The Conference of the Birds (Penguin)

by Farid al-Din Attar

  Renounce delusion and prepare your wings

  For our great quest; sharp thorns defend the rose

  And beauty such as hers too quickly goes.

  True love will see such empty transience

  For what it is – a fleeting turbulence

  That fills your sleepless nights with grief and blame –

  Forget the rose’s blush and blush for shame!

  lines 776–97

  Each spring she laughs, not for you, as you say,

  But at you – and has faded in a day.

  The story of a dervish and a princess

  There was a king whose comely daughter’s grace

  Was such that any man who glimpsed her face

  Declared himself in love. Like starless dusk

  Her dark hair hung, soft-scented like fine musk;

  The charm of her slow, humid eyes awoke

  The depths of sleeping love, and when she spoke,

  No sugar was as sweet as her lips’ sweet;

  No rubies with their colour could compete.

  A dervish saw her, by the will of Fate.

  From his arrested hand the crust he ate

  Dropped unregarded, and the princess smiled.

  This glance lived in his heart – the man grew wild

  With ardent love, with restless misery;

  For seven years he wept continually

  And was content to live alone and wait,

  Abject, among stray dogs, outside her gate.

  At last, affronted by this fool and tired

  Of his despair, her serving-men conspired

  To murder him. The princess heard their plan,

  Which she divulged to him. “O wretched man,”

  She said, “how could you hope for love between

  A dervish and the daughter of a queen?

  You cannot live outside my palace door;

  Be off with you and haunt these streets no more.

  If you are here tomorrow you will die!”

  The dervish answered her: “That day when I

  First saw your beauty I despaired of life;

  Why should I fear the hired assassin’s knife?

  A hundred thousand men adore your face;

  No power on earth could make me leave this place.

  But since your servants want to murder me,

  Explain the meaning of this mystery:

  lines 798–814

  ‘Why did you smile at me that day?” “Poor fool,

  I smiled from pity, almost ridicule –

  ‘Your ignorance provoked that smile.” She spoke,

  And vanished like a wisp of strengthless smoke.’

  The parrot’s excuse

  The pretty parrot was the next to speak,

  Clothed all in green, with sugar in her beak,

  And round her neck a circle of pure gold.

  Even the falcon cannot boast so bold

  A loveliness – earth’s variegated green

  Is but the image of her feathers’ sheen,

  And when she talks the fascinating sound

  Seems sweet as costly sugar finely ground;

  She trilled: ‘I have been caged by heartless men,

  But my desire is to be free again;

  If I could reassert my liberty

  I’d find the stream of immortality

  Guarded by Khezr – his cloak is green like mine,

  And this shared colour is an open sign

  I am his equal or equivalent.

  Only the stream Khezr watches could content

  My thirsting soul – I have no wish to seek

  This Simorgh’s throne of which you love to speak.’

  The hoopoe answers her

  The hoopoe said: ‘You are a cringing slave–

  This is not noble, generous or brave,

  To think your being has no other end

  Than finding water and a loyal friend.

  Think well – what is it that you hope to gain?

  Your coat is beautiful, but where’s your brain?

  Act as a lover and renounce your soul;

  With love’s defiance seek the lover’s goal.

  lines 815–32

  A story about Khezr

  Khezr sought companionship with one whose mind

  Was set on God alone. The man declined

  And said to Khezr: “We two could not be friends,

  For our existences have different ends.

  The waters of immortal life are yours,

  And you must always live; life is your cause

  As death is mine – you wish to live, whilst I

  Impatiently prepare myself to die;

  I leave you as quick birds avoid a snare,

  To soar up in the free, untrammelled air”.’

  The peacock’s excuse and the hoopoe’s answer

  Next came the peacock, splendidly arrayed

  In many-coloured pomp; this he displayed

  As if he were some proud, self-conscious bride

  Turning with haughty looks from side to side.

  ‘The Painter of the world created me,’

  He shrieked, ‘but this celestial wealth you see

  Should not excite your hearts to jealousy.

  I was a dweller once in paradise;

  There the insinuating snake’s advice

  Deceived me –I became his friend, disgrace

  Was swift and I was banished from that place.

  My dearest hope is that some blessed day

  A guide will come to indicate the way

  Back to my paradise. The king you praise

  Is too unknown a goal; my inward gaze

  Is fixed for ever on that lovely land –

  There is the goal which I can understand.

  How could I seek the Simorgh out when I

  Remember paradise?’ And in reply

  The hoopoe said: ‘These thoughts have made you stray

  Further and further from the proper Way;

  You think your monarch’s palace of more worth

  lines 833–53

  Than Him who fashioned it and all the earth.

