The Masnavi, Book One: Bk. 1 (Oxford World's Classics)
Page 35
Echoes bring good and evil sounds to you
Though mountains stay oblivious to these two.
The guest says to Joseph, ‘I’ve brought you a mirror, so that each time you look in it you’ll see your own handsome face and remember me’
Joseph asked, ‘Where’s the gift with which you came?’
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This question made his guest then moan with shame,
He said, ‘How many gifts I sought for you,
But none seemed worthy in my humble view:
How could I bring a nugget to the mine,
A single drop to a vast sea of wine?
I’m taking cumin to Kerman,* it’s true,
By bringing here my heart and soul for you.
No seed is missing from the storehouse here
Except your perfect form which has no peer—
To bring a mirror thus appeared just right,
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One that’s as radiant as your pure breast’s light,
So you can see in it the face I love,
Just like the sun, that candle up above—
I’ve brought a mirror, so that when you see
Your handsome face you’ll then remember me.’
He showed the mirror he’d kept by his side,
With mirrors good men are preoccupied;
Non-being serves as Being’s mirror, friend,
So choose non-being if you comprehend:
In this way, Being will be clear to see,
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Like in the poor, when men give generously:
Food is the mirror of the hungry and
The tinder’s mirror is the flame that’s fanned;
Emptiness and non-being serve to show
The virtue of the crafts that skilled men know:
When garments are already so well sewn
How can they let the mender’s skill be shown?
Tree trunks must be left for the carpenter
Untouched, so he can make some furniture;
The doctor who mends broken bones heads straight
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For that place where the injured men all wait:
If there’s no casualty, who needs your aid?
Medicine’s virtue can’t then be displayed!
If copper’s faults aren’t plain for all to see
How can one tell the worth of alchemy?
Defects reflect perfection’s purest light,
They mirror God’s own glory and His might;
All things thus make their opposites appear—
In vinegar the taste of honey’s clear.
Whoever recognizes his own faults
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Towards perfection rapidly then vaults,
But if you think you’re perfect as you are,
You won’t reach God for you have strayed too far—
Imagining you’re perfect is the worst
Of faults, you show-off—learn this lesson first!
Much blood will flow out from your heart and eyes
Before your self-conceit completely dies;
Claiming, ‘I’m better’* was cursed Satan’s error
And this same defect lies in every creature:
Although they like to show themselves as meek,
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There’s dung beneath the surface—smell the reek!
When, as a test, the Lord should stir them round,
Their water then immediately is browned:
There’s dung in your stream’s bed that you’ve not seen,
And to your eyes the stream looks pure and clean!
The guide who’s knowing has a special role—
To join streams to the Universal Soul,
The streams can’t clean themselves—the point’s been made
That from God’s knowledge man receives much aid;
How can a sword carve its own hilt? You show
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The surgeon wounds you’ve suffered from your foe;
Flies gather on men’s wounds, so none can see
His own wound’s putrid foulness normally—
Such flies are fancies and possessions too,
The wounds the dark states that emerge in you.
The guide puts on your wound a salve to heal
The pain and misery that you now feel—
Don’t think the pain’s forever gone away,
The salve has been sent down as just one ray!
Don’t turn away, fool, from this salve again,
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Not you but that guide’s ray has soothed the pain!
The one who wrote down the Prophet’s revelation became an apostate because one ray of revelation came down to him; and he recited the verse before the Prophet, and then said, ‘So I too am a recipient of revelation’
There was a scribe before Osman who’d write
With care the words the Prophet would recite:*
When holy revelation he’d dictate,
This scribe would write it on a leaf or slate;
A ray of revelation shone his way
So he found wisdom in himself that day,
The Prophet was that piece of wisdom’s source
But this scrap led that meddling fool off course:
‘The truths God’s messenger likes to impart
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I now hold in the depths of my own heart.’
The Prophet sensed what this misled scribe thought
And so God’s wrath to this man’s soul was brought;
His job and faith he then chose to forgo
And out of spite became the Prophet’s foe.
The Prophet said, ‘You stubborn infidel,
You’re dark—how can you be light’s source as well!
If you were a sweet fountain that’s divine,
You wouldn’t have produced such filthy brine.’
His reputation to preserve from harm
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He kept his mouth shut, though he wasn’t calm—
He burnt inside because of this event
Though still he felt unable to repent.
He sighed, but this did not help him—instead
The sword was drawn to sever off his head.
God’s made your reputation a huge weight,
Too many find this out once it’s too late!
