XXVIII
You came forth with a dagger in your hand to cut off my head; yet you could kill me in a way more beautiful than this.
Even the rose petal has found its softness through your grace—why, then, are you as hard as a thorn?
O sun, you struck me with your sword, and with your sword my back, my waist was broken.
The sword is also a veil; leave the veil aside, strike my face quickly with a blow or two.
Someone, while telling how his neighbor divorced his wife, said to his own wife, “Be divorced, begone.”
When his wife asked, “Why am I being divorced?” he, in replying to that wretch, instead of saying “O ugly one,” said “O rotten one.”
His real intention was to divorce her; for she was bound with ropes like a snake, writhing and hissing constantly.
Set fire to your wealth, to your vineyards as well; burn them all, so that you may be saved from the fire of Zoroaster.
Enough, speak little, write little; the record of the soul suffices you as a heading.
The word “begone” appears in the verse in this way.
The words “ugly” and “rotten” in the verse appear as “zusht” and “zisht.”
Divān-i Kabīr.
XXVII
Who is there that does not become a slave to your wish, your command? Who is there that, seeing your face, does not become intoxicated?
“Show me one who has fallen into affliction, who has not fallen because of your fear; or show me a joy that has arisen not from hope in you.
Show me a hand that has closed without you having closed it; show me a generous one who bestows not from your bounty.
Where is a ruby lip that is not from your mine? Where is a noble one who is not your pauper?
Your attributes are joined to souls; there is not a single vein that does not beat by your command.
The two worlds are like two hands, and you are the soul, as it were; what does the hand give that is not from your generosity, your bounty?
Whose eye has seen in this garden of existence a flower swaying in a breeze other than your air?
He who falls into heedlessness weeps and groans from the oppression and torment of people; yet people are but like your stick.
“All these sticks move because of you; each is but the affliction you have given, the remedy you have given.
The teacher who strikes the child with a stick—who is he? Who is there not bound to your decree, your destiny?
The stick hurts you like dogs; but where is the mind among the dogs to understand the punishment you have given?
To ward off the affliction that befalls the body, to be saved from the harm of people, is only possible by supplicating to you, by praising you.
Mawlānā
Even if you break this stick, there is no shortage of sticks; you cannot be saved by removing two or three sticks from the middle.
He who became the companion of the fish fled from the affliction of the community, but where could he rush to that was not your place?
Enough, be silent; fear the affliction that befell Jonah; to resist fate and destiny, to stand firm, is not within your capacity.
Divān-i Kabīr
XXVII
“Terci-i Bend”
(p. 274) Is there anyone who has not engaged in my work, my task?
Who is there that has not given his soul on the path of the beloved?
Is there a garden that is not intoxicated like my head? Is there a heart that does not weep and moan like my heart?
I have wandered all over the world; I sought a stranger; in the end, I understood well that there is no stranger.
All the affairs of the world are contrary to each other; yet all affairs are but a single affair.
Know that the one who complains that there is no beloved to win the heart has drowned in the heart, yet still seeks the heart.
All the customers are but a single customer; not a single person has escaped from this market.
He who sees the essence of the rose garden understands well that there is not a single thorn there.
There was a cube of ice, and it was filled with water; the cube melted, all became water; not a trace of the cube remained.
The whole world is an indivisible whole; on the world’s harp, there is no string but a single string.
This number, this illusion of contradiction, is nothing but the deception of a deceiver, the trick of a trickster.
Even in this word there is a contradiction, a contrary judgment; yet the word of the tongue is but a compass.
Ability and inability are one and the same; in my view, there is not even the strength to speak a word.
Since you have become intoxicated, lay your head here, do not leave; for this is a rose garden, not a straight road.
Another thief may come and snatch your belt; do not think there is no pickpocket but yourself.
Mawlānā
“There is no number at the point of the heart; yet it appears crooked; but this appearance is from the eye, not from the face.
Since the acquittal has come from the Desired One, the decree has arrived; now attributes are hidden from your sight, they have vanished and gone.
Once again the beauties have come upon Joseph; once again he has drawn the chains of hundreds like Zuleikha.
When the Moon sees that loom, it tears its garment; even the sky cries out, ‘Is there not more?’
The whole world has become a saltpan; so that the pure and the carrion may become one, the world has turned into a saltpan.
Once again the intellect has broken its pens; once again love has torn its collar.
Zuleikha has done what no one else has done, has sold her dignity and bought a slave.
You have become intoxicated, you must give kisses; give a kiss to that lip; that lip has drunk wine.
You are so pleasant, so beautiful; may the evil eye be far away; blessed is the eye that has seen your face.
But to see your face is a rare thing; blessed is the ear that hears your name.
The brilliance of your cup has filled the world; the tumult of the morning of resurrection has broken out.
Even for a remedy, the intellect can no longer be found; the intellect has vanished in this bewilderment.
The arrow shot from the bow of the warrior goes toward its target, it does not turn back again.
