The Conference of the Birds (Penguin)
Page 8
Bent to his words, her heart began to feel
An inexpressible and troubling zeal;
Slowly she felt the pall of grief descend,
Knowing herself still absent from the Friend.
“Dear sheikh,” she said, “I cannot bear such pain;
Absence undoes me and my spirits wane.
I go from this unhappy world; farewell
World’s sheikh and mine – further I cannot tell,
Exhaustion weakens me; O sheikh, forgive…”
And saying this the dear child ceased to live.
The sun was hidden by a mist – her flesh
Yielded the sweet soul from its weakening mesh.
She was a drop returned to Truth’s great sea;
She left this world, and so, like wind, must we.
Whoever knows love’s path is soon aware
That stories such as this are far from rare.
All things are possible, and you may meet
Despair, forgiveness, certainty, deceit.
The Self ignores the secrets of the Way,
The mysteries no mortal speech can say;
Assurance whispers in the heart’s dark core,
Not in the muddied Self – a bitter war
Must rage between these two. Turn now and mourn
That your existence is so deeply torn!’
The birds set off on their journey, pause, then choose a leader
They heard the tale; the birds were all on fire
To quit the hindrance of the Self; desire
To gain the Simorgh had convulsed each heart;
lines 1596–1614
Love made them clamour for the journey’s start.
They set out on the Way, a noble deed!
Hardly had they begun when they agreed
To call a halt: ‘A leader’s what we need,‘
They said, ‘one who can bind and loose, one who
Will guide our self-conceit to what is true;
We need a judge of rare ability
To lead us over danger’s spacious sea;
Whatever he commands along the Way,
We must, without recalcitrance, obey,
Until we leave this plain of sin and pride
And gain Kaf’s distant peak. There we shall hide,
A mote lost in the sun; the Simorgh’s shade
Will cover those who travelled and obeyed.
But which of us is worthy of this trust?
A lottery is suitable and just.
The winning lot must finally decide
Which bird should be our undisputed guide.’
A hush fell, arguments were laid aside,
The lots were chosen, and the hoopoe won,
A lucky verdict that pleased everyone.
He was their leader; they would sacrifice
Their lives if he demanded such a price;
And as they travelled on the Way his word
Would spell authority to every bird.
The birds are frightened by the emptiness of the Way,
and the hoopoe tells them a story about Sheikh Bayazid
The hoopoe, as their chief, was hailed and crowned –
Huge flocks of birds in homage gathered round;
A hundred thousand birds assembled there,
Making a monstrous shadow in the air.
The throng set out – but, clearing the first dune,
Their leader sent a cry up to the moon
And panic spread among the birds; they feared
The endless desolation which appeared.
lines 1615–31
They clung together in a huddling crowd,
Drew in their heads and wings and wailed aloud
A melancholy, weak, faint-hearted song –
Their burdens were too great, the way too long!
How featureless the view before their eyes,
An emptiness where they could recognize
No marks of good or ill – a silence where
The soul knew neither hope nor blank despair.
One said, The Way is lifeless, empty-why?’
To which the hoopoe gave this strange reply:
To glorify the king.
One moonlit night
Sheikh Bayazid, attracted by the sight
Of such refulgent brilliance, clear as day,
Across the sleeping city took his way
And thence into the desert, where he saw
Unnumbered stars adorning heaven’s floor.
He walked a little and became aware
That not a sound disturbed the desert air,
That no one moved in that immensity
Save him. His heart grew numb and gradually
Pure terror touched him. “O great God,” he cried,
“Your dazzling palace beckons far and wide –
Where are the courtiers who should throng this court?”
A voice said: “Wanderer, you are distraught;
Be calm. Our glorious King cannot admit
All comers to His court; it is not fit
That every rascal who sleeps out the night
Should be allowed to glimpse its radiant light.
Most are turned back, and few perceive the throne;
Among a hundred thousand there is one”.’
The birds ask the hoopoe to resolve their doubts
The trembling birds stared out across the plain;
The road seemed endless as their endless pain.
lines 1632–56
But in the hoopoe’s heart new confidence
Transported him above the firmaments –
The sands could not alarm him nor the high
Harsh sun at noon, the peacock of the sky.
What other bird, throughout the world, could bear
The troubles of the Way and all its care?
The frightened flock drew nearer to their guide.
‘You know the perils of the Way,’ they cried,
‘And how we should behave before the king –
You served great Solomon in everything
And flew across his lands – therefore you know
Exactly where it’s safe and right to go;
You’ve seen the ups and downs of this strange Way.
