The Masnavi, Book Three

by Jalal al-Din Rumi

  ‘I flee now to God’s refuge!’ she then screamed,

  For that pure-bosomed woman then had been

  Accustomed to escape to the Unseen;

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  And, since she’d seen this world’s impermanence,

  She’d made a fortress from God’s presence once,

  So, after death, she’d have a sanctuary

  Beyond the reach of every enemy.

  She saw none better than God’s own protection,

  So chose her resting place in that direction.

  She’d seen some amorous glances which could start

  Fires to burn intellects and pierce men’s hearts.

  God placed both king and army into slavery;

  He made wise rulers fall unconscious easily.

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  He owns such kings as slaves who do His will

  And He’s made full moons look so thin and ill.

  Venus won’t dare to breathe a word at all

  And Universal Intellect feels small.

  What can I say when I don’t have the choice,

  When His strong furnace has burned out my voice?

  I’m that fire’s smoke; I’m its proof from the King—

  Keep far the nonsense they’re interpreting!

  Sunshine has no proof other than its light,

  Which shines out from itself and gives us sight.

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  How can mere shadows be His evidence?

  They’re fit to show just His pre-eminence.

  His glory tells the truth to you instead;

  Perceptions lag behind, while He’s ahead.

  They’re for lame donkeys, and if you compare

  He rides the wind like arrows in the air.

  None even reaches His dust if He flees;

  If they try to, He blocks their way with ease.

  All sense-perceptions lack tranquillity—

  It’s time for war, not for festivity:

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  Just like a falcon one of them will fly;

  Another, arrow-like, tears through the sky;

  Another’s like a ship with sails at sea;

  Another is retreating constantly.

  On seeing in the distance some new prey

  All those birds launch an ambush straight away.

  They’re left perplexed, though, when it vanishes;

  Like owls, they head towards the wilderness.

  They wait with one eye open, in this way

  Hoping for reappearance of the prey,

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  But after a long wait, so wearily

  They question, ‘Was the prey there actually?’

  It would be better if for just one hour

  They’d rest, regaining all their strength and power.

  If there were no night, greed could make a nation

  Consume themselves with all their agitation.

  The greed for profit would make men consume

  Their bodies long before they reach the tomb.

  The night descends on them like mercy’s treasure,

  So they can flee their greed for a short measure.

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  And if contraction ever comes to you,

  That’s good—don’t tear your heart out as some do,

  For you are spending when you feel expansion*

  And that needs income from a prior transaction:

  If it were always summer, then the sun

  Would scorch the orchard, and would quickly burn

  All flower-beds down to their roots inside,

  And dried-up plants would not then be revived.

  December’s sour-faced, but it’s kind, while summer

  Will laugh with all, then burn them to a cinder,

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  So, in contraction, feel joy anyhow.

  Be youthful and don’t heavily crease your brow!

  Children will laugh while learned men feel bitter;

  Joy fills the lungs, but grief blocks up the liver.

  The child looks to the stable like an ass,

  The wise to the Last Day, not things that pass;

  The child deems stable-straw food that can nurture,

  The sage sees he’ll be slaughtered by a butcher—

  Straw given by the butcher will taste hideous;

  He’s set his scales up as he wants to weigh us.

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  Eat wisdom’s fodder, which God gave without

  His own desire. Shame you can’t work it out!

  It seems that all you understand is bread,

  Even though ‘Eat what He provides!’* God said!

  God feeds you wisdom in degrees, my friend,

  So it won’t choke you at the very end.

  You’ve closed your mouth and that’s produced another

  That eats the morsels of the secret, brother.

  If you’ve cut offyour body from the Devil

  And his milk, you’ll be blessed to a new level.

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  Mine’s like the Turcoman’s own half-cooked meat,

  But Hakim Sana’i’s words are complete;

  In his Divine Book it is clarified

  By ‘the Unseen’s Sage’ and ‘the Mystics’ Pride’:

  ‘Eat grief, not bread, from those who make grief bigger.

  While sages take grief, children eat up sugar.’*

  Sugar of joy is picked from fields of grief;

  Joy is a wound, while grief brings it relief.

  When you see grief embrace it lovingly,

  Then with perspective view reality!

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  The wise see wine in grapes, though it seems distant;

  Lovers see things that are still non-existent.

