The Conference of the Birds (Penguin)

by Farid al-Din Attar

  Sheikh Nasrabad made Mecca’s pilgrimage

  Twice twenty times, yet this could not assuage

  His yearning heart. This white-haired sheikh became

  A pilgrim of the pagans’ sacred flame,

  A naked beggar in whose heart their fire

  Was mirrored by the blaze of his desire.

  A passer-by said: “Shame on you, O sheikh,

  Shame on these wretched orisons you make;

  Have you performed the Moslems’ pilgrimage

  To be an infidel in your old age?

  This is mere childishness; such blasphemy

  Can only bring the sufis infamy.

  What sheikh has followed this perverted way?

  What is this pagan fire to which you pray?”

  The sheikh said: “I have suffered from this flame,

  Which burnt my clothes, my house, my noble name,

  The harvest of my life, all that I knew,

  My learning, wisdom, reputation too –

  And what is left to me? – Bewilderment,

  The knowledge of my burning discontent;

  All thoughts of reputation soon depart

  When such fierce conflagrations fire the heart.

  lines 3931–48

  In my despair I turn with equal hate

  Both from the Ka’abah and this temple’s gate –

  If this Bewilderment should come to you

  Then you will grieve, as I am forced to do.”

  A novice sees his dead master

  A novice in whose heart the faith shone bright

  Met with his teacher in a dream one night

  And said: “I tremble in bewildered fear;

  How is it, master, that I see you here?

  My heart became a candle when you went,

  A flame that flickers with astonishment;

  I seek Truth’s secrets like a searching slave –

  Explain to me your state beyond the grave!”

  His teacher said: “I cannot understand –

  Amazed, I gnaw the knuckles of my hand.

  You say that you’re bewildered – in this pit

  Bewilderment seems endless, infinite !

  A hundred mountains would be less to me

  Than one brief speck of such uncertainty I”

  The Valley of Poverty and Nothingness

  Next comes that valley words cannot express,

  The Vale of Poverty and Nothingness:

  Here you are lame and deaf, the mind has gone;

  You enter an obscure oblivion.

  When sunlight penetrates the atmosphere

  A hundred thousand shadows disappear,

  And when the sea arises what can save

  The patterns on the surface of each wave?

  The two worlds are those patterns, and in vain

  Men tell themselves what passes will remain.

  Whoever sinks within this sea is blest

  And in self-loss obtains eternal rest;

  The heart that would be lost in this wide sea

  lines 3949–66

  Disperses in profound tranquillity,

  And if it should emerge again it knows

  The secret ways in which the world arose.

  The pilgrim who has grown wise in the Quest,

  The sufi who has weathered every test,

  Are lost when they approach this painful place,

  And other men leave not a single trace;

  Because all disappear, you might believe

  That all are equal (just as you perceive

  That twigs and incense offered to a flame

  Both turn to powdered ash and look the same).

  But though they seem to share a common state,

  Their inward essences are separate,

  And evil souls sunk in this mighty sea

  Retain unchanged their base identity;

  But if a pure soul sinks the waves surround

  His fading form, in beauty he is drowned –

  He is not, yet he is; what could this mean?

  It is a state the mind has never seen.

  One night that sea of secrets, that loved seer

  Of Tous, said to a pupil standing near:

  “When you are worn out by love’s fierce despair

  And in your weakness tremble like a hair,

  You will become that hair and take your place

  In curls that duster round the loved one’s face –

  Whoever wastes away for love is made

  A hair concealed within those tresses’ shade –

  But if you will not waste away, your soul

  Has made the seven gates of hell its goal.”

  A frenzied lover wept; a passer-by

  Inquired the cause, and this was his reply:

  “They say that when at last the Lord appears,

  He will receive, for forty thousand years,

  The men who are deserving in this place;

  Then from that summit of celestial grace

  lines 3967–86

  They will return and know themselves once more

  Bereft of light, the poorest of the poor.

  I will be shown myself – I weep to think

  That from such heights to such depths I must sink;

  I have no need of my identity –

  I long for death; what use is ‘T’ to me?

  I live with evil while my Self is here;

  With God both Self and evil disappear.

  When I escape the Self I will arise

  And be as God; the yearning pilgrim flies

  From this dark province of mortality

  To Nothingness and to Eternity.

  And though, my heart, you bid the world farewell

  To cross the bridge that arches over hell,

  Do not despair – think of the oil-lamp’s glow

  That sends up smoke as black as any crow;

  Its oil is changed and what was there before

  The shining flame flared up exists no more.

  So you, my quaking heart, when you endure

  These threatening flames, will rise up rare and pure.”

