caravan
Is off for the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, hurry up!

How long, how long, in constant pursuit
Of this and that effort and argument?
It's better to be happy with the fruitful grape.
Than to be sad after nothing, or bitter fruit.

[Pg 33]

You know, my friends, how long it's been since I threw a party at my place for a new marriage:
I kicked out old, lifeless Reason from my bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine as my wife.

For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line,
And "Up-and-down" without, I could define,
I still just wanted to understand everything.
Was never deeply involved in anything but—Wine.

And lately by the Tavern Door wide open,
Came sneaking through the Dusk an Angel figure
Carrying a container on his shoulder; and
He told me to take a sip; and it was—the Grape!

The Grape that can with absolute Logic
The seventy-two conflicting Sects challenge:
The smart Alchemist who can do it in a flash
Turns life’s heavy Metal into Gold.

[Pg 34]

The powerful Máhmúd, the victorious Lord
That all the unbelieving and dark Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that Torture the Soul
Scatters and defeats with his enchanted Sword.

But let the Wise argue, and with me
Let the Quarrel of the Universe be:
And, in a quiet part of the noise,
Make fun of that which thinks so highly of You.

For in and out, above, about, below,
It’s nothing but a Magic Shadow show,
Played in a box where the candle is the sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

And if the wine you drink, the lips you kiss,
End in the Nothing that all things end in—Yes—
Then imagine that while you are, you are just what
You will be—Nothing—you will not be less.

[Pg 35]

While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
With old Khayyám enjoy the fine wine;
And when the Angel brings his darker drink
Draws up to You—take that, and don't hesitate.

It’s all a checkered board of nights and days,
Where destiny plays with people as pieces:
Moves around, checkmates, and eliminates them,
And one by one puts them back in the closet.

The Ball doesn't care about Yes or No,
But Right or Left, whichever way the Player chooses to go;
And He who cast You down into the Field,
He knows everything—He knows—HE knows!

The Moving Finger writes, and once it's written,
It just moves on: neither your devotion nor your intelligence
Can bring it back to delete even half a line,
Nor can all your tears wash away a single word of it.

[Pg 36]

And that upside-down bowl we call the sky,
Under which we crawl and live and die,
Don't raise your hands to It for help—because It
Rolls uselessly on just like you or me.

With Earth's first clay, they shaped the last man's form,
And then from the last harvest, they planted the seed:
Yes, the first morning of creation that was documented.
What the last dawn of judgment will reveal.

I tell you this—When, starting from the Goal,
Over the shoulders of the fiery Foal
They cast off Parwín and Mushtara from Heaven,
In my destined Plot of Dust and Soul.

The Vine has attached itself to a Fiber; which about
It wraps around my Being—let the Sufi mock;
From my Base Metal, a Key can be created,
That will open the Door he cries out at.

[Pg 37]

And this I know: whether the one True Light
Ignites Love, or Wrath completely consumes me,
I caught a quick look at it in the tavern.
Is better than being lost in the Temple altogether.

Oh, You who set traps and snares
Along the path I was meant to travel,
You won't trap me with Predestination.
And blame my downfall on Sin?

Oh, You who created Man from mere dirt
And who designed the Snake in Eden:
For all the sin that marks the human race
Please grant Forgiveness to Man—and also take it away!

  *   *   *   *   *

Listen again. One evening at the end of Ramadan, before the better moon rose, I stood by myself in that old pottery shop. With the clay figures arranged in rows around me.

[Pg 38]

And, weirdly enough, among those Earthen people
Some could speak, while others couldn't:
And suddenly, someone else shouted impatiently—
“Who is the Potter, please, and who’s the Pot?”

Then said another—“Surely not for no reason
My body was taken from the common Earth,
That He who expertly shaped me into form
Should return me back to common Earth again.”

Another said—“Why would a grumpy boy,
Break the bowl from which he drank in joy;
Should He who created the vessel in pure love
And imagination, later in a rage destroy!”

None answered this; but after Silence spoke
A vessel of a more awkward design:
"They make fun of me for leaning to one side;"
What! Did the hand of the potter shake then?”

[Pg 39]

Said one—“People of a grumpy bartender say,
And smear his face with the smoke of Hell;
They talk about some harsh judgment on us—Psh!
He’s a good guy, and everything will be fine.”

Then said another with a long sigh,
“My clay has dried up after being forgotten for so long:
But, fill me with that old familiar vibe,
I think I might recover eventually.”

So while the Vessels were taking turns to speak,
One spotted the little Crescent that everyone was looking for:
Then they nudged each other, "Hey! Hey!
Listen to the Porter’s Shoulder-knot creaking!”

  *   *   *   *   *

Ah, let the Grape support my fading life,
And cleanse my body now that life has left,
And covered in a layer of vine leaves,
So bury me by a lovely garden side.

[Pg 40]

That even my buried ashes will send up such a trap of perfume into the air,
That's not a true believer walking by.
Will be caught off guard.

Indeed, the idols I have loved for so long
Have seriously damaged my reputation in people's eyes!
They’ve ruined my honor in a shallow cup,
And sold my reputation for a song.

Indeed, indeed, I often said I would change
But was I really sincere when I said it?
Then Spring arrived, and the Rose-in-hand
My flimsy regret was completely ripped apart.

And just like wine has acted unfaithfully,
And stripped me of my cloak of dignity—well,
I often think about what the wine sellers purchase.
That’s half as valuable as the stuff they sell.

[Pg 41]

Alas, that Spring should fade away with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented story should come to an end!
The Nightingale that sang in the branches,
Ah, where it came from, and where it has gone again, who knows!

Ah, Love! Could you and I team up with Fate
To take on this messed-up world as a whole,
Wouldn't we take it apart—and then
Re-create it closer to what the heart truly wants!

Ah, Moon of my Delight who knows no end,
The Moon of Heaven is rising once more:
How often, getting up, will she look
Through this same Garden after me—in vain!

And when you walk by with your shining feet
Among the guests scattered like stars on the grass,
And in your joyful journey, arrive at the place
Where I was once—turn down an empty glass!

TAMÁM SHUD.

[Pg 42]

[Pg 44]

Jami Noureddin Abdurrahman, a Persian poet, was born in Jam, Khorassán, in 1414. His most famous poems include “Yúsuf and Salikha,” “Majnún and Laili,” and “Salámán and Absál.” Besides his poetry, he authored a History of the Sufí and other prose works. He passed away in 1492. FitzGerald’s translation of “Salámán and Absál” in Miltonic Verse was published anonymously in 1856.

[Pg 45]

Oh You whose memory awakens lovers’
  souls,
Whose source of joy refreshes the lover’s voice,
Your shadow falls across the world, and they
Bow down to it; and among the beautiful
You are the wealth that drives lovers crazy.
Not until your secret beauty strikes the cheek
Of Laila does she ignite Majnún,
And not until you sweeten Shírín’s lips
Do the hearts of those two lovers fill with blood.
For loved and lover exist only through you,
Nor beauty;—Mortal beauty is just the veil
That your heavenly essence hides behind, and that
Feeds from itself, and our hearts yearn for like a bride
That glances past us veiled—but ever so
That none can know the beauty behind the veil.
How long will you continue to deceive the world
With the illusion of a veil
[Pg 46] From which you only peek?—It’s time
To reveal your perfect beauty. I want to be
Your lover, and yours alone—I, with my eyes
Closed to everything but you,
Yes, in the revelation of yourself
Self-lost, and unburdened by good and evil.
You move under all the forms of truth,
Under the forms of all created things;
Wherever I look, I see nothing but
You in the entire universe, in which
You invest yourself, and through the eyes
Of man, you inspect every detail.
To your sacred space
There’s no access—no talk of this and that;
Do you make my separate and derived self
One with your essence! Leave me space
On that divan which accommodates no one but one;
Lest, like the simple Kurd of whom they tell,
I become confused, oh God! between “I” and “You;”
If I—where does this dignity and wisdom come from?
If you—then what is this helplessness?

[Pg 47]

A Kurd confused by Fate's tricks
Left his Desert for the City.
Sees a City full of Noise and
Chaos, restless People,
Here and There, Back and Forth
Running, some focused on traveling,
Others returning home,
Right to Left, and Left to Right,
Discontent everywhere!
Kurd, when he sees the Upheaval,
Steps aside, and, exhausted from Travel,
Wants to go to Sleep; “But,” he says,
“How will I recognize myself when I wake up?”
So to keep track,
Ties a Pumpkin around his Foot,
And turns to Sleep. A Crook who heard him
Creeped behind, and secretly watching
Takes the Pumpkin off the Sleeper’s
Ankle, ties it around his own,
And then lies down to sleep next to him.
Eventually, the Kurd wakes up
Looks for his Signal—
Sees it on someone else’s Ankle—
Shouts, “Oh Good-for-Nothing
Scoundrel to confuse me like this!
Thanks to you, I’m lost,
Wondering if I am me or not!
If I—then why is the Pumpkin on You?
If You—then Where am I, and Who?”

Oh God! I am this poor, confused Kurd,
More helpless than any other Kurd!—Oh, please
[Pg 48] Send a ray of light into my darkness!
By your grace, turn these dregs into fresh wine,
To lift the spirits of the good!
Or if not that, then let me, as the little cup
That bears my name, be worthy enough
To share your healing vintage!

And yet how long, Jámi, in this Old House
Stringing your Pearls on a Harp of Song?
Year after Year coming up with a new Song,
The Echo of some Old Story? Life is gone,
And yet the Song is not the Last; my Soul
Is exhausted—and still a Story to be told!
And I, whose Back is bent like the Harp
I still keep tuning through the Night until Day!
That Harp untuned by Time—the Harper’s hand
Shaking with Age—how will the Harper’s hand
Fix its skill, and the sweet old Harp
Play as it did before? I think
It’s time to break it and throw it in the Fire;
Yes, sweet the Harp that can’t be sweet anymore,
To throw it in the Fire—the useless old Harp
That can no longer sound Sweetness to the Ear,
But when burned may release sweet scents to the Soul,
And offer comfort to the Faith and Intellect,
[Pg 49] Now that the Body is headed for decay.
My Teeth are falling out—my two Eyes see no more
Until with foreign Glasses turned to Four;
Pain sits with me behind my knees,
From which I can hardly rise without help;
I bow down to my Roots, and like a Child
Long for my Mother Earth,
With whom I soon shall cease to moan and weep,
And on my Mother’s Bosom fall asleep.