For unbelief and pride have blocked the way—
No one can even sigh once in dismay:
‘Shackled, they must keep their heads up,’ God said,
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Not outer shackles, but inside instead;
‘Behind a barrier, and above a screen,’*
So obstacles around them can’t be seen;
This barrier looks like space that’s vast and free—
Men cannot tell the dam of destiny!
You’re your own obstacle to His fine face
And to speech filled with the divine guide’s grace.
Though many infidels desired religion
They were still trapped by pride and reputation—
This chain’s much harder than those men have made;
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Those chains are broken by an axe’s blade
And they can be released quite easily,
While from this hidden chain no man gets free.
If men fall victim to a wasp’s sting, then
Their natural defence heals them again,
But since this sting is from your being, friend,
The pain’s much more intense and it won’t end!
The explanation’s bursting from my breast,
I fear though that it might leave you depressed—
Don’t you despair! Learn to live joyfully,
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And cry for help—He answers every plea!
Pray: ‘O Forgiving Lord, forgive us please,
Doctor who treats the pain of our disease!’
Wisdom’s reflection ruined one who knew—
Don’t let such vile conceit destroy you
too!
Brother, true wisdom to you has been sent
From God’s élite saints, but it’s only lent:
Inside, a house may look so warm and bright,
The neigbouring house though has bestowed this light—
Give thanks, don’t raise your nose in arrogance!
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Shun self-conceit, don’t live in ignorance!
It’s sad this borrowed state we have today
Has led men so far from the proper way;
I’m the slave of the one who at each stage
Does not claim he’s enlightened as a sage:
From many stages travellers must ascend
Until one day they reach the journey’s end.
Iron’s not red, in fire though red it turns
Due to the heat of flames in which it burns;
A window may fill up your house with light,
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That’s not the light’s source though—adjust your sight!
Each door and wall may say, ‘I am the source;
I don’t bear others’ light—it’s mine of course!’
The sun will counter, ‘Errant fool, wait here,
And when I set, the truth will then be clear!’
Plants say, ‘We by ourselves turn fresh and green,
As beautiful and joyful thus we’re seen.’
But summer answers, ‘Listen everyone—
Just take a look in autumn when I’m done!’
The body shows off its own handsome face,
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While spirit, which is blessed with wings of grace,
Shouts, ‘Cesspool, you live just one or two days
All thanks to my life-giving, pure light rays!
This huge world can’t contain your vanity,
Just wait until from you I finally flee!
Your mourners will then dig a grave for you
So you can feed the worms and insects too!
That one who in your presence swooned and fell
Will hold his nose because of your foul smell!’
The spirit’s rays give hearing, speech, and sight
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As water boils due to the fire we light;
Just as the body’s fed rays from the soul
Your soul’s fed by God’s friends who play this role.
When from the soul His spirit should depart
It’s like a soulless body, stripped of heart.
I lay my head down on the ground this way
So earth will vouch for me on Judgment Day,
On that day when it will be forced to quake
The role of witness then the earth will take,
For what it knows it will say publicly,*
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And earth and rocks will talk miraculously.
Philosophers doubt, for they’re logical—
Tell them to slam their heads on a brick wall!
For water, earth, and clay speak, and each word
By Sufi mystics is quite clearly heard;
Philosophers doubt moaning pillars too—
About the saints’ perception they’ve no clue,
Saying, ‘These men must be moved by emotions
To have such fantasies and foolish notions.’
Their infidelity and vile corruption
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Has filled them with vain thoughts—they choose rejection;
When they deny that demons can exist,
They’re mocked by those same demons they’ve dismissed!
You’ve not seen one? Look at yourself instead!
Only a madman boasts a swollen head!
Each man whose heart is filled with stress and doubt
Is a philosopher who’s not come out:
He utters true belief, but all the same
This man’s philosophy still earns him shame;
Take care, believers, it’s inside of you,
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And there are many endless worlds there too.
The warring sects are also there within,
Woe to you, friend, if one day they should win!
Those having the essentials of belief
In fear of this are shaking like a leaf.
You laughed at Satan and the demons then,
Judging yourselves, in contrast, virtuous men;
When men’s souls turn their jackets inside out,
How many Muslims in distress will shout:
The store’s gold-plated things all feel delight
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Because the touchstone is now far from sight,
‘Don’t lift the veil, don’t make faults manifest,
Concealing Lord, when we’re put to the test!’
False gold can lie with real gold through the night,
Though real gold’s waiting for the dawn’s first light;
Gold says by means of its own inner state:
‘Daybreak will show the truth, fake, you just wait!’