  Two porters quarrelled just the other day:

  ‘Don’t take it, let me in a manful way!’

  Since they saw profit in their toil and bother,

  Each tried to take the load back from the other.

  One sees in God’s reward such a huge difference:

  God gives you gold, while men give you a pittance.

  God’s golden treasure is a special kind,

  For, when you die, it isn’t left behind:

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  It races past your funeral procession

  To stay in exile’s grave as your companion.

  Be dead now, to prepare for when you’ll die.

  You’ll join eternal love like this on high.

  Patience shows you that through your toil today

  Your love’s fair face and curls will come your way.

  Grief is a mirror that’s placed opposite

  The striver who sees opposites in it—

  After toil’s turn the opposite appears:

  Expansive joy and glory to raise cheers.

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  Your own hand shows how opposites will function:

  After it’s closed, it opens up for certain.

  If someone’s hand is always closed or open,

  This means that person’s hand must have been broken.

  One’s deeds are regulated by these two;

  They’re vital, like a bird’s two wings, for you.

  When Mary suddenly grew agitated,

  Like fish on land who had been relocated . . .

  The Holy Spirit tells Mary: ‘I am a messenger from God to you. Don’t be agitated or hide from me, for this is God’s command!’

  . . . Generous God’s representative then said:

  ‘I come from Him. Trust me and don’t feel dread.

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  Don’t turn your gaze from God’s exalted ones.

  Don’t draw back from His special confidants.’

  As he said this, a ray of purest light

  Rose out of his lips up to the stars’ height.

  ‘To nothingness would you flee my existence?

  I’m like a king beyond in Non-existence.

  My origin and home are in Non-being;

  My form in front of Mary’s all you’re seeing.
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  I am a difficult form now to view—

  I’m the new moon and the heart’s image too.

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  You cannot flee an image in your heart;

  It goes with you wherever you depart.

  But not the worthless transient fancies—they,

  Just like a false dawn, quickly fade away.

  I’m like the true dawn, made out of God’s light,

  Whose day will never be replaced by night.

  Mary, don’t cry out “God’s strength!” out of fear,

  Since from God’s strength I have descended here

  And it’s my sustenance and origin:

  God’s strength’s* light shone before speech could begin.

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  You seek out refuge now in God from me,

  But I’ve been there since Pre-eternity.

  I am that refuge. I’ve saved you so often

  Now you seek refuge and must have forgotten.’

  Failure to recognize is the worst thing:

  In her arms, but unskilled in love-making.

  You think your friend’s the stranger, and you want

  To name joy ‘grief’; you’re truly ignorant.

  Such a date palm is Our Beloved’s grace;

  We’re thieves and His palm is our gibbet’s place.

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  Musk wafts from our commander’s locks. No brain

  Remains with us, and so this forms our chain.

  His grace flows like the Nile, and now that we

  Are Pharaohs it becomes blood instantly.

  The blood says, ‘I am water none must spill;

  I’m Joseph, but a wolf to foes who’d kill.

  Don’t you see that a stalwart friend can be

  Snake-like when you become his enemy?

  His substance hasn’t changed from what you knew;

  He’s only turned bad from your point of view.

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  The vakil resolves through love to return to Bukhara without worrying about his own welfare

  Leave Mary’s candle lit, because that lover

  Whose heart’s aflame is going to Bukhara

  Impatiently and in a blazing furnace—

  Read in the tale of the great sadr to learn this.

  Bukhara stands for knowledge’s true source;

  All who possess it are Bukharans of course.

  When near the shaikh you’re in Bukhara too,

  So don’t look down on that place seen by few.

  Its ebb and flow forms such a major hurdle

  That none reach this Bukhara but the humble.

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  Happy the man whose self is brought down low!

  Stubbornness ruins others. It’s your foe.

  The exile from the sadr had torn apart

  The lover’s soul’s foundation part by part.

  He said, ‘I will return to faith once more

  Although I was an infidel before.

  I’ll go back there and fall down at the feet

  Of that great sadr whose thoughts are always sweet.

  “I’ve flung my soul before you!” I will say,

  “Revive me or chop off my head today!”’

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  Being dead and slain near you, O moon of graces,

  Is better than being king in other places.