The House in Ruins, and its Music no longer heard
Inside, nor at the Door of Speech,
Better to be in Silence and Oblivion
To close my Head and Feet, remembering
What that Beloved whispered to the Master:—
“Stop thinking about Rhyme, just think of Me!”—
Of Whom?—of Him whose Palace is The Soul,
And Treasure-House—who notices and knows
Its Income and Outgoing, and then comes
To fill it when the Stranger has gone.
Whose Shadow—being Kings—whose Attributes
Their Type—their Wrath and Favor His—
Look! in the Celebration of His Glory
The King Himself comes on me unexpectedly,
[Pg 50] And suddenly takes me for His own.
So once more I take—best left otherwise—
The Field of Verse, to sing that double Praise,
And in that Memory refresh my Soul
Until I hold the Edge of Living Presence.

One who traveled in the desert
Saw Majnún sitting
All alone like a magician
Tracing letters in the sand.
“Oh, distracted lover! writing
What the sword-wind of the desert
Deciphers as soon as it’s written,
So that no one who travels after
Can interpret it!”—
Majnún replied, “I am writing
‘Laili’—even if it’s just ‘Laili,’
It’s still a book of love and passion;
And with just her name to adore,
I lovingly caress it
As if it were her and sip
Her presence until I taste her lips.”

When night had brought me this far with my book,
In deep thought, sleep took me away;
And in a dream, I seemed to see myself,
Walking along a straight and even road,
[Pg 51] As pure as the soul of the Sufi;
A road whose spotless surface neither breeze
Raised dust, nor mixed the rain into mud.
There I thought I was walking peacefully,
When suddenly, the loud shout
Of soldiers behind me broke my calm,
And took away my sense and strength from fear.
I looked around for refuge, and behold!
A palace was before me; I ran there
To escape from the approaching soldiers,
When suddenly, from the troop, a Shahzeman,
By name and nature Hasan—mounted on the
Horse of Honor—dressed in royal robes,
And wearing a white turban on his head,
Turned his reins toward me, and with a smile,
Opened the door of peace before my eyes.
Then, riding up to me, he dismounted; kissed
My hand, and showed me kindness; and I,
So glad of his protection, and the grace
He offered it with!—Who then, with gracious words,
Spoke many jewels; but none of these
Stuck with me until morning.
When I woke up in bed, curious about
What the vision meant, it answered me;
“This courtesy and favor of the Shah
[Pg 52] Foreshadows the fair acceptance of your verse,
Which doesn't waste any time rushing to completion.”
Hearing this, I prepared like a pen
For steady writing; for perhaps, I thought,
From the same source where the vision arose
The interpretation may also come true.

Breathless ran a simple countryman
To a clever dream interpreter;
“Look, this morning I was dreaming—
And I thought, in that deserted
Village I wandered—all around me
Were shattered houses—and, guess what!
I thought I went into one—and
Looked around—and found a treasure of gold!”
Said the prophet mockingly,
“Oh, you gem of creation,
Go and dirty your feet like a horse’s,
And when you get back to your village
Stamp and scratch with hoof and nail,
And give the earth such a shake,
She must give you something back.”
The unsuspecting countryman went right away;
With determination, he set to work as told;
And, in his very first attempt,
He stumbled upon his treasure of gold!

Until you have your purpose by the hilt,
Go for it boldly—or you never will.

[Pg 53]

There was a Shah who ruled the Realm of Yún,
And wore the Ring of Empire of Sikander;
And during his reign, a Sage, who had the Tower
Of Wisdom built on such a strong foundation
That wise men from all corners of the world
Gathered around him to hear the wisdom
From his lips. The Shah,
Noticing this, brought him into his inner circle;
He didn’t take a step or start any plan
Without the Sage’s approval; with his guidance,
His rule extended from Káf to Káf:
Every nation or leader who wore the ring
Bowed their heads; then rising in peace
Under his justice they thrived, knowing no wrong,
And in their strength, his domain grew strong.

The ruler who lacks wisdom within himself,
And doesn’t have a wise advisor,
Will see his authority weakened,
And his reign will fall apart.
For he, unable to distinguish
Between tyranny and justice, mixes them up,
Turning the world into a wasteland, and the source
[Pg 54] Of justice into an illusion. It’s true what they say,
“Better to be a just infidel than a believing tyrant.”

God said to the Prophet David,—
“David, speak, and respond to the Challenge
Of the Faith within you.
Even Unbelieving Princes,
Poorly judged if unworthy,
Yet, if they are just and righteous,
Though their worship is of the Fire—
Even these will find
Glory and make things right in the World.”

One night, the Shah of Yúnan, as he often did, Reflected on his power and considered his state, How great it was, and how around him lay The Robe of Honor of Prosperity; Then he found his heart lacked one thing, A son who could inherit his dominion And glory after him. Then he turned to the Shah and said, “Oh You, whose wisdom guides kings— (Glory to God who gave it!)—answer me; Is there any blessing better than a son? Man's deepest desire; through him, his name and he Will live on beyond himself; through him, his eyes Shine bright, and his dust will be covered with roses; A foundation for you to stand on, he will be A hand to keep you from falling; in his youth You will feel young, and in his strength, you will feel strong; He will be sharp in battle like a sword, A storm of arrows upon the enemy’s head; His voice will uplift his friends in times of trouble, And chase away the enemy’s glory.” That is the essence of a good son, whose healthy growth Reflects the quality of his roots. But for one Born of evil—well, could one undo His nature and pull him and his vices Out of the flow of time as early as possible? Like Noah’s, consumed with ignorance and pride, Who felt the sting of “He is none of your kind!” And perished in the flood. And since Not all are good, be cautious in praying for one Whom, if you have, you might one day have to pray to lose.

Crazy for the Curse of Children,
A man ran before the Sheikh,
Crying out, “Oh please hear and help me!
Pray to Allah from my own essence
[Pg 56] To raise me up a fresh young Cypress,
To lighten my childless eyes
With the beauty of his presence.”
The Sheikh said, “Be wise, and leave it
Completely in Allah's hands,
Who, whatever we seek,
Understands our situation best.”
But the man insisted, saying,
“Sheikh, I’m suffering from my longing;
Please help, and make my prayer begin!”
Then the Sheikh raised his hand—
Prayed—his arrow shot to Heaven—
From the hunting ground of darkness
Came down a musky fawn from China—
A boy—who, when the tender
Shoot of passion was planted in him
Found enough soil and sap,
Started hanging out with his friends;
From a corner of the rooftop
He insults a neighbor’s wife,
Draws his dagger on the husband,
Who complains to the justice,
And the father has to pay.
Day and night, the young boy’s actions
Became the talk of the whole city;
Neither pleading, threats, nor advice
Could change him; until the desperate father
Ran again to the Sheikh,
Grabbing at his garment, crying—
“Sheikh, my only hope and helper!
One more prayer! May the God who gave
Take this trouble from my head!”
But the Sheikh replied: “Remember
How that very day I warned you
Not to pester Allah;
[Pg 57] To whom there is no other
Prayer, except to pray for forgiveness.
When we are called from this world
To gather our travel pack,
A son or daughter won't help us;
We are slaves and unencumbered,
Best to do what the Master wants;
And whatever he may command,
Do it with a willingly surrender.”

When the Sharp-witted Sage
Heard what The Shah said, he replied,
“Oh Shah, anyone who doesn't want to be a Slave to Desire
Must still face the Pain of not having a Son.
—Desire that blinds Reason; Desire that makes
A Devil seem like an Angel to us;
A Flood that brings destruction along with it,
Confuses a successful House; a Slippery Path
Where anyone who falls won’t get back up again;
A Wine that whoever tastes will see
Redemption's face no longer—just one little Sip
Of that tempting and forbidden Drink
Makes you crave more, lingering on the Tongue
[Pg 58] Until it becomes a Ring to lead you around
(Placing the rope in a Vain Woman’s hand),
Until you yourself go down the Path of Nothing.
For what is Woman? A Foolish, Unfaithful Being—
To whom The Wise man subjects himself,
Sinking deep beneath the Foolishness he upholds.
A true Káfir in Greed;
Dress her for a hundred Years in Gold and Gems,
Her Clothes woven with Susa Brocade,
Her very Night-wear made of Cloth of Gold,
Adorn her Ears with Rubies and Pearls,
Her Home filled with Golden Vessels shining,
Her Tables overflowing with Royal Fruits,
Ispahan Apples, Pomegranates of Yazd;
And if she's thirsty, let her drink
From a Jewelled Cup, the Water of the Well of Life—
One tiny change in her Mood,—everything you’ve done
Counts for Nothing. ‘Torment of my Life!’
She cries, ‘What have you ever done for me!’—
Her Brow's white Slate—Yes—it's unwritten
With any Sign of Loyalty;
Who ever read it there? Look, in your Heart
She stays for Years—you turn away for a moment,
And she forgets you—worse, if as you turn
Her Eye lands on any Younger Lover.”

[Pg 59]

Once upon the Throne of Judgment,
Sharing secrets with each other,
Sat Sulayman and Balkís;
Both their hearts were turned to truth,
Untainted by deception.
First, the King of Faith, Sulayman,
Spoke—“Even though I have the Ring of Empire,
Not a single day goes by
That someone doesn’t darken my doorway
Yet I always look to see who it is—
And he who comes not empty-handed
Gains honor in my eyes.”
After this, Balkís revealed a secret
From her hidden heart,
Saying—“Never does a night or morning
Pass by with a handsome youth before me
Without me longing for him;
I tell myself, ‘Oh, if only he
Could comfort my aching soul!’—”

“If this, as wise Ferdúsi says, is the Curse
Of Better Women, then what could the Worse be?”

The Sage finished his Satire; and The Shah
With powerful Wisdom joined his pure Will
To bring about its realization from Heaven.
And behold! from Darkness came to Light a Child
Of pure human form,—
[Pg 60] A Rosebud blossoming on the Royal Stem,—
A fragrance from the Realm of Wisdom floated;
The most precious gem of the Crown; a Star
Under whose guidance the Throne triumphed.
For his fortunate Name they crafted the Words
“Salámat”—Safety from Evil—
And “Ausemán”—the Heaven from which he came—
And called him by the title of Salámán.
And since he drew no Milk from a Mother,
They chose a Nurse for him—her Name was Absál—
Not yet Twenty years old—from the Silver Line
That parted the Musk-Harvest of her Hair
Down to her Foot that trampled on Kings’ Crowns,
A Moon of Beauty full; who thus chosen
Salámán of Fortunate Fortune
Should carry in the Garment of her kindness,
Should nourish him with the Flowing of her Breast.
As soon as she opened her Eyes on him
She closed those Eyes to all else in the world,
And her heart captivated, lost in love for her Jewel,—
Her Jewel set in a Golden Cradle;
Opening and closing it was her daily joy,
To gaze upon his heartwarming Cheek,—
Upon the Darling whom, if she could, she would
[Pg 61] Have cradled as the apple of her eye.
In Rose and Musk she washed him—to his Lips
She pressed the pure Sugar from the Honeycomb;
And when, Day done, she withdrew her Milk,
She made, and having laid him in, his Bed,
Burned all Night like a Candle over his Head.