  The home we seek is in eternity;

  The Truth we seek is like a shoreless sea,

  Of which your paradise is but a drop.

  This ocean can be yours; why should you stop

  Beguiled by dreams of evanescent dew?

  The secrets of the sun are yours, but you

  Content yourself with motes trapped in its beams.

  Turn to what truly lives, reject what seems –

  Which matters more, the body or the soul?

  Be whole: desire and journey to the Whole.

  A story about Adam

  A novice asked his master to explain

  Why Adam was forbidden to remain

  In his first undivided happiness.

  The master said: “When he, whose name we bless,

  Awoke in paradise a voice declared:

  ‘The man whose mind and vision are ensnared

  By heaven’s grace must forfeit that same grace,

  For only then can he direct his face

  To his true Lord’.” The lover’s life and soul

  Are firmly focused on a single goal;

  The saints in paradise teach that the start

  Of drawing near is to renounce the heart.’

  The duck’s excuse

  The coy duck waddled from her stream and quacked:

  ‘Now none of you can argue with the fact

  That both in this world and the next I am

  The purest bird that ever flew or swam;

  I spread my prayer-mat out, and all the time

  I clean myself of every bit of grime

  As God commands. There’s no doubt in my mind

  That purity like mine is hard to find;

  lines 854–74

  Among the birds I’m like an anchorite –

  My soul and feathers are a spotless white.

  I live in water a
nd I cannot go

  To places where no streams or rivers flow;

  They wash away a world of discontent –

  Why should I leave this perfect element?

  Fresh water is my home, my sanctuary;

  What use would arid deserts be to me?

  I can’t leave water – think what water gives;

  It is the source of everything that lives.

  Water’s the only home I’ve ever known;

  Why should I care about this Simorgh’s throne?’

  The hoopoe answers her

  The hoopoe answered her: ‘Your life is passed

  In vague, aquatic dreams which cannot last –

  A sudden wave and they are swept away.

  You value water’s purity, you say,

  But is your life as pure as you declare?

  A fool described the nature both worlds share:

  “The unseen world and that which we can see

  Are like a water-drop which instantly

  Is and is not. A water-drop was formed

  When time began, and on its surface swarmed

  The world’s appearances. If they were made

  Of all-resisting iron they would fade;

  Hard iron is mere water, after all –

  Dispersing like a dream, impalpable”.’

  The partridge’s excuse

  The pompous partridge was the next to speak,

  Fresh from his store of pearls. His crimson beak

  And ruddy plumage made a splendid show –

  A headstrong bird whose small eyes seemed to glow

  With angry blood. He clucked: ‘My one desire

  lines 875–903

  Is jewels; I pick through quarries for their fire.

  They kindle in my heart an answering blaze

  Which satisfies me – though my wretchèd days

  Are one long turmoil of anxiety.

  Consider how I live, and let me be;

  You cannot fight with one who sleeps and feeds

  On precious stones, who is convinced he needs

  No other goal in life. My heart is tied

  By bonds of love to this fair mountain-side.

  To yearn for something other than a jewel

  Is to desire what dies – to be a fool;

  Nothing is precious like a precious stone.

  Besides, the journey to the Simorgh’s throne

  Is hard. I cannot tear myself away;

  My feet refuse as if caught fast in clay.

  My life is here; I have no wish to fly;

  I must discover precious stones or die.’

  The hoopoe answers him

  The hoopoe said: ‘You have the colours of

  Those jewels you so inordinately love,

  And yet you seem – like your excuses – lame.

  Your beak and claws are red as blood or flame,

  Yet those hard gems from which you cannot part

  Have only helped you to a hardened heart;

  Without their colours they are nothing more

  Than stones – and to the wise not worth a straw.

  King Solomon and his ring

  No jewel surpasses that which Solomon

  Wore on his finger. It was just a stone,

  A mere half-dang in weight, but as a seal

  Set in his ring it brought the world to heel.

  When he perceived the nature of his rule –

  lines 904–22

  Dependent on the credit of a jewel –

  He vowed that no one after him should reign

  With such authority.’ (Do not again,

  Dear God, I pray, create such puissant kings;

  My eyes have seen the blight their glory brings.

  But criticizing courts is not my task;

  A basket-weaver’s work is all I ask,

  And I return to Solomon’s great seal.)

  ‘Although the power it brought the king was real,

  Possession of this gem meant that delay

  Dogged his advance along the spirit’s Way –

  The other prophets entered paradise

  Five hundred years before the king. This price

  A jewel extracted from great Solomon,

  How would it hinder such a dizzy one

  As you, dear partridge? Rise above this greed;

  The Simorgh is the only jewel you need.’

  The homa’s excuse

  The homa* next addressed the company.

