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The pilgrims had returned, reverenced and honoured,
giving thanks to God for His compassion and mercy,
from the dangers and hardships of the Arabian journey,
and saved - no doubt - from hell and painful chastisement,
having walked from Arafat to Mecca and answered
the pilgrim s call with joy, having performed
all the duties of the Hajj and retuned home
hale and hearty. I decided to go and welcome them back
but I m afraid I asked too many questions
and put my foot in it. Among the caravan, one
was a particular friend of mine, a dear man.
Tell me how you made it through this dangerous
journey I said.All the time you have been away
I ve had nothing but sorrow for companionship.
Congratulations, Haji! There s no one like you
in our whole province, I m sure. Tell me
how you visited that sacred place, with what
honour and dignity you beheld it. Tell me
about the donning the pilgrim s robe, and what
your inner intentions were at that moment.
Did you prohibit to yourself everything other
than the Eternal Lord?
Well . . . . no , he admitted.
Did you answer the call out of knowledge
and with due reverence? Did you hear the summons
of the Lord, and answer back, like Moses?
Well . . . . um . . .
At Arafat, when in the presence of God, did
you welcome His Knower, and the denyer of your self?
Did the breeze of Gnosis blow upon your you?
. . . uh . . . to tell the truth I . . .
When you sacrificed the obligatory sheep
did you see yourself in proximity to Him
and think of the sheep as your carnal soul?
My what? I say . . .
When you entered the Sacred Grounds were you safe
from the evil of your lower self and from the sorrow
of separation, the chastisement of Hell?
You see, actually . . . .
When you threw stones at the Accursed One
did you fling out of yourself all bad habits
and reprehensible acts?
Umm . . . um . . .
When you prayed at the Station of Abraham
did you, in truth, faith and certitude, submit
the very core of your being to the Absolute?
The what?
At the time of circumambulation, when you
were no doubt running around fast as an ostrich,
did you remind yourself of the circling cherubim
around the Celestial Throne?
Really, Nasir, what . . .?
Did you behold in your purity of heart the Two Worlds
and become inwardly free of both Paradise and Hell?
NO, NO, NO!
Now that you have come back, is your heart
pained by separation from the Kaaba?
Did you bury your selfish ego in the tomb
. . . or are you still no better than a
decaying bag of bones?
I must admit
he answered,that in all these matters
I seem not to have known the true from the false.
Then, my friend , I said,you have not made
a pilgrimage, and have not taken up residence
in the Abode of Annihilation. You have simply
visited Mecca and come back, having purchased
the toils of the desert with your silver.
If you ever go again, bear in mind
all that I have said.
you ve washed your face with Zam-Zam water,
made your pilgrimage like a man, escaped all sorrow,
worked hard for forty years - given away very little,
true, but taken very little - etc., etc. But
how many times have you sold plain linen
and charged the price of silk? If you wish
to purify yourself at last from sin, forget
the business world - does a slave of vinegar and salt
ease the pain of a wound? More and less of
measure and balance - these things are not washed away
by the water of Zam-Zam. You might hide
your connivance even from yourself, but not
from God. Your unlawful fortune came to you
as id on a breeze - a breeze will puff it away.
Wake up! Recite a chapter from the Qur an
and breathe it into your body and soul.
The devil s cheated you, sold you a felt rug
for the price of a silk carpet. You say
you re enjoying yourself, but from where I stand
your festivity looks like a funeral. Lost
in a salt desert, you imagine it an orchard.
Don t pay your way to Mecca with
a pickpocket s silver - don t mingle honey
with poison. You are human, my son,
and must repent of your sins, like Adam.
If the sun of your sins burns your eyes, take refuge
under the shady roof of repentance.
If you want to dwell in the pasture of mercy
graze today in the field of knowledge,
tomorrow in that of action. Moisten the seed
of action with knowledge - the seed
does not grow by itself. Look: a stout rope
hangs down from the Seventh Sphere -
you ll never see it with your darkened eyes
and shadowy heart. Go, take hold of it,
lift yourself up from this aimless caravan,
this shepherdless flock. The rope stands
for one who is the embodiment of wisdom
- no one sees knowledge except in him.
My heart knows - he is God s Trustee,
guardian of the Qur anic wisdom and the realm
of Jamshid. On Judgement Day only those
will be honoured who have been honoured by him.
He soars above all men in wisdom, and men
can raise themselves by his lofty precepts.
The world would be a fair price to pay
for him - he is the celebrated gem, the world
his bezel ring. As for me, he has appointed me
shepherd over a flock - and I shall not
wander away in search of another.
Do you thirst? Of you re sober enough
I ll show you a way to a sweet sea.
And if you listen to my advice, I ll see you
pulled out of the well, raised to the spheres.
. . . something in my horoscope . . . stars are against me . . .