Then, as morning arrived and he grew up,
She dressed him like a little idol;
On went his robe—with fresh collyrium dew
She touched his narcissus eyes—the musky locks
Parted from his forehead—and embraced
His fine waist with a gold and ruby belt.—
She raised him like this until he turned fourteen,
At fourteen, the beauty of his face,
That captured the hearts of a hundred thousand;
Yes, when Salámán was just half-lance high,
He struck a wound in everyone like a lance,
And dazzled them with a brilliance like the sun.

As soon as the Lord of Heaven had sprung his horse
Over the horizon into the blue sky,
Salámán woke up, groggy from sleep,
And got ready for the field;
He and a group of princes—kings by birth,
[Pg 62] Kings too in the land of beautiful trouble,
All young in years and brave, bat in hand
Galloped out, tossed down the golden ball
And chased, as many crescent moons as there were full ones;
And all were equally focused on the game,
Yet Salámán aimed to win the prize from them all
Shouting "Hál!" as he drove the ball home.
After that, Salámán bent like a bow
To shoot—from the world’s marksmen
He called for an unstrung bow—using himself as the string
He set it up without help, and quickly with his hand
Plucked, making it cry, and drew it to his ear:
Then, fixing on the three-feathered fowl, he released.
No spot in the blue heavens escaped his arrow;
No, if heaven were made of adamant,
It would follow the horizon as it rolled;
And whether aiming at a fawn on foot,
Or a bird in the air, his arrow flew away
Straight—like the soul that cannot go astray.

When night fell, freeing man from his labor,
He engaged in the game of social interaction;
Set up his banquet hall like paradise,
[Pg 63] Called forth his beautiful musicians,
And, when the wine warmed his mind, the barrier
Of reserve was lifted. Now, lip to lip,
Collaborating with the singer, he breathed
Life into the lifeless like a Messiah;
Now, making music from the melodious pipe,
He created a sweetness that flowed
Through men’s ears: Picking up a harp,
He struck it, creating sparks between its dry string and his fingertips;
Or lifting a lute in his arms
Like a little child being scolded,
Pinching its ear, he produced such cries of sorrow
That drew tears from the eyes of older men.
Now he sang like a nightingale alone,
Now harmonized voice and instrument;
And thus he spent the night with his companions.

His soul was thrilled by all kinds of knowledge;
The sharpness of his wit could split a hair,
And in the grasp of understanding catch
A meaning before it was fully captured in words;
His poetry was like the Pleiades; his conversation
The mourners at a funeral; his handwriting,
(Tablet and running reed were his worshippers,)
[Pg 64] As fine on the lips of youth as the first hair,
Drove writers, like lovers, to despair.

His generosity was like the ocean's—no, the sea's
It was just the foam of his kindness,
For it brought forth the shell, but he the pearl;
He was a cloud that showered the world
With coins for raindrops; the feast of his generosity
Made Hátim's seem stingy in comparison—

Suddenly, that sweet minister of mine
scolded me angrily: “What nonsense, Jámi,
writing with that tireless pen
to praise a foreign king
whose throne, not rooted in the eternal realm,
was here yesterday and is not here today!” I replied;
“Oh source of light!—under a foreign name
I reference someone who wears a crown
that both existed and exists today; to whose decree
the seven kingdoms of the world are subject,
and the seven seas are merely drops of his generosity.
Good fortune to him who, under a different name,
taught us to hide the praises of a power
[Pg 65] that the initiated can hardly find an open door to.”

Sat a lover all alone
Talking to himself in a corner,
Passionate and always changing
Words pouring out;
Sometimes it’s the sun and moon; and sometimes
Under the hyacinth, half-hidden
Roses; or the tall cypress,
And the little weed below.
A nightingale, like a clueless fool,
Heard him, and, completely confused,—
“What!” he said, “And you, a lover,
Raving not about your mistress,
But about the moon and roses!”
He replied; “Oh you who aim
Wide of love and misinterpret
The language of lovers;
The sun and moon are just my lady’s
Self, as any lover knows;
I mentioned hyacinth, and meant her
Hair—her cheek was the rose—
And I myself the wretched weed
That grows in her cypress shadow.”

Now Salámán was in his prime,
His tall, cypress-like stature standing out,
And the newly blossoming garden of his beauty
Was starting to yield fruit, while Absál longed to gather it;
[Pg 66] But the fruit hung too high on the branch,
For her desire was not strong enough to reach it.
She too took pride in her own beauty,
Not in the least behind Salámán, whom she now
Began to entice with her charms.
Now she would twist a musky chain from her hair,
To bind his heart—mixing it into curls
That nestled countless temptations;
She darkened her eyes with kohl
To lead him astray, and above them
Adorned the brows that were meant to captivate him;
Now she would add fresh rose petals to the blush
Of her cheeks, and then place a grain of musk there,
To ensnare the bird of his beloved heart.
Now with a laugh, she would break the ruby seal
That held the pearls; or while busy in the room,
Might strike her hand on that pretense
To lift and reveal the silver in her sleeve;
Or quickly rise to jingle her golden anklets
To draw his crowned head down to her feet.
Thus, with countless bridal tricks,
She went about capturing his gaze,
Not letting it slip for a moment;
For she knew well that mainly through the eyes
Love makes its mark, and by no other way
Enters and claims possession of the heart.

[Pg 67]

Burning with desire, Zulaikha
Built a room, walls, and ceiling
Clear as an untouched mirror,
Spotless like the heart of Yúsuf.
Then she had a clever painter
Surround her image with it:
Not an inch of wall but echoed
With the reflection of her beauty.
Then among them all, in all her
Glory, she sat down and called for
Yúsuf—she began a story
Of love—and lifted her veil.
From her gaze, he turned, but no matter
Where he looked, he always saw her
Looking, looking at him still.
Then desire rose within him—
He was almost giving in—almost
Bringing honey to her lips—
When a signal from the darkness
Spoke to him—and he withdrew
His hand and dropped the skirt of fortune.

So day by day, Absál tempted Salámán,
And gradually her tricks started to take effect.
Her eyes stole his sleep like Narcissus—their lashes
Pierced his heart—out from her hair a snake
Bit him—and bitter, bitter was the memory
Of her honeyed lips on his tongue.
He noticed the loose curl resting on her cheek,
And he too trembled with desire; his tears
[Pg 68] Turned crimson from her cheek, whose musky mark
Infected his soul with melancholy.
Love pulled him from behind the veil, where he
Was held back by a better resolution—
“Oh, what if the food I crave, once tasted, turns
Unhealthy, and if all the days to come
Should suffer from one fleeting sweetness!”

On the beach sat a Raven,
Blind, and forced to drink
From the bitter puddle.
Suddenly, the Pelican
Flying over the shadow of fortune
Cast a shadow on his head, calling—
"Come, poor son of the sea, and try
Sweet, sweet water from my beak."
The Raven said, "If I taste it
Just once, the salt I rely on
Might forever turn to disgust;
And I’ll be a cursed bird
On the shore, dying of thirst."

Now when Salámán’s heart turned to Absál,
Her star was shining brightly in the sky—Old love
Freshened up again—desire intensified his bond:
And as time passed, she watched the hour
[Pg 69] To sneak into the haven of her moon
And satisfy her soul with his lips.
And the hour arrived; she slipped into his room—
Rushed up to him, life’s offering in her hand—
And, falling like a shadow at his feet,
She laid her face down. Salámán then
With all the politeness of royal grace
Extended his hand—he lifted her in his arms—
He held her trembling there—and from that source
Drew first desire; then deeper from her lips,
That, giving in, mutually drew from his
A wine that was never-ending—

So through the day—so through another still—
The day became a seventh—the seventh a moon—
The moon a year—while they celebrated together,
Thinking their joy would never end.
But rolling heaven whispered from his hiding place,
“So in my permission is it not written down.
Ah for the sweet connections I create
At morning and before night falls;
Ah for the bliss that with the setting sun
I blend, and with his rising, it’s all over!”

[Pg 70]

Into Baghdad came a hungry
Arab—after many days of waiting
Into the Khalifah’s Supper
Pushed, and got before a Pastry
Luscious as the Lip of Beauty,
Or the Tongue of Eloquence.
As soon as seen, Indecent Hunger
Seizes him and swallows it down;
Then he boldly wipes his mouth—
“Oh Khalifah, hear me Swear,
Not of any other Pastry
Than of Yours to have for supper or dinner.”
The Khalifah laughed and responded;
“Fool; who thinks they can decide
What is in the Hands of Fate—
Take him and throw him out the Gate!”

While a full year was measured by the moon,
Salámán and Absál celebrated together,
And for a long time, he didn't stand before
Sage or Shah, and their broken hearts
Were torn apart by their longing for him.
They asked those around him, and from them
Heard something; then he was summoned in person,
And, carefully questioning from all sides, pressed
Until he struck the mark,
[Pg 71] And all the truth was revealed. Then Sage and Shah
Made their move with hand and foot for his redress.
First with reason, which is also the best;
Reason that corrects the flawed—completes
The imperfect—reason that untangles the knot:
For reason is the source from ancient times
From which the prophets drew, and no one else.
Anyone who claims other inspiration is lying—
There are no other prophets than the wise.

First spoke The Shah;—“Salámán, my beloved,
Oh Light of my Home’s Banquet,
Shining in the Eyes of my Prosperity,
And bringing life to the Court of Hope with Roses;
For years, like a budding rose, I have nurtured you,
Until I held you in my hand, my Rose;
Oh, please don’t tear my garment from my hand,
Nor wound your Father with a sharp thorn.
For your sake, I have worn the Crown on my brow for years,
And my foot has grown towards the throne,
All just for you—Oh, don’t reject them;
[Pg 72] Oh, turn away from foolish distractions,
Don’t rest your heart on a mere favorite!
What is your true pastime? Isn’t it
To ride and guide Rakhsh across the fields;
Not, wielding nothing but a love-lock,
Idly lounging on a silver breast.
Go, aim your arrow at the antelope
And lion—don’t let me see my lion
Slain by the arrow-eyed gaze of a gazelle.
Go, flash your sword among the ranks of men,
And strike down the warriors; don’t, in fleeing,
Lay down your own life beneath a woman’s feet,
Stop such actions in the name of God,
And don’t bring your Father to tears;
For years I have held myself up, all
For you—Oh, what a shame if you cause my downfall!”