  First put aside the Self, and then prepare

  To mount Boraq* and journey through the air;

  Drink down the cup of Nothingness; put on

  The cloak that signifies oblivion –

  Your stirrup is the void; absence must be

  The horse that bears you into vacancy.

  Destroy the body and adorn your sight

  With kohl of insubstantial, darkest night.

  First lose yourself, then lose this loss and then

  Withdraw from all that you have lost again –

  Go peacefully, and stage by stage progress

  Until you gain the realms of Nothingness;

  But if you cling to any worldly trace,

  No news will reach you from that promised place.

  lines 3987–4004

  The moths and the flame

  Moths gathered in a fluttering throng one night

  To learn the truth about the candle’s light,

  And they decided one of them should go

  To gather news of the elusive glow.

  One flew till in the distance he discerned

  A palace window where a candle burned –

  And went no nearer; back again he flew

  To tell the others what he thought he knew.

  The mentor of the moths dismissed his claim,

  Remarking: “He knows nothing of the flame.”

  A moth more eager than the one before

  Set out and passed beyond the palace door.

  He hovered in the aura of the fire,

  A trembling blur of timorous desire,

  Then headed back to say how far he’d been,

  And how much he had undergone and seen.

  The mentor said: “You do not bear the signs

  Of one who’s fathomed how the candle shines.”

  Another moth flew out – his dizzy
flight

  Turned to an ardent wooing of the light;

  He dipped and soared, and in his frenzied trance

  Both Self and fire were mingled by his dance –

  The flame engulfed his wing-tips, body, head;

  His being glowed a fierce translucent red;

  And when the mentor saw that sudden blaze,

  The moth’s form lost within the glowing rays,

  He said: “He knows, he knows the truth we seek,

  That hidden truth of which we cannot speak.”

  To go beyond all knowledge is to find

  That comprehension which eludes the mind,

  And you can never gain the longed-for goal

  Until you first outsoar both flesh and soul;

  But should one part remain, a single hair

  Will drag you back and plunge you in despair –

  No creature’s Self can be admitted here,

  Where all identity must disappear.

  lines 4005–22

  The sufi who thought he had left the world

  A sufi once, with nothing on his mind,

  Was – without warning – struck at from behind.

  He turned and murmured, choking back the tears:

  “The man you hit’s been dead for thirty years;

  He’s left this world!” The man who’d struck him said:

  “You talk a lot for someone who is dead!

  But talk’s not action – while you boast, you stray

  Further and further from the secret Way,

  And while a hair of you remains, your heart

  And Truth are still a hundred worlds apart.”

  Burn all you have, all that you thought and knew

  (Even your shroud must go; let that burn too),

  Then leap into the flames, and as you burn

  Your pride will falter, you’ll begin to learn.

  But keep one needle back and you will meet

  A hundred thieves who force you to retreat

  (Think of that tiny needle which became

  The negligible cause of Jesus’ shame*).

  As you approach this stage’s final veil,

  Kingdoms and wealth, substance and water fail;

  Withdraw into yourself, and one by one

  Give up the things you own – when this is done,

  Be still in selflessness and pass beyond

  All thoughts of good and evil; break this bond,

  And as it shatters you are worthy of

  Oblivion, the Nothingness of love.

  The dervish who loved a prince

  A great king had a son whose slender grace

  Recalled the comely Joseph’s form and face –

  He had no rival; none could emulate

  lines 4023–41

  This prince’s dignified and splendid state.

  Lords were his slaves; beauty bowed in defeat;

  The loveliest were dust beneath his feet,

  And if he walked the desert’s wastes at night

  It seemed a second sun diffused its light.

  That he eclipsed the moon’s magnificence

  Is scant praise for his lovely countenance;

  The darkness of his curls was like a well

  In which a hundred thousand lovers fell;

  The beauty of that hair was like a fire –

  A flame that tantalized the world’s desire

  (But fifty years and more could not suffice

  To paint the tumbling curls of paradise).

  A glance from those narcissus eyes was like

  The searing fire when bolts of lightning strike.

  His laugh was honey and his smile could bring

  A hundred thousand blossoms news of spring –

  But of his wondrous mouth I cannot speak:

  There self-hood vanishes; I am too weak.

  When he appeared it seemed that every hair

  Reduced a hundred hearts to love’s despair –

  He was far lovelier than words convey;

  The world adored him, what more can I say?

  When he rode out toward the market-place,

  A naked sword was held before his face;

  Another followed him; and those who tried

  To stand and stare were quickly pushed aside.