Good heavens, drive these vapours away! It ill befits
the wise to rebuke the sublime and distant spheres.
If they make a profession of cruelty, in any case,
you make a habit of patience - and don t put off
till tomorrow what ought to be done today.
If you create an evil star for yourself
you can hardly expect a favourable horoscope.
He who acts like an angel acquires an angel s face.
Have not seen Spring come to the desert
giving each freshborn tulip the countenance of a star?
You, an intelligent being, ought to imitate
and accept for yourself the virtues of the wise.
Look, the narcissus, spun of silver and gold
like the crown of Alexander; the orange tree s
aureate fruits give it the grace of Caesar s pavilion.
The poplar is sterile because it has chosen fruitlessness;
if you turn away from Wisdom how will your head
be exalted? Trees which do not produce
are burned for fuel, which all they deserve.
If your tree bears the fruit of knowledge
you can govern the stars yourself. But beware
not to count among the sciences the arts
of penmanship and poetry, which are simply aimed
at acquiring worldly status and wealth - no,
that is something else entirely. One finds various words
in human speech, but after all, the magic spells
of a sorcerer and the revelations of a prophet
are by no means the same thing, any more
than a noble falcon can be compared
to a partridge. Prophets give the science of Truth
to those they deem worthy of such sovereignty;
Moses bestowed knowledge of Aaron - Samari
had no hand in the affair, just as you,
shackled, stumbling on your feet before the horseman
are not worthy of anything but slavery.
Admit it: you have sold yourself to the King of Shugnah
or the Emir of Mazandaran - aprofessional poet
or a minstrel (the only difference being that a poet
stands up to a declaim his flatteries, the minstrel
sits to pluck or toot). Bah! Someone ought to
slice out your insolent tongue before you write
another bloody poem about the box-tree or the tulip
or the bright moonface and curly ambergris-scented locks
of some insipid beloved, or produce yet another ode
in praise of the vast erudition of some nobleman
who in fact can only belch forth ignorance as a marsh
ferments illsmelling bubbles. You versify lies
out of greed, and falsehood is capital in the bank
of unbelief. Well, I am one who will reuse to cast,
beneath the feet of swine, this pearl - the Persian language.
I will show you how and when to bow and prostrate yourself
like a cypress in the morning breeze, the wiseman
humbles himself before the one whom God has chosen
among all creatures for a Guide, the whose works
of justice have erased from the world s face
every smudge of oppression: the Imam of the Time.
What sorcerer could make a magic to compare
with that of his lovers, the Partisans of the Imam?
So wise one might think him more than human,
so much more generous than his station demands,
justly seated in the place of highest honour,
the planet Mars set as a jewel in his bezel ring.
God to him, in whose Father s hand is written
the talisman of the bold feats of Khaybar, to him
in whose outward form one might discern the
the character of Ali, whose bright light of knowledge
binds the exoterist s eye. If he (this exoterist)
were truly seeking to become human he would drive
the donkeylike qualities from his head - how can he
reckon me a stupid as himself? How can counterfeit
be compared with genuine gold? Shouldn t it be obvious
that compared to his, my prose and verse so adorn
plain white paper that it gains the beauty of brocade?
Read my two books of poetry and discover how
the eloquence of Persian, the precision of Arabic verse
have combined in me.
Ah the busynessman, engage des affaires
what have you to pride yourself in this passing show?
You are theprophet of a world which
- consider ! - has made you a boob.
Run, run after it! now to the Spring
now to the Autumn of its ends.
If you have not sold your life to demonologies
why must you scuttle after a demon?
It strides hugely before you swollen with rancour -
why, why do you follow it in joy?
D you not fear some day this shark
may kiss you between its teeth?
If you ve a shred of brain
turn your face from the Big Lie of the Time.
Every today avarice lulls you with promises
which tomorrow will not fulfil
your youth has grown grey with grief,
hardships and suffering in hopes of future bliss -
and moment by moment in utopian dreams
the clock of earth ticks off the flow of years.
My son the world is your adversary
and in you covets nothing but your soul.
For you it wears a silk brocade
which swarms beneath the sleeve with scorpions.
Arrogant fool, feel free - for you
yourself are not safe from such disgrace.
You sought refuge at its gate but it
sharpens its razors on the strop of your throat.
The dragon has chewed on many
and clever as you - watch out for its fangs.
Here, take this volume, dusty with tales
of the kings of Persia, carry it home and read:
where is Feraydun, Kaykubad
where the August banner of Kaviyan?
Where is Sam the son of Nariman, Rustam
the generalissimo of Mazandaran?
Where now is Babal the son of Sasan, Ardashir
where? Wehre? Bahram and Nushirvan?
All of them have gone away with their herds and treasures
the shepherd departed, the sheep vanished.
This world is a dark and vacant haaway
not a true house. Detach your heart, free your soul.