When Kai Khusrau fell drenched in blood before Shirúeh's feet, he told this parable: "Wretched one! There was a branch that grew wild over the root it drank from. In one sip, it drained the living water that it used to celebrate itself! The root died—and with it, the branch died—and it was brought down barren!"

[Pg 73]

Salámán felt it—the depths of his soul were stirred,
And overflowed with gems, and he said;
“Oh Shah, I am your willing servant,
Dust of your throne beneath your feet am I;
Whatever you wish, I would do,
But I’m tired of my own shortcomings;
It’s not in my lessened will
To turn my desires into action.
Time and again, I torment my own soul,
Trying to find a way out of this trap
I’m stuck in. But when I look at that Moon,
I think, my soul falls back—and when I look—
I leave both worlds behind to chase after her!”

The Shah stopped speaking, and the Sage started.
“Oh You, fresh creation of an ancient Garden,
Final masterpiece of the Pen that said ‘Let There Be,’
Who understands the Seven and Four; interprets
The writing on the Leaves of Night and Day—
Original of the Assembly of the World,
Who holds the Key to Adam’s Treasure—
(Know your own Worth and don’t take it lightly,
For You are even Greater than all I say)—
[Pg 74] The Powerful Hand that shaped your Dust wrote
The Mark of Wisdom on your Heart;
O Purify Your Heart of Material Form,
And turn the Mirror of the Soul towards Spirit,
Until it is completely filled with Spirit,
Drenched in the Light of Intellectual Truth.
Oh, shut your Eyes to Mortal Temptation,
And do not follow her path!—For what is She?—
What is She but a Sin and a Disgrace,
Her very Hem is Pollution!
For such Pollution should not blind you,
Do not waste your Body’s Strength, nor stain your Soul,
Nor create conflict between Body and Soul!
Your Original Status is Supreme,
Your Star shining at the Top of Heaven; but Lust
Will drag it down into the Dust!”

Said a Muezzin to Crested
Chanticleer—“Oh Voice of Morning,
None of the Wise ones
Foretells the Dawn, or reacts
To the passage of Time, like You.
Someone so wise, I think, would be better
Sitting on the Beams of Heaven,
Than with those poor Hens around him,
[Pg 75] Scraping through a pile of dung.”
“And,” replied the Cock, “I was in Heaven
Once; but because of my Evil
Desires I’ve fallen down to scraping
With my miserable Hens around me
On the Dunghill. Otherwise
I would still be in Eden
With the Bird of Paradise.”

When Salámán heard these words from The Sage,
The essence of Wisdom filled his mind;
He said—“Oh Beloved of the Essence of Plato,
To whom a hundred Aristotles bow;
Oh You who add an Eleventh to the Ten
Original Intelligences,—
I lay my face before You in the dust,
The humblest scholar in your presence am I;
Whose every word I find a source of Wisdom,
And rush to absorb it into my Soul.
But clear to your sharp Eye it is,
That Choice is not something within oneself—To Do,
Not in The Will, but in The Ability, to Do.
From what I originally am,
How can I change? or how can I show
Anything beyond the Power that is naturally Mine?”

[Pg 76]

To the soul confused by love,
Sorrow follows sorrow—especially
To love that only gets scolded,
And too much advice—where love
Becomes stubborn and worsens the pain.
Love without criticism is a sweet treat;
Criticized, it’s like feeding on one’s own heart's blood.
Salámán listened; his feelings bubbled to the surface;
Reproaches didn't push Absál away,
But deepened his confusion; the sweet drink of joy
Turned bitter, and the beauty of his moonlight faded.
His breath was filled with anger, and his heart
Ached from the arrow, and his suffering grew—
How to bear it?—Able to withstand one wound,
But from wound to wound, the only escape was flight;
Day after day, idea after idea,
He turned the matter over in his heart,
And, in the end, the only escape was flight.
Resolved on that, he packed supplies and equipped
A camel, and one night he took it out,
And rode—he and Absál by his side,
The handsome Salámán and the fair Absál,
Together on one camel side by side,
Like two kernels packed in one almond.
[Pg 77] And true love doesn’t complain, no matter how small
His space—indeed, the tightest is the best of all.

When the Moon of Canaan Yusuf
Darkened in the Prison of Egypt,
Night after night, Zulaikha went
To see him—her heart was shattered.
Then one who had never
Tasted Love’s garden said to her:
“Do you leave your palace room
For the felon's tiny cell?”
She replied, “Without my lover,
Even if my room were Heaven’s edge,
It would feel closer than an ant’s eye;
And the ant’s eye would be wider
Than Heaven, if my lover were with me there!”

Six days Salámán rode on the camel,
And then memories of past reproach
Did not linger with him; and on the seventh
He stopped at the seashore and saw
An ocean as vast as the sky above,
That stretched from Káf to Káf, down to the Back of Gau and Mahi
And its stars were the eyes of creatures.
The surface looked like a range
Of moving mountains; or like endless herds
Of camels rushing from all directions,
[Pg 78] Furious, with foam on their lips.
In it, countless glittering fish
Like sharp, polished jewels, only visible
For an instant, flashing by
Like silver scissors slicing through blue brocade;
Though if the dragon from its hollow stirred,
The dragon of the stars would stare in shock.
Salámán gazed at the sea, looking for a way
To cross it—and right then on the shore
He devised a shallop shaped like a crescent moon,
In which that sun and moon, at a fortunate time,
Entered as if into some celestial sign;
It was shaped like a bow, but arrow-like
In flight, featuring a little sail,
And, resting on the water like a duck,
So with her body she sped toward her desire.
After they had sailed their vessel for a month,
And spoiled their beauty with the wind of the sea,
Suddenly in mid-sea appeared
An island, indescribably beautiful,
An island that was entirely a garden; not a bird
Of note or plumage in the world but there;
There, in bridal attire arrayed,
The pheasant with his crown, the dove with her collar;
[Pg 79] And those who tuned their beaks among the trees
That, arm in arm with fingers paralyzed
By any breath of air, scattered both wet and dry fruit
In abundance at their feet,
Where fountains of sweet water flowed, and around
Sunshine and shadow danced across the ground.
Here, the Iram Garden seemed to secretly
Unveil the rosebud of its revelation;
Or paradise, forgetting the day
Of judgment, lifted the veil from her face.

Salámán saw the Isle and forgot about everything else. There, with Absál, he settled down, side by side, celebrating like the Lily and the Rose, together like the Body and the Soul. Under its trees, in each other’s arms, they slept, they drank from its fountains hand in hand, sought sugar with the Parrot, and for fun, paraded with the Peacock, raced the Partridge, or chatted with the Nightingale. There was the Rose without a Thorn, and there[Pg 80] was the Treasure with no Serpent to fear. What could be sweeter than having your beloved by your side in such solitude, with no one to criticize?

Whispered one to Wámik—“Oh You
Victim of the Wound of Azra,
What is it that like a Shadow
You move about in Silence
Thinking Night and Day?”
Wámik answered, “Even this—
To fly with Azra to the Desert;
There by such a remote Fountain
That, no matter which way one traveled
League after League, one still would never,
Never meet the Face of Man—
There to set up my Tent—for ever
There to gaze at my Beloved;
Gaze, until Gazing out of Gazing
Became Being Her I gaze on,
She and I no longer, but as One.
Undivided Being blended,
All that is not One must always
Suffer with the Wound of Absence;
And whoever in Love’s City
Enters, finds only Room for One,
And only in Oneness Union.”

When eventually the Shah learned
Of his Son's soul-crushing absence,
He let out a cry to Heaven—his Eyelashes
[Pg 81] Wept Blood—He searched everywhere he could,
But no one could uncover the hidden Mystery.
Then he ordered a Mirror that he had brought,
A Mirror, like the Heart of the wise,
Reflecting all the World, and lifting up
The Veil from its Secrets, both Good and Evil.
That Mirror he commanded to be brought, and, in its Reflection
He saw the Face of his Desire.
He witnessed those Lovers in their Solitude,
Turning away from the World, its ways, and People,
Looking only into each other’s Eyes,
And never finding any Sorrow there.
The Shah observed them as they were, and Compassion
Filled his Eyes, and he did not blame them;
And, gathering all their Life into his Hand,
Not a Thread lost, he arranged everything.
Oh for the Noble Nature and Pure Heart,
That, seeing Two who breathe as one
Sipping the Cup of Happiness and Tears
Unbroken by the Stone of Separation,
Is reluctant to destroy their sweet Union,
Or entangle the Fabric of Joy.

The arrows that strike at the Lords of Sorrow
Come from the Hand of Retribution.
[Pg 82] Do good, so that good may come to you in return;
And avoid evil, so that evil may stay away from you.

Firhád, Moulder of the Mountain,
Love-struck, gazed at Shírín,
And Shírín, the Sculptor’s Passion,
Noticed him and felt her heart drawn to him.

Then the Fire of Jealous Frenzy
Caught and lifted the Harvest
Of the Power of Kai Khusrau.

Plotting with that ancient witch
Of Fate, he poisoned the Sculptor’s Cup
And stayed the Lord of Love.

So—But Fate, that avenges fate,
Gives Shirúeh the dagger,
That at once tore him from Shírín,
And hurled him from the Throne of Glory.

But as the days passed, The Shah
Watched Salámán, so lost in Absál,
And still no hand of greater effort was raised;
Yet the crown that was meant for his head,
And the throne waiting for his feet,
Were trampled from memory by a base desire,
Of which the soul remained unsatisfied—
[Pg 83] Then from The Shah's sorrow, fire fell;
He became ungracious and graceless,
And, to shatter his rebellious lust,
He unleashed all his will upon Salámán.
And lo! Salámán turned to his mistress,
But couldn't reach her—looked and looked again,
And yearned for her—but in vain!
Oh misery! What could be worse for a bankrupt
Than gold he cannot touch! For one thirsting
Than a fountain denied to the eye and lip!—
Or than heaven visible to the eyes in hell!—
Yet when Salámán's anguish was at its peak,
The door of mercy opened before him;
He saw and recognized his father's hand outstretched
To lift him from despair—timidly,
Timidly, he lifted his own face toward his father,
Pleading for pardon, confessing his sins,
Like a lost bird finally finding her nest.