It is our wish that as our guide you say
How we should act before the king we seek;
And more, as we are ignorant and weak,
That you should solve the problems in our hearts
Before the fearful company departs.
First hear our doubts; the thing we do not doubt
Is that you’ll answer them and drive them out –
We know that on this lengthy Way no light
Will come to clear uncertainty’s dark night;
But when the heart is free we shall commit
Our hearts and bodies, all we have, to it.’
The hoopoe stood to speak, and all the birds
Approached to be encouraged by his words;
A hundred thousand gathered with one mind,
Serried in ranks according to their kind.
The dove and nightingale voiced their complaint;
Such beauty made the company grow faint –
A cry of ecstasy went up; a state
Where neither Self nor void predominate
Fell on the birds. The hoopoe spoke; he drew
The veil from what is ultimately true.
lines 1657–73
One asked: ‘How is it you surpass us in
This search for Truth; what is our crippling sin?
We search and so do you – but you receive
Truth’s purity while we stand by and grieve.’
The hoopoe tells them about the glance of Solomon
The hoopoe answered him: ‘Great Solomon
Once looked at me – it is that glance alone
Which gave me what I know; no wealth could bring
The substance I received from wisdom’s king.
No one can ga
in this by the forms of prayer,
For even Satan bowed with pious care;
Though don’t imagine that you need not pray;
We curse the fool who tricks you in this way.
Pray always, never for one moment cease,
Pray in despair and when your goods increase,
Consume your life with prayer, till Solomon
Bestows his glance, and ignorance is gone.
When Solomon accepts you, you will know
Far more than my unequal words can show.’
The story of King Mas’oud and the fisherboy
He said: ‘King Mas’oud, riding out one day,
Was parted from his army on the way.
Swift as the wind he galloped till he saw
A little boy sat by the ocean’s shore.
The child was fishing – as he cast his hook,
The king dismounted with a friendly look
And sat by him; but the unhappy child
Was troubled in his heart and hardly smiled.
“You seem the saddest boy I’ve ever seen,”
The monarch said. “What can such sorrow mean?”
“Our father’s gone; for seven children I
Must cast my line” was his subdued reply.
“Our mother’s paralysed and we are poor;
It is for food that I must haunt this shore –
I come to fish here in the dawn’s first light
And cannot leave until the fall of night.
The meagre harvest of my toil and pain
Must last us all till I return again.”
The king said: “Let’s be friends, do you agree?”
The poor child nodded and, immediately,
His new friend cast their line into the sea.
That day the boy drew up a hundred fish.
“This wealth is far beyond my wildest wish,
“He said. “A splendid haul,” the king replied.
“Good Fortune has been busy at your side –
Accept your luck, don’t try to comprehend
How this has happened; you’d be lost, my friend.
Your wealth is greater than my own; today
A king has fished for you – I cannot stay.”
He leapt onto his horse. “But take your share,”
The boy said earnestly. “That’s only fair.”
“Tomorrow’s catch is mine. We won’t divide
Today’s; you have it all,” the king replied.
“Tomorrow when I fish you are the prey,
A trophy I refuse to give away.”
The next day, walking in his garden’s shade,
The king recalled the friend that he had made.
A captain fetched the boy, and this unknown
Was at the king’s command set on his throne.
The courtiers murmured at his poverty –
“He is my friend, this fact suffices me;
He is my equal here in everything,
The partner of my throne,” declared the king;
To every taunt the boy had one reply:
“My sadness vanished when the king passed by.”
A murderer who went to heaven
A murderer, according to the law,
Was killed. That night the king who’d killed him saw
lines 1693–1710
The same man in a dream; to his surprise
The villain lorded it in paradise –
The king cried: “You! In this celestial place!
Your life’s work was an absolute disgrace;
How did you reach this state?” The man replied:
“A friend to God passed by me as I died;
The earth drank up my blood, but stealthily
That pilgrim on Truth’s journey glanced at me,
And all the glorious extravagance
That laps me now came from his searing glance.”
The man on whom that quickening glance alights
Is raised to heaven’s unsuspected heights;
Indeed, until this glance discovers you
Your life’s a mystery without a clue;
You cannot carve your way to heaven’s throne
If you sit locked in vanity alone.
You need a skilful guide; you cannot start
This ocean-voyage with blindness in your heart.
It may be you will meet the very guide
Who glanced at me; be sure he will provide –
Whatever troubles come – a place to hide.