  There was a dervish, a poor simpleton,

  Who fell in love with this great monarch’s son –

  Too weak to chatter, he would sit and sigh,

  Beyond all help and hope, prepared to die.

  He sat outside the palace night and day,

  But closed his eyes to all who passed that way;

  He had no friend, no comrade who could share

  Love’s pain, or sympathize with his despair.

  His heart was broken; tears of silver rolled

  lines 4042–60

  Down sunken cheeks that looked like sallow gold;

  And what kept him alive? At times he’d see

  The prince ride by in distant majesty.

  Then crowds of people ran from near and far

  To gather in the noisy, packed bazaar –

  They pushed and shoved; shouts filled the atmosphere,

  You’d think that resurrection day was here –

  Distracted heralds tried to clear the way,

  Raging at stragglers who would not obey –

  The ushers yelled, then called the army in,

  To clear a mile or so and quell the din.

  And when our dervish heard the heralds’ sound,

  He fainted and lay stretched out on the ground;

  It seemed he left himself, and ecstasy

  Was strangely mingled with his misery

  (Though no one noticed him, there should have been

  A hundred thousand mourners at the scene).

  His body would turn blue, or to his eyes

  Great gouts of blood instead of tears would rise;

  His tears would freeze with grief, and then desire

  Would make them scald his face like liquid fire.

  But how could such a wretch (who begged for bread,

  A skinny wraith half living and half dead,

  A man with half a shadow, which the sun

  Appeared determined to reduce to none)

  Expect to be befriended by a prince

  Whose like has not been seen before or since?

  It happened that one day the prince rode out.

  The beggar sent up an ecstatic shout:

  “Love’s conflagration fills my heart and head;

  All patience, reason, strength have turned and fled!”

  He raved and ranted, and at every groan

  Dashed his bewildered head against a stone,

  Until unconsciousness had quenched his sighs

  And thick blood spurted from his ears and eyes.

  A herald of the prince saw everything,

  lines 4061–79

  And hurried to denounce him to the king.

  “My lord,” he panted, “something must be done;

  A filthy libertine adores your son!”

  The monarch felt his honour was at stake,

  And for his injured reputation’s sake

  Cried: “Chain his feet and drag him through the town,

  Then from the gibbet hang him upside-down.”

  The royal guards set off at once and made

  A ring around the hapless renegade –

  They dragged him to the public gibbet, where

  A huge, blood-thirsty mob had filled the square,

  And no one knew his pain, or thought to plead

  On his behalf, or tried to intercede.

  A courtier brought him to the gallows tree,

  Where he screamed out in mortal agony:

  “Grant me the time to worship God before

  The gallows claims me; let me pray once more.”

  The angry courtier signalled his assent

  And gave him time to make his testament.

  But halfway through his pr
ayers he groaned: “O, why

  Should kings decree that guiltless men must die?

  Before I’m murdered in this wretched place,

  Lord, let me see that boy’s seductive face,

  And when he stands here I will gladly give

  My soul for him and have no wish to live.

  I’d give a hundred thousand lives to see

  That princely pattern of nobility;

  O God, this is your servant’s last request –

  I love, and those who die for love die blest,

  And though for him I bid the world farewell,

  Love cannot make love’s slave an infidel.

  How many countless prayers you grant, dear Lord –

  Grant mine; grant my life’s vigil its reward!”

  This arrow reached its mark; the courtier felt

  His adamantine heart begin to melt –

  He hurried to the king and there made plain

  lines 4080–4100

  The secret causes of this sufi’s pain,

  Weeping, he told how halfway through his prayer

  The sufi had succumbed to love’s despair.

  The monarch’s anger passed, and clemency

  Made him revoke his former harsh decree.

  He turned then to his son and gently said:

  “Do not distress this wretch who hangs half dead

  Beneath the gibbet’s arm – go to him now,

  And speak to him as only you know how.

  His heart is in your hands; use all your art

  To comfort him and give him back his heart.

  You were the poisoned draught that seared his throat;

  Drink with him now, be poison’s antidote!

  Let happiness replace his misery;

  Renew his life, then bring him here to me.”

  O, clap your hands, dance, stamp your nimble feet,

  Rejoice, prosperity is now complete!

  This prince sought out a beggar; this bright sun

  Sought out the unregarded simpleton;

  This ocean of rich treasures did not stop

  Until he had united with a drop!

  The prince sped like an angel through the town

  And saw the beggar hanging upside-down –

  The body shuddered, swayed and fought for breath,

  Clinging half conscious at the edge of death.

  Beneath the gallows tree his tears and blood

  Had clogged the swirling dust to viscid mud,