A disciple asked a master,
“By what sign should a father
vouch for his alleged son?”
The master replied, “By the young man,
no matter if he's late or early,
like the supposed father
growing—whether wise or foolish.

[Pg 84]

“Look at the overlooked Darnel
It decorates the Wheat-field,
And for the entire Early Season
It pleases the Farmer’s Eye;
But when Harvest Time comes.
Another Grain will respond,
‘I am Darnel, not Wheat.’”

When the Shah saw Salámán’s face again,
And took a breath of reconciliation,
He placed a loving hand on his shoulder,
Gave him a welcome kiss on the cheek, and said,
“Oh you, who lost, love’s feast lost its flavor,
And humanity’s eye lost its pupil!—Your return
Is like another sun in the sky; a new
Rose blooming in the garden of the soul.
Rise, oh moon of undiminished majesty!
The horizon’s court is your court,
Your kingdom is the kingdom of the world!—
Look! A throne and crown await you—throne and crown
Without your mark but just unmarked gold,
Not to be stamped by anyone unworthy of them;
Behold! The rebel stands at your door;
Let him not triumph—let the wicked tremble
[Pg 85] At the throne beneath your feet, the crown upon your head.
Oh, do not cast them aside! Oh my son,
Wipe the woman’s henna from your hand:
Step away from the minion who draws
Power from you; the time has come to choose,
Your mistress or the world to gain or lose.”
There are four signs of royal ability;
Wise head—pure heart—strong hand—and open palm.
He is not wise—he cannot be composed—
Who ties himself to an unworthy desire;
Nor is he brave, who submits to a weak woman;
Nor generous, who cannot pull his hand
From that in which he is so shamefully occupied.
And anyone among these four who lacks even one
Is not the groom of dominion.

Ah, the poor lover! In the shifting hands of day and night, there's no one more wretched than him! No arrow from the bow of cruel fate misses him—one dagger at his throat, another comes to stab him from behind. Wounded by love—then hurt by the criticism of loving—and barely stopping the bleeding of shame by running away from his love—then, worst of all, love’s painful backlash for having escaped!
[Pg 86]

Salámán heard—he tore the Robe of Peace—
He began to hate his life and long for death,
(For better to die than to live a dead life)—
He turned his face with Absál toward the desert—
Entered the deadly plain; branch by branch
Cut down and gathered into a tall pile,
And set it on fire. They looked at the flames, those two—
They looked, and they rejoiced; hand in hand
They jumped into the fire. The Shah who watched
In secret had arranged everything; and the flame,
Guided by his own will,
Completely consumed Absál, but passed by
Salámán unharmed—the pure gold returned
Intact, but all the lesser metal burned.

[Pg 87]

Heaven's Dome is just a marvelous House of Sorrow,
And Happiness there is a deceptive story.
When they first mixed the Clay of Man and dressed
His Spirit in the Garment of Perfect Beauty,
For Forty Mornings, an Evil Cloud
Poured Sorrows over him from Head to Foot;
And when the Forty Mornings turned to Night,
Then came one Morning Shower—one Morning Shower
Of Joy—to counter Forty of the Rain of Sorrow!—
And even though better Fortune arrived at last
To complete the Work, every Wise Man knows
Such a Completion can never truly happen here!

Salámán ignited the fire; and in the blaze
That, passing by him, consumed Absál like straw,
Died his divided self, and what remained
Was his individual self; and, like a body
Separated from the soul, he felt all alone.
Then his cry rose to Heaven—his eyelashes
Dripped blood—his sighs drifted like smoke upward,
And morning tore her garment at his anguish.
[Pg 88] He clawed at his chest with his nails—he struck
His chest with stone—then looked at hands
No longer locked in hers, and lost their treasure,
He bit at them in desperation. And when night fell,
He hid in a corner of the house,
And spoke to the phantom of his love.
“Oh You whose presence eased my soul for so long,
Now burned by your memory! Oh so long
The light that filled these eyes now darkened by tears!
Oh Long, Long Home of Love now lost forever!
We were together—that was all that mattered—
We two delighted in each other’s eyes,
Infinitely joyful—all the world
Meant nothing to us, nor we to the world—
No road could reach us, nor an eye to watch—
All day we whispered in each other’s ears,
All night we slept in each other’s arms—
All seemed to our desire as if the hand
Of unjust fate was, for once, too short.
Oh would to God that when I lit the pyre
The flame had left you alive and me dead,
[Pg 89] Not alive in a worse state than dead, deprived of you!
Oh if only I were with you!—at any cost
Stripped of this terrible solitude!
Oh if only with you Annihilation—lost,
Or in eternal connection renewed!”

Slumber-drunk, an Arab in the
Desert tumbled off his camel,
The one who lightened her load
Ran down the road happily.
When the Arab woke in the morning,
Rubbed his eyes and looked around—
“Oh my camel! Oh my camel!”
He said, “Camel of my soul!—
If I lost her, I lost a part of myself,
But if found, she could be found with me!”

When the Shah Salámán found himself in this situation,
He was overwhelmed with pain, and the lifeblood
Within him felt suffocated—he didn’t know
What to do. Then he turned to The Sage—
“On the Altar of the World, to whom do people
Lift their prayers in times of joy and sorrow,
Only Wisdom can untie the knot;
[Pg 90] And aren't You the Wisdom of the World,
The master key to all its challenges?
Absál is lost; and because of her,
Salámán dedicates his life to grief;
I cannot bring her back, nor comfort him.
Look, I’ve spoken! My sorrow is laid before You;
From Your vast wisdom, help me
Caught in the grip of sorrow! Help me,
For I am very miserable!” Then The Sage—
“Oh You who never stray from the path of Right,
If Salámán hasn’t broken my bond,
Nor is beyond the noose of my decree,
He will soon unload his heart to me,
And I will find a solution for everything.”

Then the Sage advised, and Salámán listened,
And absorbed the Wisdom into his Heart;
And, sitting in the Shadow of the Perfect,
His Soul found Peace beneath; it felt sweet,
Clearing away the Mess and Clutter from his own,
To be the very Dust at Wisdom’s Door,
A servant to the Decree of the Lord of Life,
Then the Sage marveled at his Readiness,
[Pg 91] And performed a Miracle on his behalf.
He poured the Wine of Wisdom into his Cup,
He placed the Dew of Peace on his lips;
And when Old Love returned to Memory,
And broke forth in Passion from his Lips, the Sage
Under whose growing Will Existence blossomed
Responsive, and, relaxing, faded again,
Raised a Phantom Image of Absál
And held it before Salámán’s Eyes,
Until, having planted the Seed of Calm there,
It returned to Annihilation.
But always, throughout his Teachings,
The Sage would speak of a Celestial Love;
“Zuhrah,” he said, “the Brilliance of the Stars—
Before whom the Beauty of the Brightest fades;
If she were to reveal her perfect Beauty,
The Sun and Moon would go mad; Zuhrah,” he said,
“The Sweetness of the Feast—none in Song
Like Her—her Harp filling the Ear of Heaven,
That Dervish dances to her Harmony.”
Salámán listened, and leaned in—again
Repeated, his Attraction ever grew;
Until the Sage, seeing in his Soul
The Spirit awaken, so effectively
[Pg 92] Crafted with Zuhrah, that she revealed herself
In her pure Beauty to Salámán’s Soul,
And washing Absál’s Image from his Heart,
There reigned instead. Celestial Beauty seen,
He left the Earthly; and, having come to know
Eternal Love, he let the Mortal go.

The Crown of Empire, what a powerful position!
The Sultan's Throne, how elevated!—But not
For Everyone—Only those aiming for the sky can
Climb—The one who reaches for the heavens can wear it!—

When the Beloved of Royal Prophecy
Was freed from the Bondage of Absál,
He stood up, shaking off the Dust
Of that lost Journey, strengthened his Heart,
And looked toward Heaven in his pure Robe.
Then his Head was worthy of the Crown,
His Foot to step onto the Throne. And then The Shah
Called for the Leaders of Cities and States,
[Pg 93] Called for the Absolute Ones who wore the Ring,
And organized a Banquet like no other
In the Annals of World History.
No armed Force, nor Commander of a Force,
From all corners of the World, was missing;
Each of them bowed to Salámán and
Yielded their Neck to submit to his Supremacy.
Then The Shah crowned him with the Golden Crown,
And placed the Golden Throne beneath his Feet.
And over all the Heads of the Assembly,
And in the Ears of them all, his Jewels
With the Diamond of Wisdom shone and said:—

“My son, the Kingdom of the World is not
Eternal, nor is it the sum of true desire;
Let the faith-preserving intellect
Be your guide; and while considering today
The seed-field of tomorrow, before it bears fruit,
Sow with the harvest of eternity.
All work involves wisdom—aim for that
[Pg 94] Only what you know to do wisely,
Do that; for what you don't know, seek the wise.
Don’t turn away from the old ways,
For that was the code of the ancient kings;
And don’t cloud justice with tyranny;
Instead, work to transform all confusion
Through your justice into its opposite.
In everything you take or give,
Pay attention to the 'how'; Giving and Taking still,
Not by the misguided advice of the ungodly,
But by the law of faith, increase and give.
Don’t drain your people’s resources—the tyranny
That fills your pockets at the expense of your subjects,
Might make you strong for a time; but in the end,
It will weigh you down with a double burden.
The tyrant goes to hell—don’t follow him—

“Don’t let yourself become the fuel for its fires.
You are a Shepherd, and your flock is the people,
Here to save and not to destroy; and at their expense
To elevate yourself above the Shepherd’s duty.
Which matters more, the flock or the Shepherd?
And gather with you true men to safeguard the flock.
[Pg 95] Dogs, if you must—but loyal—leashed,
Whose teeth are for the wolf, not for the lamb,
And certainly not the wolf’s accomplices,
Their jaws dripping blood from the tyrant’s slaughter.
For kings must have advisors—but let them be wise
And loyal—understanding the realm’s needs—
(For who benefits from the folly of a fool? and least
A wise king surrounded by foolish counsel)—
Knowing how far the king and subject are bound
On either side—not through extortion,
Nor usury taken from the people’s pockets,
Their master’s and their own wealth (to whom
Having enough can be enough to make them rebel)
Feeding to a surplus that fuels hell.
Proper in spirit and body be they—compassionate
To the poor—welcoming to the saint—
Their kindness a balm to wounded hearts,
Their vengeance fearsome to wrongdoers,
Your heralds across the land bringing you
[Pg 96] News of good or bad—which to confirm
With your own discerning eye—and least of all
The suffering accuser also being the judge—
By the surest steps builds lasting prosperity.”

