Ismaili.NET - Heritage F.I.E.L.D.

Pass by, food of his heart, sweet breeze of Khorasan

Here to a dim prison in the vale of Yamgan

Where he sits narrowed by poverty, comfortless, cold,

His fortune gone, possessions lost, landless and old.

Unjust Fate has stripped from his soul in its tyranny

All repose, and from his body all luxury;

He knows more sorrows than a pomergranate has seeds,

His limbs possess less power than the winter reeds;

That elegant frame, that once too-handsome face

Have decayed now to ugliness, distraction and disgrace -

That face, once luminous as Spring anemones,

Now withered like autumn leaves in exile s miseries.

His kinsmen turn their back on him and cut him dead;

No sustenance now but God s mercy, the Divine bread.

I committed no sin but somehow the Turk

the Arab, the Iraqi and the Khorasani all alike

have been my foes. Always looking for some pretext

to hate me, calling me unorthodox , an enemy

of the Companions. What can I say to this army

of demons? God has not given me Solomon s

magic spell. They come from far away

barking and howling like dogs in the barn.

A million like them still wouldn t bother me,

for on Judgement Day . . . Thou knowest, O Lord,

Thou knowest well! But still it s only reasonable

to take certain precautions against demons -

even the greatest and most eloquent sage,

attacked by desert ghouls, wouldn t be able

to talk his way out! The ignoramus

recognises no proof - there s no point reciting

the Quran to a calf. The wiseman wastes no words

on a horde of idiots - who would season

coarse barley bread with expensive spices?

They call me unorhodox - bah! - what do they know

of Islam except the name? O you who wear

upon your head the hat of false claims and hide

your soul beneath the garments of stupidity,

tell me: to whom should one pay allegiance

after Muhammad? - and how do you prove your claims?

After whose mule are you driving your crippled ass?

Whose silk brocades are you boasting about when you

yourself are still dressed in tatters and dirty rags?

After all, isn t it better to have a clean and simple

linen shirt for yourself, than for your uncle

to go about decked out in all the latest fashions?

The virtues of friends (if they exist) will

avail you naught on that morrow when the

HIDDEN POWER is revealed. Anyway, your patrons

seem not to have seen fit to bestow upon you

any of that virtue and excellence of theirs -

why, if they are such a renowned ascetics, do you

lead the life and display the character of an imp?

Yes, you look like a stick-up man or a mugger to me -

so where s your take? You know - the booty?

All day you fast and moan and twiddle your beads -

come nightfall you re down at the tavern,

jiving and enjoying a glass of sweet wine. Ah,

you ve memorised the Book of Con - that s why

(no doubt) you ve been appointed Grand Mufti

of Balkh, Nishapur and Herat. Your words

are heavy with fruit as a date palm, but

when it comes to action, your thorns appear.

I hate your master the devil, that s all

I have to say, I have turned my face away

to the door of the Prophet s Household, where

I expect the blessings of the Two Worlds.

I may be exiled, far away from the family and hearth,

but I ve gained the wisdom of Luqman.

I ve tattoo d the name of Mustansir on my

breast and forehead - that king whom Caesar

would humbly thank for a job as doorman.

The stone of his stoop is more precious

than Badakshan rubies, just as the sky

is higher than dusty earth. In is courtyard

the sons of Emirs and Vaziers from Tehran, and

people of all clans and tribes are waiting to serve

just as their ancestors came before them.

O Imam, in whose noble essence God s purpose

in making the world has been fulfilled,

know that to me, the slave of devotion,

the flinty stones of Yamgan valley are worth

more than the pearls of the Gulf.

When you have bestowed upon me all Eternity

why should I bother with this insipid world?