God summons you, - now -
Ah sweetheart of heaven and earth
how will you wander to left and right
nor follow straight the caravan;
how long will pirate and go on pirating
your neighbour s provisions for the road?
Do you not blush to set up your roadside stall
and sell straw and call it fine saffron?
Tomorrow when you rise fro sleep
your cries and lamentations will buy you nothing.
Does that not frighten you, that Gathering Day
where old and young alike will come
and where no one will take your hand,
neither your son nor your loving father?
Sacks of guilt and chests of sin
weigh your neck and turn your back to water
but still you will face the Kaaba
till they lay you out on a bier
nor will your tongue will touch the Testimony of Faith
till the last breath rattles in your throat.
Why? Why? A grain of godfearing repentance
would lift the burden from your shoulders.
You build yourself a fine new house and suddenly
your neighbour s out on the street without a straw.
O ancient raider of the army of ignorance
now just once tighten your bridle.
Why are you running away with Satan himself
if you heart harbours no suspicions of the Qur an?
Your misgivings about the Book
will be punished, rest assured,
and on the day they surface, believe me,
your signs of regret will get you nowhere.
The soul is only webbed in this House of Bone
that you may bow to God;
the body s a quarry, your devotion a gem
which you must dig from the tenebrous veins of earth;
your spirit s a cavalier, the flesh its horse -
do not ride it except toward the Good.
Don t go running after the pleasures of the flesh
like a mangy cock after a hen.
Your world s an ocean, your body a ship
your life a fair tradewind and you the merchant:
my words are money in the bank -
why are your wasting your dividends?
O Nasir-i Khushraw you should say
give us words of wisdom as long as you can.
O you who are hidden in Khorasan like a Simurgh
your name is everywhere, your body concealed.
In the legions of the sciences of the Truth
your tongue is a bow, your speech a feathered shaft.
Day and night as always dive in the ocean of words
fetch back pearls and hand them around
so that something survives for posterity
when you leave on the eternal journey.
Arise at the command of the IMAM OF THE WORLD
and set sail upon the sea of speech.
O nitwit body, how could you ever have lost
(as one might drop something in the street) your strength,
your paradisal face? When you had them
you acted ugly enough - now you ve grown ugly
better make at least your actions beautiful.
Your back is pale as winter. Once a peacock,
now a porcupine. If that beauty had really
meant something, it would never change, would it?
It only came on loan, it s been repossessed.
Ah corpus indelectable, don t weep, don t moan,
frail scallop on life s plumbless sea, brief breeze,
thin sail. Like a slick perfume salesman
(snotty and sexy) for a while you drenched your hair
in hyacinth and ambergris. Those hyacinthine locks
look now like frayed ropes, which you weave
upon Death s spindle. Yesterday fell
through a hole in your pocket, long before
you managed to get hold of tomorrow.
Tomorrow you ll pluck the bitter roses sown
- was it only yesterday? Fifty years from
cradle to grave along this ghoulhaunted highway:
the poor travel no worse than the rich -
no first-class compartment for Muslim or Jew.
However, there does come a fork in the road
- one way to heaven, one to hell. Fire
burnt in your gut and singed your heart
and offered you an excuse to tear up
the scroll of religion. Slave of instinct,
worshipper of fire (like a Magi) you whine
I don t know nothin , I didn t do it . . .
and really how could you be considered guilty
of your own murder? The ignoramus, devoid
of worship and devotion, expects to find in paradise
only good huntin and good fishin. You yourself
are fit - ugly devil - only to be bagged
gutted, hunted and roasted. O PROOF OF KHORASAN
the noise you make reaches every corner
of the earth, as if a boulder dropped
from heaven and shattered this great bowl
to splinters.
CLOCK, what do you want from me?
Go somewhere else to peddle your fakes.
I know your game - go and bother
someone else - anyone you like.
Only yesterday I was ambling along
ignorant of your tricks,
bumbling, grinning idiot,
handsome as a tailor s dummy.
You joined me - all at once
youth and delight drained away,
picked out of my pocket -
thief! Callous highwayman!
Friends, let me warn you:
a whale, once it s decided
to eat you, may take its time,
but sooner or later - GULP
- down the hatch - and so it is
with the world. Innocenti,
sooner or later you re going
to have to climb up out of
that well, that smoky
gravity-laden pit you call
your body - source of all grief and perversion.
Mon vieux, you ve started
to shrink alarmingly. Stretch
out the hand of worship,
quick, quick . . . dear me,
what an unsightly hump
you seem to have acquired.
Can t you straighten up?
Speak sense? get hold
of yourself? Pray more?
The soul is whole-wheat
and the body is chaff. Have you
ever considered that? All
those sweet temptations of the
flesh - nothing but empty
husks? You re like a fly
who boasts about his tailor -
the Spider. Or a goldfish
set free in the Atlantic
just before hurricane season.