Under the surface of any story
There’s a deeper meaning—This story now
Finished, may you uncover its mystery
(Which the wise have figured out how to reach)
Fulfill your wishes—It’s not just a tale of I and you,
Even if I and you are the ones interpreting it.
What does The Shah mean? And what about the Sage?
And what does Salámán mean who wasn’t born of a woman?
And what about Absál who led him to desire?
And what about the kingdom that awaited him
When he claimed his garment from her hand?
What does that fiery pyre mean? And what about the sea?
And what about that heavenly Zuhrah who finally
Cleared Absál from the reflection of his soul?
Learn the mystery piece by piece from me;
Be all ears, from head to toe, and understand.

[Pg 97]

The Incomparable Creator, when He made this World
Created first of all
The First Intelligence—First of a Chain
Of Ten Intelligences, of which the Last
Sole Agent is in our Universe,
Active Intelligence, so called; The One
Distributor of Evil and Good,
Of Joy and Sorrow, Himself separate from Matter,
In Essence and in Energy—His Treasure
Not subject to any Talisman—He still
Has fashioned all that exists—Material Form,
And Spiritual, arising from Him—by Him
Guided all, and in His Bounty immersed.
Therefore, He is that Firmán-issuing Shah
To whom the World is subject. But since
What He distributes to the Universe
He Himself receives from an even Higher Power,
The Wise, and all who understand correctly,
Will recognize that Higher in The Sage.
His is the Prime Spirit that, spontaneously
Projected by the Tenth Intelligence,
Was not born from any Womb of Matter
But is a Special Essence called The Soul—a Child
Fresh from Heaven in Raiment undefiled
By Sensual Taint, and therefore called Salámán.
[Pg 98] And who is Absál?—The Lust-adoring Body,
Slave to Blood and Sense—through whom The Soul,
Although it is the Body’s very Life,
Still absorbs the Knowledge and Desire
Of Sensual Things; and these united thus
By a Tie that only God can unloose,
Body and Soul are Lovers of one another.

What is the Sea they sailed on?—The Sea
Of Animal Desire—the Sensual Abyss,
Under whose Waters lies a World of Existence
Swept far from God in that Submersion.

And why was it that Absál in that Island
was deceived by her Delight, and that Salámán
didn't get what he wanted?—That was to show
how Passion wears out, and how over time begins
the Unfolding of the Carpet of Desire.
And what caused Salámán’s Heart
to turn back to the Shah, looking to the Throne
of Glamour and Glory? What else but the Return
of the Lost Soul to its true Heritage,
and from Physical Mistakes looking up
repentant to its Intellectual Throne.
[Pg 99] What is The Fire?—Ascetic Discipline,
that burns away the Animal Alloy,
until all the Junk of Matter is consumed,
and the Essential Soul, its Raiment clean
of Mortal Stain, is left. But because
any Life-long Habit that has been burned away,
may well cause a Pain for what is lost,
therefore The Sage placed in Salámán’s Eyes
a Soothing Phantom of the Past, but still
spoke of a Better Venus, until his Soul
was filled, and blotted out his Mortal Love.
For what is Zuhrah?—That Divine Perfection,
with which the inspired and fully arrayed Soul
in Intellectual Light is royally blessed,
and ascends The Throne, wears The Crown, and Reigns
as Lord of the Empire of Humanity.

This is the Meaning of This Mystery
To fully understand, reflect on it in your Heart,
Until all its ancient Secrets are revealed.
That's enough—I'm finishing the written Summary,
And putting my Seal:

The Truth Only God Knows.

[Pg 100]

[Pg 103]

To Baron Von Hammer-Purgstall, who passed away in Vienna in 1856, we owe our best understanding of the Persians. He translated into German, in addition to Hafiz's “Divan,” samples from two hundred poets who wrote over a period of five and a half centuries, from CE 1050 to 1600. The seven masters of Persian literature—Firdousi, Enweri, Nisami, Dschelaleddin, Saadi, Hafiz, and Dschami[D]—are no longer just names; and others, like Ferideddin Attar and Omar Khayyam, are likely to gain more recognition in the West. The main purpose of books is conveyed through these rich excerpts. Many qualities contribute to making a good telescope—such as the wide field of view, ease of sweeping the meridian, and the color accuracy of the lenses—but the most important quality is its ability to see far into space. Similarly, there are many valuable aspects of books, but their essential value lies in adding knowledge to our understanding by recording new facts, and even more so, by documenting insights that organize facts and become the frameworks that redefine history. [Pg 104]

Life and society in the East, especially in the Southern nations, sharply contrast with the detailed, stable, and comfortable existence of the Western nations. Life in the East is intense, brief, risky, and full of extremes. Its components are few and straightforward, lacking the long flow and fluctuations of European life, but quickly swinging between the best and the worst. The wealthy indulge in fruits and game, while the poor make do with a watermelon’s rind. It’s all or nothing in Eastern life. Gaining the Sultan’s favor or falling out of it is a matter of fate. Wars can be started over a clever saying, much like in Europe over a duchy. The abundant sun and the rapid, excessive growth it creates make survival easier. However, dangers like deserts, sandstorms, mirages, lions, and plagues threaten it, and life depends on just a little more or less water. The very geography of ancient Persia reflected these extremes. “My father’s empire,” Cyrus told Xenophon, “is so vast that at one end, people freeze, while at the other, they are suffocated by heat.” The people’s temperament aligns with this life of extremes. [Pg 105] Their culture revolves around religion and poetry. The religion teaches a relentless Destiny, marking only two important days in each person’s life—his birthday, known as the Day of the Lot, and the Day of Judgment. His virtues are courage and complete acceptance of his fate.

The favorable climate that makes living easy and encourages an outdoor lifestyle gives Eastern nations a highly intellectual structure—setting aside for now the brilliance of the Hindoos (who are more Eastern in every way), as no other culture has matched their impressive ethical insights. The Persians and Arabs, with plenty of leisure time and few books, have a deep appreciation for poetry. Layard has shared some details about the impact that the improvvisatori had on the children of the desert. “When the poet improvised a love song, the excitement of the young chief was nearly uncontrollable. The other Bedouins were hardly any less moved by these simple verses, which have a similar effect on the wild tribes of the Persian mountains. Such poems, sung by their self-taught poets or the girls in their camps, can inspire warriors to fight, unafraid of death, or serve as a generous reward for their return from the dangers of the ghazon or battle. [Pg 106] The excitement they create is greater than the effects of wine. Anyone who wants to understand the influence of Homeric ballads during the heroic ages should see how similar works affect the wild nomads of the East.” He also notes, “Poetry and flowers are the wine and spirits of the Arab; a couplet is as good as a bottle, and a rose is like a shot of liquor, without any of the negative effects.”

The Persian poetry is based on a mythology with a few legends linked to Jewish history and the earlier traditions of the Pentateuch. The main figure in Eastern poetry references is Solomon. Solomon had three talismans: first, a signet ring that allowed him to command spirits, which was engraved with the name of God; second, a glass in which he could see his enemies' secrets and the reasons behind all things; and third, the east wind, which served as his horse. His advisor was Simorg, the king of birds, a wise creature who has existed since the beginning of time and now lives alone on the highest peak of Mount Kaf. No hunter has captured him, and no one alive has seen him. Through him, Solomon learned the language of birds, allowing him to hear their secrets whenever he walked in his gardens. [Pg 107] When Solomon traveled, his throne was placed on a green silk carpet large enough for his whole army to stand on—men on his right and spirits on his left. Once everyone was arranged, the east wind, at his command, lifted the carpet and carried it, along with everyone on it, wherever he wanted, while an army of birds flew overhead, creating shade from the sun. It's said that when the Queen of Sheba visited Solomon, he had constructed a palace in her honor, with a glass floor laid over running water where fish swam. The Queen was tricked by this and lifted her robes, thinking she would step over the water. During Solomon’s wedding, all the animals carrying gifts appeared before his throne. Following them was an ant with a blade of grass, and Solomon did not dismiss the ant's offering. At one point, Asaph, the vizier, lost Solomon's seal, which one of the Dews, or evil spirits, found and then ruled in Solomon's name, deceiving the people.

Firdousi, the Persian Homer, has written in the Shah Nameh the stories of the legendary and heroic kings of the land: [Pg 108] of Karum (the Persian Crœsus), the incredibly wealthy gold-maker, who, with all his riches, is buried not far from the Pyramids, in the sea that bears his name; of Jamschid, the conqueror of demons, whose reign lasted seven hundred years; of Kai Kaus, in whose palace, built by demons on Alburz, gold, silver, and precious stones were used so extravagantly that the brightness they created made night and day look the same; of Afrasiyab, strong as an elephant, whose shadow stretched for miles, whose heart was as generous as the ocean, and whose hands poured forth like rain from the clouds to nourish the earth. The crocodile in the rushing river had no safety from Afrasiyab. Yet when he came to battle against the generals of Kaus, he was like an insect in Rustem's grip, who seized him by the belt and pulled him off his horse. Rustem was so filled with rage at the arrogance of the King of Mazinderan that every hair on his body stood up like a spear. His grip shattered the sinews of an enemy.

These legends—like Chiser, the fountain of life, and Tuba, the tree of life—the stories of the loves between Leila and Medschun, Chosru and Schirin, and the nightingale's affection for the rose—along with pearl diving and the qualities of gems—the cohol, the cosmetic that permanently stains pearls and eyebrows black—the container that holds musk—the softness of the lip, the mole on the cheek, the eyelashes—lilies, roses, tulips, and jasmines—form the main imagery in Persian poems. [Pg 109]

The Persians have epic stories and tales, but mostly they focus on short poems and epigrams. Gnomic verses, which share life lessons through vivid imagery—especially visual imagery contained in a single stanza—have always been popular in the East. When their poems are longer, they tend to be just a series of disconnected lines. They employ a lack of continuity that can be quite surprising to Western thought, and the relationship between the stanzas of their longer odes resembles that of the refrains in our old English ballads.

“The sun shines brightly on Carlisle wall,”

or

“It rains every day,”

and the main plot.

Take the following as examples of these insightful verses:—

“The secret that must remain untold
No one from your country should find out;
You can lock up the gates of a town,
But you can never silence an opponent.

[Pg 110]

Or this by Omar Khayyam:—

“On the vast roads of the earth below
Only two men walk contentedly:
Who knows what’s right and what’s wrong,
And he from whom knowledge is concealed.”