When the hoopoe of the soul leaps from the cage, it flies with love up to the sublime Throne (‘Arsh).
The soul takes its sword and shroud, and goes to the emperor, to the lofty, solid palace.
This couplet was written in the margin.
In the margin: “This intellect, and even two hundred intellects, become invisible.”
rice
Divān-i Kabīr
The heart has been freed from every troubling thought; from every thorn that pricks the foot, it has been delivered.
The sky has begun to revolve because of him; the Moon says to him, ‘Because of you, every tomorrow of ours is thousands of festivals.’
The terci bend is finished, my heart is dancing; yet, my beautiful one, you give me the strength to speak.
When he drinks this cup, I offer him another; I do not even leave two cups to be sober.
I poured out gold and bought him from the world of nonexistence; would I ever leave him without wine or food?
I offer free sherbets, I give milk; but I do not squeeze him like a grape.
I kiss him like my own head, I caress his head as I do my own.
He is my soul, the joy of my soul; I do not count him as an enemy, nor know him as a stranger.
Because of my love, my passion, I do not even heed his insolent words—how could I beat him?
Even if the movements of the four elements flee away, I am present in place of all four, I am the substitute for all four.
On the journey, I am his friend, his guide; at dawn, I am his cupbearer, his wine-pourer.
What are these nonsensical words about gold and silver? With my generosity, my grace, I am sacks full of gold for him.
He is left speechless; but I do this so that he may say, ‘I am left speechless, you speak.’
If he does not speak, if he closes his mouth, I become his word, I become his interpreter.
If he grows weary, if his heart becomes constricted, if he becomes feverish, I fan him, I cool him.
If he wishes to look into the unseen world, I become his mirror, his eye, his face—I become his polish.
Mawlānā
If he, like Abū Turāb, puts his face to the ground, I make the whole earth for him a province, a rose garden.
If he goes to the garden of souls, I become jasmine for him, I become greenery, I turn into a rose garden.
O my soul, the turn has come in the terci; O my sea that scatters pearls, surge forth.
Dawn has come, O our cupbearer, drink, drink; O our beautiful one, whose face makes our hearts surge like the sea.
The red wine resembles a tiger; the wolf of sorrow in his hand is but a mouse, a mere mouse.
(p. 275) When it rises to the vineyards of the brain, to the palaces of the mind, the intellect falls headlong from the roof.
If he pulls the ear of the intellect toward himself, the intellect, from the pain, cries, ‘Oh, my ear, my ear!’
The beloved says to him, ‘Rise, prostrate to the soul, fall at the feet of that moon-faced one who pours wine.’
The intellect says, ‘Who came? I did not see him; you were sleeping last night,’ it says, ‘you were sleeping last night.’
The lover comes to him dead drunk, so as not to catch even a whiff of the beloved’s washing and purification.
Love roars in the unseen world; but that roaring is not heard by animals.
The city is filled with the braying of donkeys and oxen; wild beasts roar on the mountaintops.
When the Turk drinks this single cup, he mounts his horse; the second cup is for riding, for galloping the horse.
When you are filled with the wine that never perishes, you will not see a single cup empty, not a single cup.
All inanimate things greet you, all, like yourself, confide their secrets to you.
The last words of the second hemistich of the couplet are the Turkish ‘koş, koş’ (‘run, run’).
Again, the last words are the Turkish ‘boş, boş’ (‘empty, empty’).
Divān-i Kabīr
When the soul embraces you with love, all forms come alive before you.
The time has come; let me revolve, let me dance; let love recite a ghazal before covering its face.
Let it mount that horse like a red rose; let all the flowers follow behind like soldiers.
Bring the appetizer, sit before me, O one whose face is like a candle, whose wine becomes fire, O beloved.
Mawlānā
XXIX
Once again, we have reached the tavern in a drunken state; once again, we have been saved from both the heights and the depths.
All the drunkards are beautiful, all are absorbed in play; O beauties, clap your hands, clap your hands.
“When your hair casts a hook, even the sea becomes drunk, and all the fish in the sea as well.
My tavern was turned upside down; the jar fell headlong, the decanter was broken and spilled.
When the elder of the tavern saw this exuberance, he climbed to the roof and leapt down.
He became intoxicated with a wine that annihilates existence and brings nonexistence into being.
He broke the bottle and scattered its pieces everywhere, wounding the feet of many men of action.
Where is he who distinguishes his head from his foot? He has become drunk, fallen in the quarter of ‘Alastu’ (the primordial covenant).
All the worshippers of wine are in revelry, in the world of joy; O, hear the sound of ‘ten-teniten’ from those who worship the body.
Divān-i Kabīr
—PD—
XXX
Someone said: “Hoca Senāt has died.” The death of such a teacher is not a small matter.
He was not a straw to be blown away by a breeze; he was not water to freeze when winter comes.
He was not a comb to break over a single hair; he was not a seed to be crushed by the earth and not sprout.