  Because his shadow heralds majesty,

  This wandering portent of the royal state

  Is known as Homayun, The Fortunate’.

  He sang: ‘O birds of land and ocean, I

  Am not as other birds, but soar and fly

  On lofty aspiration’s lordly wings.

  I have subdued the dog desire; great kings

  Like Feridoun and Jamshid† owe their place

  To my dark shadow’s influence. Disgrace

  And lowly natures are not my concern.

  I throw desire its bone; the dog will turn

  And let the soul go free. Who can lok down

  On one whose shadow brings the royal crown?

  line 923–39

  The world should bask in my magnificence –

  Let Khosroe’s glory stand in my defence.

  What should this haughty Simorgh mean to me?’

  The hoopoe answers him

  The hoopoe said: ‘Poor slave to vanity,

  Your self-importance is ridiculous;

  Why should a shadow merit so much fuss?

  You are not now the sign of Khosroe’s throne,

  More like a stray dog squabbling for a bone.

  Though it is true that you confer on men

  This majesty, kings must sink down again

  And bear the punishments of Judgement Day.

  King Mahmoud after death

  There was a man, advanced along the Way,

  Who one night spoke to Mahmoud in a dream.

  He said: “Great king, how does existence seem

  To one beyond the grave?” Mahmoud replied:

  “I have no majesty since I have died;

  Your greetings pierce my soul. That majesty

  Was only ignorance and vanity;

  True majesty belongs to God alone –

  How could a heap of dust deserve the throne ?

  Since I have recognized my impotence,

  I blush for my imperial pretence.

  Call me ‘unfortunate’, not ‘king’. I should

  Have been a wanderer who begged for food,

  A crossing-sweeper, any lowly thing

  That drags its way through life, but not a king.

  Now leave me; I have nothing more to say;

  Hell’s devils wait for me; I cannot stay.

  I wish to God the earth beneath my feet

  Had swallowed me before I heard the beat

  lines 940–58

  Of that accursèd homa’s wings; they cast

  Their shade, and may they shrivel in hell’s blast!”’

  The hawk’s excuse

  The hawk came forward with his head held high;

  His boasts of grand connections filled the sky.

  His talk was stuffed with armies, glory, kings.

  He bragged: The ecstasy my sovereign brings

  Has turned my gaze from vulgar company.

  My eyes are hooded and I cannot see,

  But I perch proudly on my sovereign’s wrist.

  I know court etiquette and can persist

  In self-control like holy penitents;

  When I approach the king, my deference

  Correctly keeps to the established rule.

  What is this Simorgh? I should be a fool

  If I so much as dreamt of him. A seed

  From my great sovereign’s hand is all I need;

  The eminence I have suffices me.

  I cannot travel; I would rather be

  Perched on the royal wrist than struggling through


  Some arid wadi with no end in view.

  I am delighted by my life at court,

  Waiting on kings or hunting for their sport.’

  The hoopoe answers him

  The hoopoe said: ‘Dear hawk, you set great store

  By superficial graces, and ignore

  The all-important fact of purity.

  A king with rivals in his dignity

  Is no true king; the Simorgh rules alone

  And entertains no rivals to his throne.

  A king is not one of those common fools

  Who snatches at a crown and thinks he rules.

  The true king reigns in mild humility,’

  lines 959–76

  Unrivalled in his firm fidelity.

  An earthly king acts righteously at times,

  But also stains the earth with hateful crimes,

  And then whoever hovers nearest him

  Will suffer most from his destructive whim.

  A courtier risks destruction every hour –

  Distance yourself from kings and worldly power.

  A king is like a raging fire, men say;

  The wisest conduct is to keep away.

  A king and his slave

  There was a monarch once who loved a slave.

  The youth’s pale beauty haunted him; he gave

  This favourite the rarest ornaments,

  Watched over him with jealous reverence –

  But when the king expressed a wish to shoot,

  His loved one shook with fear from head to foot.

  An apple balanced on his head would be

  The target for the royal archery,

  And as the mark was split he blenched with fear.

  One day a foolish courtier standing near

  Asked why his lovely face was drained and wan,

  For was he not their monarch’s chosen one?

  The slave replied: “If I were hit instead

  Of that round apple balanced on my head,

  I would be then quite worthless to the king –

  Injured or dead, lower than anything

  The court can show; but when the arrow hits

  The trembling target and the apple splits,

  That is his skill. The king is highly skilled

  If he succeeds – if not, the slave is killed”.’

  The heron’s excuse

  The heron whimpered next: ‘My misery

  Prefers the empty shoreline of the sea.

  lines 977–97

  There no one hears my desolate, thin cry –

  I wait in sorrow there, there mourn and sigh.