Here’s a poem about a melon, by Adsched of Meru:—

“Color, flavor, and scent, emerald, sugar, and musk,—
Amber for the taste, a rare sight for the eyes,—
When you slice the fruit, each piece is a beautiful crescent,—
If you keep it whole, it’s like the full harvest moon.”

Hafiz is the prince of Persian poets, and with his amazing talent, he combines traits from Pindar, Anacreon, Horace, and Burns with a mystic's insight, giving us a deeper understanding of Nature than any of these poets. He approaches all subjects with a bold confidence. “Only,” he declares, “those who can appreciate earthly happiness like it's worth the price of a nightcap are fit for company. Our father Adam traded Paradise for two kernels of wheat; so don’t blame me if I value it at just one grapestone.” He tells the Shah, “You who rule with words and thoughts that no one has heard and no mind has conceived, stand strong until your young fate removes the blue cloak from the old graybeard of the sky.” [Pg 111] He says:—

“I strike the wheel of fate
When it doesn't work as it should;
I’m not one of those who whine,
Who falls and perishes.”

The speed of his turns always amazes us:—

“Look at how the roses are burning!
Bring wine to extinguish the fire!
Oh no! the flames are closing in on us,—
We’re dying from desire.

After the style of his people, he creates profound statements that could be engraved on a sword blade or even a ring. “He dies in honor who always finds the great astonishing.” “In short, when one door opens, another closes.” “Everywhere there are traps set by the thieves of circumstance; that's why the horseman of life pushes his horse forward at full speed.” “The earth is a host who kills his guests.” “What is good follows the path of Nature. On the straight road, the traveler never goes astray.”

[Pg 112]

“Wow! Until now, I didn't realize
My guide and Fate's guide are the same.”

“The mind’s copper coin
Doesn’t measure up to the gold of love.”

“It's written on the gates of Paradise,
‘Woe to the fool who gives in to Fate!’”

“The world is an incredibly beautiful bride;
Whoever marries her for her wealth must give up their soul.”

“Untangle the knots of your heart; don’t dwell on your fate;
No one has ever figured out that mess.”

“There resides in the grieving
A poison to kill;
Beware of getting close to them,
"It's still toxic."

Harems and wine shops just provide him with a new perspective from which to sometimes find a deeper lesson than what a controlled, sober life offers—and this is expected:—

“I'll be drunk and filled with wine;
We find treasures in a broken-down house.”

Riot, he thinks, can remove the veil that covers the deeply hidden lot:—

“To be wise, the dull brain works so hard,
Bring cups of wine for the foolish mind.”

[Pg 113]

“The Builder of heaven
Has divided the earth,
So that no pathway
Leads out of here.

“On highways of wonder
Wine lifts the spirits,
Straight, sideways, and upward,
West, south, and north.

“Stands the unbreakable vault
Until Judgment Day
The wine cup will carry
You good now?

That boldness and self-confidence found in every strong person come from the belief that their spirit is whole and valuable, just like the world around them. This gives the poet the right to speak with authority, making him intriguing, with each of his words and sounds carrying meaning. In Hafiz, this quality is present and greatly enhances his voice.

His mind was fluent, with every thought and feeling easily expressed. “Untie the knots of the heart,” he says. We take in enough, but we don't have the means to release and grow healthily. Many who have both experience and wisdom carry an air of sterility and fail to achieve their true goals. But a grand expression, [Pg 114] like a river shaping its own banks, quick understanding paired with fitting expression, a mindset that sees every new day as a fresh opportunity, ready to meet life's demands with both gentleness and courage, with expansive energy—this generous rhythm of giving and taking fulfills us, and we should be ready to face our end when it comes, after fully embracing life. The difference lies not in the quality of what men think but in their ability to express it. What’s bottled up and smoldering in a silent person isn’t trapped in the poet, who transforms it into something new, providing both release and creation.

The other strength of Hafiz is his intellectual freedom, which shows his deep thinking. We tend to accept the religions and political systems we find ourselves in; only a few sensitive individuals can see that the entire web of convention is the foolishness of those it ensnares—that the mind tolerates no religion or empire except its own. He demonstrates respect for absolute truth through his use of the most enduring and respected symbols, which often leads to accusations of irreligion.

Hypocrisy is the constant target of his attacks.

“Let’s pull the cowl through the stream of wine.”

[Pg 115]

He tells his mistress that not the dervish or the monk, but the lover, has in his heart the spirit that makes the ascetic and the saint; and definitely not their robes and rituals, but her glances, can give him the fire and virtue necessary for that kind of self-denial. Wrong will not be wrong for Hafiz, just because of the name. A law or rule is for him what a fence is to a quick schoolboy—a challenge to leap over. “We would do nothing but good, or else we would be embarrassed on the day when the soul must leave; and if they then deny us Paradise, the Houris themselves would abandon it and come to us.”

His total intellectual freedom is conveyed to the reader. There’s no example of such ease in referencing various topics, such skill in utilizing all materials. Nothing is too lofty, nothing too trivial for his needs. He fears nothing, he holds back for nothing. Love brings everything to the same level, and God becomes a groom, with heaven becoming a closet, in his bold praises to his lover or to his cupbearer. This limitless freedom is the privilege of genius.

We don't want to sugarcoat bottled spiders or turn the Song of Solomon into some kind of mystical revelation, let alone the erotic and wild songs of Hafiz. Hafiz himself is intent on resisting all such hypocritical interpretations; he rips off his turban and throws it at the meddlesome dervish, following it up by tossing his glass after the turban. [Pg 116] But Hafiz's love or wine shouldn’t be confused with crude indulgence. It's the spirit behind the song that matters, not the subject matter. Hafiz celebrates wine, roses, girls, boys, birds, mornings, and music to express his immense joy and appreciation for all forms of beauty; he emphasizes these topics to show his disdain for hypocrisy and dull prudence. These are the natural themes and language of his wit and insight. But what he truly loves is the cleverness of his wit and the joy of song; if you mistake him for a mere hedonist, he will quickly respond with verses that reveal the emptiness of sensual pleasures, just as passionately declaring profound sentiments and a disdain for the mundane. Sometimes he offers a perspective that elevates thought, as in: “Bring wine; for in the realm of the soul's independence, what are the sentinels or sultans? What is the wise man compared to the intoxicated?” And at other times, his feast, guests, and world are just another stone in the endless whirlpool of Fate:—

“I am who I am.
My dust will return.”

[Pg 117]

A saint might listen to the wild fun of Falstaff; it’s not meant to stir up base desires, but to express the joy of a higher understanding. In all poetry, Pindar’s rule applies—συνετοῖς φωνεί, it speaks to the wise; and Hafiz is a poet for poets, whether he writes, at times, with a parrot’s feather or, at other times, with an eagle’s quill.

Every song by Hafiz shows that the topic doesn't matter for success, as long as the approach is warm and friendly. Overall, what could be more boring than dedications or praises for the powerful? Yet in the "Divan," you wouldn't skip those parts, since his muse rarely inspires him better.

“What prettier shapes everything has,
Now that the Shah is back!”

And again:—

“Your enemies to hunt, your rivals to take down,
Holds Arcturus high, morning and evening, his spear.”

It is said about Hafiz that when he wrote a compliment to a handsome young man,—

“Take my heart in your hand, O beautiful boy of Shiraz!
I would give up Samarcand and Buchara for the mole on your cheek!”—

[Pg 118]

the verses reached Timour's ears in his palace. Timour accused Hafiz of disrespecting his two cities, which he had fought hard to conquer and beautify. Hafiz responded, “Unfortunately, my lord, if I hadn't been so generous, I wouldn't be so poor!”

The Persians had a way of establishing copyright that was the most secure of any method we know of. The law of the ghaselle, or shorter ode, requires the poet to include his name in the last stanza. Almost every one of the several hundred poems by Hafiz features his name interwoven, more or less closely, with the theme of the piece. This is itself a test of skill, as self-naming isn't exactly easy. We can only recall two or three examples in English poetry: Chaucer's in the “House of Fame” and Jonson’s epitaph for his son,—

"Ben Jonson's greatest poem"

and Cowley’s—

“The sad Cowley lay.”

But it's easy for Hafiz. It allows him to express himself in the most playful way, always gracefully, sometimes almost in the spirit of Falstaff, sometimes with a delicate femininity. He tells us, “The angels in heaven were recently learning his latest pieces.” He says, [Pg 119] “The fish drop their pearls, out of desire and longing as soon as Hafiz's ship sails the deep.”

“From the East, from the West, no one gets me;
Oh, how much happier I am, sharing my thoughts only with the wind!
This morning, I listened to the music of the stars,
‘We’ve heard sweeter melodies from Hafiz!’”

Again,—“I heard the harp of the planet Venus, and it said in the early morning, ‘I am the disciple of the sweet-voiced Hafiz!’” And again,—“When Hafiz sings, the angels listen, and Anaitis, the leader of the starry host, even calls the Messiah in heaven out to dance.” “No one has revealed thoughts like Hafiz, since the Word-bride first curled her hair.” “Only someone who isn’t naturally noble despises the verse of Hafiz.”

But we need to try to give some of these poetic touches the rhythmic structure that they seem to need:—

“Suitable for the Pleiad's blue harmony
The songs I sang, the pearls I created.”

Another:—

“I don't have any hidden treasure,
But I feel very satisfied;
The first was given from God to the King,
"The last one went to Hafiz."

[Pg 120]

Another:—

“High spirits, O Hafiz! even if it’s not yours
Valuable gold and silver;
More valuable to you is the gift of song,
“And the clarity of insight is even greater.”

Again:—

“O Hafiz, don’t talk about your needs;
Aren't these lines yours?
Then all the poets agree,
“No one can complain more.”

He proudly declares his status as a poet and a visionary for his people. To the Vizier coming back from Mecca, he says, “Don’t brag carelessly, prince of pilgrims, about your luck. You’ve seen the temple, but I, I am the Lord of the temple. No one has breathed in the fragrant air from the merchant's musk or from the musky morning breeze like I do every hour of the day.” And with even more intensity in the following lines:—

“Often have I said, I’ll say it once more,
I, a wanderer, do not lose myself,
I’m like a parrot; the mirror is held up to me;
What the Eternal says, I awkwardly repeat.
Give me what you will; I eat thistles like roses,
And according to my food I grow and I give.
Don’t scorn me, but understand I have the pearl,
And I’m only looking for someone to accept it.”

[Pg 121]

And his claim has been recognized from the start. Muleteers and camel drivers, traveling through the desert, sing parts of his songs, not so much for the meaning, but for their cheerful vibe and rhythm; and well-educated Persians know his poems by heart. Yet Hafiz doesn’t seem to have placed much importance on his songs, as his followers compiled them for the first time after he died.