And let me tell you:
you re thinking of leaving
and making it to dry land
you d better learn how to
grow yourself a pair of
feet. Because fish don t
make much progress on
sandy beaches.
Your Majesty, cast an eye
on these poor dervishes
and learn how to be grateful
for your good luck and power.
Because the moon may shine
at the bottom of a well,
but it never loses any of its
silvery sheen. Because the stars
have robbed many a monarch
of is throne like Attila the Hun.
Listen to the PROOF:
he s nor selling any
professional flattery.
you can count, old man. Figure up
how many Springs and Summers you ve lost
remembering how your hair before was black
as pitchy raven s wing, spine fletched like an arrow -
was it June that rained and spilled
milk upon your tarblack head?
Then your fancy was to while away your time
eating or in idle talk, aimless strolling
till from such good works as these your body
grew to that of a senile beast.
Elegance - no penury - awake or asleep
smothered in silk - sweet songs in your ear
while round you swarmed mate-hungry friends
with ebony muskblown swaths of curls.
Gone to the meadow like an ass in Spring,
in Fall sprawl beneath the twisting vine
with a jug of red beside your elbow -
you would admitThere was no one
in the world like me: clever, comme il faut,
poet and penman, deep emotions, and on my lips
le mot juste held as lightly as the
inktipped reed in my fingers. I stretched
my hand to the moon; never was the Emir
seen with goblet and vase if I
were not present. He used to call me
AYour Grace@ - you can imagine how that
sat with the ministers and whatnot.
And always your eyes strayed to the hands
of the rich, looking who brought sweetmeats,
who brought a new robe. A year went by
and no one made his way past your door
- certainly not that orphan brat of your
distant cousin or that neighbour of yours
fallen on evil times. Tongue long for a jest,
fingers short, too short for the bottom
of the purse of charity. An eleganttongue
indeed - for a jest; a luminous heart -
for verse.
If you called all this to mind
mightn t your face and your heart go black
as once your pomated locks? Tick tock
the cruel months counted off your
Junes and Julys while you slept pleasantly
as a donkey in the manger. Time s
Walpurgis Nacht, whirling, swirling
each moment a backnosed witch to blunt
the edges of your youth. The cypress
of your stature s a languid hunchback,
that moonlike visage pale and pocked.
Where are they now, yesterday s sponges,
the hopeful hangers-on? They spit
when you walk by. What s left?
What survives of your days but a sigh?
You never cared for religion -
and you missed the world - like wet bran
which is neither dough nor bread. The world
exiled you from an innocent faith, and for the rest
The Quest (it s your last quip) for barley
kept from Parnassus . The world
and its works are devil s fare - but faith
is pure. And one kept you
from attaining the other. Bit by bit
the days will gnaw you away like cheese
in the mousetrap of Time.
Time . . . .
perhaps there s still time to stuff your ears
against these songs and grow sober.
The milk of time soon fills the gut -
have you not drunk enough? Get hold of yourself.
Hire Wisdom as your Vazier. Meditate:
Why did they make the Macrocosm?
O Microcosm, ask yourself. The elephant
the lion, the camel are mightier than man -
why did God not send a prophet to the camels?
The Galactic Craftsman, why did he call me?
What does he want with an old rake like me?
Of all the animals he summons me -
he must have some business with me, his poor slave.
If knowledge of Him is obligatory
how and why? No, without the How and Why
the task is beyond me. He has neither
body nor weight (unlike us) but He does have
hearing and seeing . . .?
Your body is your grave.
Now don t go apoplectic on me -
gouty old fools like you find it hard
to take advice. Listen: in this grave,
this mausoleum of yours, do you think
your soul and intellect will suffice
for those Recording Angels who visit
the freshly buried? This tomb (I quote
the Messenger of God) is either Hell
or the Garden of Paradise - choose.
Yes choose - it s up to you -. but if you d follow
the better path, find yourself a guide.
And beware of false gurus, those
who call themselves men of sight but in fact
are blind as yourself. Remember
what the Prophet himself said on the day
he delivered his sermon by the Ditch,
whom did he name trustee? What did he say?
He tookAli by the hand and gave him his seat.
If the Prophet took his hand, shouldn t you?
Old man, if you confess, I m right
then Ali is your Imam and after him
Hassan and Husayn. Don t deny it, don t tell me
that after the Prophet you need no mediator.
The Gnosis of Ali is nopersonal opinion
of the eminent So-and-So - it s priceless
as some rare and mythical gem. Acknowledge him,
larn from him, strengthen the sinews of faith
and delight the heart s inner eye. The Water of Life
flows beneath his sweet words - drink
and die no more forever. The PROOF
gives you advice, the PROOF makes allusions -
my son, take the blessed counsel
of your sire.