  More than a hundred times I’ve tried this out—

  Without you my life won’t taste sweet, no doubt.

  My wish, sing me the tune of Resurrection!

  Kneel, she-camel! My joy has reached perfection.

  Earth, swallow up my tears. They will suffice.

  Soul, drink the pure draught straight from paradise.

  Welcome, my Eid! You’ve come back like last year.

  O breeze, how sweet is what has wafted here.

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  ‘Farewell, my friends! I’ve headed out,’ he said,

  ‘To that sadr whose commands are all obeyed.

  Each moment I’m more roasted in the heat,

  But, come what may, I’ll go and not retreat.

  And though he makes himself so stony-hearted,

  Towards Bukhara my soul has departed,

  That is the seat of my beloved king—

  “Love of one’s homeland” means no other thing.’

  A lover asked her estranged lover, ‘Which city did you find the finest, the largest, the most magnificent, the most bountiful, and the most heart-expanding?’

  His sweetheart asked her lover, ‘My young man,

  You’ve seen fine towns while travelling, so can

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  You tell me which is the most fair around?’

  ‘The town where the beloved can be found.

  Wherever her royal carpet’s spread in size

  Is a huge plain, even small needles’ eyes;

  And any place where moon-like Josephs dwell

  Is heaven, even deep inside a well.’

  His friends prevent him from returning to Bukhara and make threats. He responds, ‘I don’t care!’

  ‘You clueless one!’ a counsellor then said,

  ‘If you can, think about what lies ahead:

  Ponder your past and future rationally!

  Only moths burn themselves so passionately.

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  How will you reach Bukhara? You’re insane

  And should be bound in prison with a chain.

  The angry sadr champs iron as he tries

  To find your whereabouts with twenty eyes.

  He’s sharpening a knife for you alone—

  He’s like a starving dog and you’re the bone!

  You have escaped him once when God let you,

  So why head back to gaol? What’s wrong with you?

  If you had gaolers chasing now, we’d say

  You’ll need to use your wits to get away,

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  But nobody is chasing you at all,

  So why yourself create an obstacle?’

  A secret love had kept him prisoner;

  But this was not seen by that counsellor.

  A hidden gaoler chases gaolers too—

  If not, why do these curs act like they do?

  Into their souls the king of love’s rage came,

  Forcing them to a thuggish life of shame:

  His rage strikes, saying, ‘Beat him!’ On account

  Of hidden thugs I’ve wept a huge amount.

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  Whomever you see in decline, though he

  Appears alone, a thug’s his company.

  If he knew of God’s presence, he would moan

  And rush to the Most Powerful Sultan’s throne,

  Scattering dust on his own face in shame,

  For refuge from the frightening demon’s aim.

  You’re less than ants, but you thought you might be

  A prince; that’s why, blind fool, you couldn’t see.

  These false wings filled you up with self-deception

  And drew you to a harmful self-destruction.

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  You can fly high if you keep your wings light,

  But if they’re muddied there’s no hope for flight.

  Due to love, the lover says, ‘I don’t care!’ to his adviser and scolder

  ‘How long will you advise me? Please refrain,

  For I’ve been tied up with a heavy chain

  That’s harder to endure than your advice.

  Your expert didn’t know love and its price:

  The jurists have no teaching they can offer

  About how love increases pain we suffer.

  Don’t threaten me with death, for desperately

  I thirst for my own blood. What’s death to me?’

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  Each moment a new death is found by lovers;

  Their deaths are not one kind; they’ve many others,

  For Guidance’s Soul gave lives by the score:

  Each moment he will sacrifice some more,

  Since f
or each he gets ten in compensation:

  ‘Ten of their like’*—recite this revelation.

  ‘If that Beloved sheds my blood, I’ll throw

  My life before home, dancing as I go.

  I’ve tested it. Death is this life for me—

  When I leave life it’s for eternity.’

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  Murder me, murder me, my trusty friends!

  In being killed there’s life that never ends.

  Eternal Soul, you who make all cheeks glow,

  Draw up my soul to union You bestow!

  Love for my lover roasts my bowels, but still

  If He wants to walk on my eyes, He will.*

  Speak Persian although Arabic thrills more;

  Love has a hundred languages in store,

  But all those languages are dumbstruck when