In the following poem, the soul is represented as the Phoenix landing on Tuba, the Tree of Life:—

“My phoenix long ago secured
His nest in the sky;
In the body’s cage confined,
He was tired of life's expectations.

“Round and round this pile of ashes
Now the bird flies quickly,
But in that fragrant spot in the sky
The bird settles back down.

“Once he flies up, he will settle
On Tuba's golden branch;
His home is on that fruit-laden arch
That cools the blessed beneath.

“If across this world of ours
His wings spread like a phoenix,
How graciously it falls on land and sea
The refreshing shade!

[Pg 122]

“Either world he inhabits,
He often sees planets rolling below him;
His body is made entirely of air,
Of Allah's love for his soul.

Here is a poem that is said to be a favorite among all educated Persians:—

“Come!—the palace of heaven rests on airy pillars,—
Come, and bring me wine; our days are fleeting.
I declare myself the servant of that strong soul
Which renounces all ties and alliances on earth forever.
Did I tell you yesterday morning how the rainbow of heaven
Brought me a message of joy in my cup?
Oh high-flying falcon! the Tree of Life is your perch;
This sorrowful corner isn’t a fitting nest for you.
Listen! they call to you from the heights of heaven;
I can’t understand what keeps you trapped here.
I have advice for you; oh, pay attention and remember it.
Since I received the same from the Master above:
Don’t look for faith or truth in a world of shallow girls;
This dangerous bride has a thousand suitors.
Don’t burden yourself with the world, and don’t forget my advice,
It’s just a toy that a wandering sweetheart left us.
Accept whatever comes; free your brow from your hair;
[Pg 123] Neither to me nor to you was choice given;
Neither endurance nor truth belongs to the laughter of the rose.
The loving nightingale mourns;—plenty of reason to mourn;—
Why should the bird envy the flowing verses of Hafiz?
Know that a god granted him eloquent speech.”

The cedar, the cypress, the palm, the olive, and fig tree, the birds that live in them, and the garden flowers are always present in these fragrant verses and are always mentioned with purpose. “The willows,” he says, “bend to every breeze, embarrassed by their barrenness.” We can start anywhere in a flower catalog.

“By the scent of rose gardens,
I found the grove in the early morning light,
In the chorus of the nightingales
To heal my drunk mind.

“With an indifferent glance
I looked the rose straight in the eye:
The rose at twilight
Lit like a lamp nearby.

“She was proud of her beauty.
And even prouder of her young age,
As the bulbul shared his truth
With her passionate heart.

[Pg 124]

“The sweet narcissus closed
Its eye, filled with desire;
The tulips, out of envy, burned
Moles with their red breast,

“The white lilies stretched
Their sharp tongues aimed at the smell;
The bunches of anemones
"Share their beautiful secrets."

Currently we have,—

“All day long it rained”
Soaked the dark hyacinths for nothing,
The downpour might fall from morning till night
And still not wash the pretty Indians white.”

And so we continue, through many pages.

This image of the early days of Spring, from Enweri, feels like it belongs to Hafiz:—

“Across the garden, the wind moves by itself
To smooth and shape the surface of the wave;
The fire is out on the beloved hearth,
"But it ignites again on the bold tulips."

Friendship is a favorite topic of Eastern poets, and they have matched Montaigne's ideas on this subject.

Hafiz says, “You don't learn any secrets until you understand friendship; because to the unwell, no divine knowledge comes in.”

[Pg 125]

Ibn Jemin writes this:

“While I look down on the masses,
I see no equal among the elite,
Friend is a term of noble worth,
Friend is a poem in solitude.”

“Wisdom is like an elephant,
A rare and majestic being:
It lives in deserts or palaces;
It doesn’t mingle with merchants.”

Dschami says,—

“A friend is someone who, even when chased as an enemy,
Displays even more kindness than before;
Throw stones at him, or harsher weapons too,
"He creates a more solid foundation with stone and steel."

Of Hafiz's love poetry, we have to be cautious in how much we quote, even though it makes up the core of the "Divan." He explores the entire range of emotions—from the sacred to both the edges and beyond the edges of the profane. The blend of high and low themes, the quick shifts in meaning, and allusions that our more reserved poets avoid are second nature to him. From the straightforward text,—

“The chemist of love
Will this decaying body,
Were it created from dirt,
"Turn into gold?"

he continues to celebrate his passion; and nothing in his religious or scientific traditions is too sacred or too distant to offer a sign of his love. [Pg 126] The Moon thought she understood her own path well enough; but when she saw the curve of Zuleika’s cheek, she was confused:—

“And since round lines are drawn
My love's lips all around,
Even the Moon seems confused,
And hesitates in doubt
Wondering if the sweet curve of your mouth
"That isn't her actual route to the South."

His creativity never rests:—

“Ah, if only I could hide in my song,
To kiss your lips from which it flows!”

and engages in countless charming gestures:—

“May your gentle heart be blessed!
Are you willing to do a good deed?
Oh, please pray for the dead
Who your eyelashes killed;”

And what a nest he has found for his lovely bird to settle in!—

“They scatter jewels and precious gems in the paths of kings and emperors,
But for your sake, I will bring down stars,
And light your path with eyes.

“I have searched for you a more extravagant dome
Than Mahmoud's fancy palace,
And you, upon your return, will find your home
At the heart of Love's vision.

[Pg 127]

Then we have all levels of passionate surrender:—

“I know this dangerous love path
No one knows where the traveler is headed,
Yet my imagination is filled by the sweet scent of
Your messy hair.

“In the darkness of your hair,
I’m done for the day;
In the circle of your rose-colored lips,
My heart forgets to pray.

And sometimes his love feels almost spiritual:—

“Dive into your raging waves,
Letting go of doubt and worry;
The movement of the seven vast seas
Will never touch your hair.

“Is Allah’s face upon you
Bending with loving kindness,
And are you not less in Allah’s sight,
O fairest, turning yours.

We include a few samples from other poets alongside these fragments of Hafiz.

“While roses bloomed across the plain,
The nightingale said to the falcon,
‘Why must you, of all birds, be silent?
With your mouth closed, you say nothing,
Though you’re dying, you have no last word for man.
[Pg 128] Yet you sit on the hands of princes,
And feed on the grouse’s breast,
While I, who waste a hundred thousand jewels
In a single note,
Look! I feed on worms,
And my home is the thorn.’—
The falcon replied, ‘Listen closely:
I, experienced in the world,
See fifty things, but say none;
Yet you are not valued by the people
Who, doing nothing, claim a thousand words.
To me, chosen for the hunt,
The king’s hand offers the grouse’s breast;
While a chatterbox like you
Must gnaw on worms in the thorn. Goodbye!’”

The following passages show the strong inclination of Persian poets toward contemplative and religious poetry, as well as allegory.

“A painter in China once created a hall;—
Such a masterpiece never adorned an emperor’s wall;—
One half came alive with vibrant colors he made,
The other was illuminated by a beam of sunlight;
So that everything pleasing to the eye on one side,
Reflected exactly in the same way on the other side.”

[Pg 129]

“In you, friend, that Tyrian room is found;
Yours is the star-pointing ceiling, and the foundation on the ground:
Is one half shown with colors less bright?
Be careful that the opposite shines with light!”

“I read on the porch of a grand palace
On a purple tablet with engraved letters,
‘A house, even if it's a million winters old,
A house made of dirt will eventually fall down;
So gather your stones from the clear All,
“And create the dome that won't collapse.”

“What do we need,” exclaims the mystic Feisi, “for palaces and tapestries? What do we even need a bed for?”

“The eternal Watcher who stays awake
All night in the body’s physical chest,
Will make a pillow out of your arms,
And a cushion from your chest.

Ferideddin Attar wrote the “Bird Conversations,” a mystical story where the birds gather to choose their king and decide to embark on a pilgrimage to Mount Kaf to pay their respects to the Simorg. From this poem, written five hundred years ago, we quote the following passage as evidence of the continuity of mysticism throughout the ages. The tone feels very modern. In the tale, the birds quickly grew tired of the journey's length and challenges, and eventually, almost all of them gave up. [Pg 130] Only three persisted and reached the throne of the Simorg.

“The bird-soul felt embarrassed;
Their body had completely disappeared;
They had cleansed themselves of the dust,
And were filled with light.
What was, and wasn’t—the Past—
Had been erased from their heart.
The sun nearby shone
Brightest light into their soul;
The glory of the Simorg shone
As one returning from all three.
They were uncertain, amazed, if they
Were this or that.
They saw themselves all as Simorg,
Their existence within the eternal Simorg.
When they looked up at the Simorg,
They saw him among them;
And when they looked at each other,
They recognized themselves in the Simorg.
A single glance unified both groups,
The Simorg appeared, then vanished,
This in that, and that in this,
As the world has never known.
They remained, lost in wonder,
Thoughtless in deep contemplation,
And completely unaware of themselves.
[Pg 131] Silently they prayed to the Highest
To reveal this secret,
And to unlock Thou and We.
An answer came without words.—
‘The Highest is like a sun-mirror;
Whoever approaches Him sees themselves within,
Sees body and soul, and soul and body;
When you came to the Simorg,
Three appeared to you inside,
And if fifty of you had come,
You would have seen yourselves as many.
None of us has seen Him yet.
Ants don’t see the Pleiades.
Can a gnat bite
The body of an elephant?
What you see is not Him;
What you hear is not Him.
The valleys you walk through,
The actions you take,
They are under our care
And among our properties;
You as three birds are in wonder,
Impatient, heartless, confused:
I am far beyond you,
Since I embody the Simorg.
You erase my highest existence,
To find yourselves on my throne;
Forever you erase yourselves,
Like shadows in the sun. Farewell!’”

SOME OPINIONS OF MEN ON
“THE ETERNAL FEMININE”

With a Colorful Frontispiece from a Painting
by W.A. Breakspeare.

FITZGERALD 100TH ANNIVERSARY EDITION.

WITH

LIFE OF EDWARD FITZGERALD
and an ESSAY ON PERSIAN POETRY

Color frontispiece specially created by
T.W. Morley.

Pott 8vo. Stylish cloth, £2.50 each; also
available in the latest leather binding styles.

BY CHARLES AND MARY LAMB.

A New Release.

Edited, with an Introduction and Notes, by
George Sampson.

ILLUSTRATED BY J.A. WALKER.

Elegant fabric, £2 net.

PEACOCK, MANSFIELD & Co., Ltd., London