He was a treasure of gold in this land of dust; for he would sell both worlds for a single grain of barley.
The earthen body he cast away to the earth; the soul and intellect he drew up to the heavens.
The second soul, unknown to the people, he entrusted to the beloved, we say this only to mislead the people.
The pure wine had become turbid; it rose to the mouth of the jar, separated from the dregs that had settled at the bottom.
My dear; just as a man from Marāgha, one from Rayy, one from the land of the Greeks, and a Kurd meet on the road and set out on a journey—
Then each returns to his own home; can brocade ever be the same as common cloth?
Be silent like a dot, otherwise the king will erase your name from the register of those permitted to speak.
Mawlānā
XXXI
Someone said: “Hoca Sendai has died; the death of such a teacher is not a small matter.”
He returned the form made of earth to the earth; the soul made of nature he entrusted to the sky.
His existence, like the moon, was freed from dust and earth; the water of life was cleansed of turbidity.
The sunlight separated from the body; whatever separates from the sun becomes frozen, turns to ice.
The pure grape went to the tavern; for death pressed the cluster of the body.
The soul became completely sun; it is not right to count the one who has become soul as dead.
Your essence is very beautiful; at most, it is the skin that dies; the essence does not die, at most the friend takes it away.
“Leave the skin, grasp the essence; or listen to the story of the Turk and the Kurd:
The Kurd, to steal the Turk’s bag, put on a cloak, had his hair and mustache shaved, you know.
Divān-i Kabīr
XXXII
From the kingdom of the heart, the army of the soul has come; both manifest and utterly hidden, the army has arrived.
Those who tear their garments on the path of the soul have come, and thus my garment of patience has been torn.
The brides of the soul have cast off their veils and have come seeking the king of the world.
O beautiful one, like a flood, they have come laughing and playing from the land of spacelessness to the land of space.
The form of the heart has shattered all forms; those beneath the veil have come to seize the land.
The manifest ones have come hidden, the hidden ones have come manifest.
He who had a trace, a mark, now has neither trace nor mark; but the one who had no trace or mark, his trace and mark have appeared and come.
Mawlānā
XXXII
From the primordial light that nurtures and develops everything, they have given you in abundance.
Look kindly upon everything like the sun; all are frozen, but look and they will melt away.
O spring, the trees have withered and yellowed from the mad winter, just look at them.
Open your lips and recite the prayer of Jesus; for beings have died from the torment of the Dajjāl.
Today, remove everyone’s hangover; for everyone has tasted your wine at least once.
All these have drunk the poison of nonexistence; give them the antidote of immortal life.
Tear the veil of night like the dawn; for all have remained hidden under two hundred veils.
Be silent, enough, do not be one of a hundred tongues; for not even a single ear have they brought.
Divān-i Kabīr
XXXIV
You are a rose branch; the garden is lush and joyful because of you; in this play, only the wind could be your equal.
The wind resembles Gabriel, and you are like Mary; the rose-faced Jesus was born of these two.
The play of both of you is the key to immortality; may abundant mercy be upon this play.
The place where your lineage has established its throne is the chief seat of the intellect; the throne is the place of Kaykubād.
The fruit of every branch goes to the stomach; for it has grown and matured from the world of coming into being and passing away.
(p. 276) But our bounty comes from the Creator; therefore, it does not mix with food or sleep.
The sustenance of every people comes from a different vineyard; O beloved of abundant bounty, your table is very great.
Seek fortune; go, seek fortune; fortune is better than rags and tatters; auction, auction.
Enough; for from the help of that light which causes births to be born, a breeze has come to the heart.
Mawlānā
XXXV
He who flees from lovers will regret it once again, my teacher.
Blessed is the soul that turns toward the fountain of the water of life.
He who carries your jug will in the end enter the king’s harem of revelry.
Even if, because of you, he becomes an ocean after being a sea, still man’s understanding is narrow, narrow.
Go, find a place in the heart of a person of heart; even a drop becomes a pearl, becomes coral in the sea.
The dance of every atom is with its own origin; whoever inclines to whom, becomes that.
Even a disbeliever of a hundred years, if he sees you, falls in prostration; immediately he becomes Muslim.
With the pull of inclination and desire, the soul and the heart are clothed in the robe of the beloved, turn toward the beloved.
Even the sharp thorn on the path of the lover, in the end, becomes a rose garden.
Close your mouth, gather your intellect; otherwise, your heart will be scattered and lost.
Divān-i Kabīr
XXXVI
When your lasso seized my heart, my Joseph came out of the well and ran to the plain.
Is there anyone who cast me into the well like Joseph? Yet it was he who came to my cry.
When he let down the rope of grace into this well, roses and hyacinths bloomed in the garden of the heart.
Even the emperor’s heart flowed from his palace to that well; for the well turned into paradise, became a beautiful palace.
I said, ‘O well, what happened to your darkness?’ It said, ‘The sun looked upon me.’
Whatever was frozen is now warmed; this is the fire of love—does it ever leave frost?