You cannot guess what dangers you will find,
You need a staff to guide you, like the blind.
Your sight is failing and the road is long;
Trust one who knows the journey and is strong.
Whoever travels in a great lord’s shade
Need never hesitate or be afraid;
Whoever undertakes this lord’s commands
Finds thorns will change to roses in his hands.
The story of King Mahmoud and the woodcutter
King Mahmoud went out hunting. In the chase
His courtiers flagged, unequal to the pace.
An old man led a donkey whose high load
Of brushwood slipped and fell into the road.
lines 1711–31
The old man scratched his head; the king came near
And said: “Do you need help?” “I do, that’s clear,”
The old man said; “if you could lend a hand,
You won’t lose much. I see that you command
Your share of grace – such men are always good.”
The king got down and helped him with the wood,
His flower-like hands embraced the thorns; and then
He rode back to his waiting lords again.
He said to them: “An old man will appear,
Riding a piled-high donkey – lead him here;
Block all the paths and highways to this place;
I want him to confront me face to face.”
The winding roads were blocked up in a ring,
Of which the centre was the waiting king.
The old man mumbled as he rode alone:
“Why won’t he go… this donkey’s skin and bone.
Soldiers!… Good day, my lords!” and still the way
Led pitilessly on; to his dismay
There rose ahead a royal canopy,
And there was no escape that he could see.
He rode, for there was nothing else to do,
And found awaiting him a face he knew.
“I made a king hump wood for me,” he cried;
“God help all sinners now, I’m terrified.”
“What troubles you, my man?” inquired the king.
“Don’t play with me, you took in everything,”
The old man said; “I’m just a wretched fool
Who day and night must scour the plain for fuel;
I sell the thorns I get and buy dry bread –
Give me some scraps, and blessings on your head.”
The king replied: “Old man, I’ll buy your wood –
Come, name a price you think is fair and good.”
“My lord, such wood cannot be cheaply sold;
It’s worth, I reckon, ten full bags of gold.”
The courtiers laughed: “It’s worth two barley grains.
Shut up and sell, and thank you for your pains.”
“Two grains, my friends, that’s true – but this rare buyer
lines 1732–47
Can surely manage something rather higher?
A great one touched these thorns – his hand brought forth
A hundred flowers; just think what that is worth!
A dinar buys one root – a little gain
Is only right, I’ve had my share of pain;
The wood itself is worthless, I agree –
It is that touch which gives it dignity” ‘
A cowardly bird protests
One of the birds let out a helpless squeak:
<
br /> ‘I can’t go on this journey, I’m too weak.
Dear guide, I know I can’t fly any more;
I’ve never tried a feat like this before.
This valley’s endless; dangers lie ahead;
The first time that we rest I’ll drop down dead.
Volcanoes loom before the goal is won –
Admit this journey’s not for everyone.
The blood of multitudes has stained the Way;
A hundred thousand creatures, as you say,
Address themselves to this great enterprise –
How many die, a useless sacrifice!
On such a road the best of men are cowed,
Hoods hide the frightened features of the proud –
What chance have timid souls? What chance have I?
If I set out it’s certain I shall die!’
The hoopoe admonishes him
The hoopoe said: ‘Your heart’s congealed like ice;
When will you free yourself from cowardice?
Since you have such a short time to live here,
What difference does it make? What should you fear?
The world is filth and sin, and homeless men
Must enter it and homeless leave again.
They die, as worms, in squalid pain; if we
lines 1748–69
Must perish in this quest, that, certainly,
Is better than a life of filth and grief.
If this great search is vain, if my belief
Is groundless, it is right that I should die.
So many errors throng the world – then why
Should we not risk this quest? To suffer blame
For love is better than a life of shame.
No one has reached this goal, so why appeal
To those whose blindness claims it is unreal?
I’d rather die deceived by dreams than give
My heart to home and trade and never live.
We’ve seen and heard so much – what have we learned?
Not for one moment has the Self been spurned;
Fools gather round and hinder our release:
When will their stale, insistent whining cease?
We have no freedom to achieve our goal
Until from Self and fools we free the soul.
To be admitted past the veil you must
Be dead to all the crowd considers just.
Once past the veil you understand the Way
From which the crowd’s glib courtiers blindly stray.
If you have any will, leave women’s stories,
And even if this search for hidden glories
Proves blasphemy at last, be sure our quest
Is not mere talk but an exacting test.
The fruit of love’s great tree is poverty;