My magic will provide the remedy,
Be joyful, maiden, carefree and secure,
As rain revives the grass, I’ll find the cure!
I’ll take your suffering on, so grieve no more!
I’m kind like fathers who their girls adore,
Make sure to keep this secret safe with you,
I mean in case the king should ask you too,
For if a soul entombs its secret love
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Fulfilment comes more quickly from above.
The Prophet said, “Whoever hides his dream
Attains it sooner through the Lord Supreme”:
When seeds are hidden deep beneath the ground
Their secret turns to verdure all around,
Silver and gold are hidden in the mine
To nurture them and purify their shine.’
The doctor’s soothing words and promises
Relieved the girl of countless illnesses:
True promises give pleasure constantly,
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False promises increase anxiety,
The promise of the pure’s hard currency,
The promise of the base brings bankruptcy!
The saint identifies the affliction and explains it to the king
Then he stood up and headed for the king
To share a bit of what was happening:
‘What you must do is summon here that man,
To cure her pain this is the wisest plan:
Summon the goldsmith from that distant town,
With gold and robes of honour, bring him down!’
After this speech the king chose to obey
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Each word that he had heard the healer say.
The king sends messengers to Samarkand to bring the goldsmith
The king then sent two men to Samarkand,
Both shrewd, experienced men at his command,
As soon as they arrived there they began
To read this message to the wanted man:
‘O gentle master, pure intelligence,
Talk everywhere is of your eminence!
Our king requests you for your peerless skill,
This vacancy no other man can fill,
Accept this robe of honour and this gold,
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When you arrive a special rank you’ll hold.’
On seeing robes and wealth he was beguiled,
He left his townsfolk, even his own child,
He set off on the journey feeling thrilled
Without a clue the king would have him killed,
He proudly mounted an Arabian stud,
Not knowing that the price was his own blood:
Conceited fool, you failed to comprehend,
So eagerly you raced to your own end!
He dreamt of majesty that wouldn’t cease,
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As Azrael said, ‘Come and grab your piece!’
He was escorted, after entering,
Up to the royal throne to meet the king,
The escorts treated him with special care,
They knew his love of pomp—it was a snare!
The king embraced him like a friend of old,
Entrusting to him all his stores of gold,
The doctor urged, ‘There’s more you can award:
Why don’t you give the girl as a reward?
Through union with this man she could be nursed,
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Love’s waters might revive her, quench her thirst.’
The maiden then received a wedding band—
They joined the couple just as they had planned!
The first six months together how they thrived,
The servant girl soon totally revived!
But then the groom was poisoned in a plot,
She saw the doctor’s potion make him rot:
Through sickness he lost all his youthfulness,
Each day his looks got worse, her love grew less,
He soon became so ugly, pale, and old
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That she could feel her heart becoming cold—
Love which is based on just a pretty face
Is not true love, it ends in sheer disgrace.
Would that he’d been all over so debased
And therefore spared the judgement he has faced!
Instead of tears his eyes gushed blood in streams,
His face became his enemy, it seems:
Feathers became the peacock’s bitter foe
And kings were killed by their own love of show.
He said, ‘I’m like the deer for whose musk scent
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Hunters desire to catch and then torment;
The desert fox, which when they capture her,
They chop her head off just to keep the fur;
That elephant who’s beaten savagely,
They shed his blood just for his ivory,
Those who would kill for secondary goals
Should know I’ll take my vengeance on their souls,
I’m now the victim, your turn’s coming soon,
Those hungry for my blood are not immune!
A lengthy shadow though a wall can cast;
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That shadow will return to it at last:
The world’s a mountain, actions like a shout,
Your echo will return to you, watch out!’
These were his final words when he was slain,
The slave-girl now was purged of love and pain.
Love of the dead is not a lasting love
Because the dead don’t come back from above,
Love of the living in your soul and blood
Each moment makes you fresher than a bud,
Save love for him, eternal and divine,
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The Saqi with the soul-expanding wine!
Choose love of him, from whose resplendent face
The prophets find their mission and their grace—
Don’t tell me ‘From that king we have been barred,’
Dealing with noble men is not that hard !
Explanation of how the goldsmith’s murder by poisoning was in accord with God’s instruction, not due to the passions and corrupt wishes of the carnal soul
Although the healer’s killing seems severe,
Be sure he didn’t act through greed or fear,
Nor to placate the king’s desire instead—
Divine command decreed he should be dead.
Think of the child whose jugular Khezr slit,*
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Most people failed to see the good in it:
For those in deep communion with their Lord
Their every deed’s correct, in full accord,
He who gives life may kill, we must condone
His deputy’s act like his very own;
Like Ismail* lay your neck before his blade
And smile for this brave sacrifice you’ve made,
So that your soul will live on joyfully
With God, like Ahmad’s* soul, eternally;
Each lover drinks the wine of his own soul
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When slain by his beloved that’s his goal.
The king did not start scheming through desire—
Now throw that false suspicion in the fire!
You still think he committed sin, don’t you?
When God refines, no flaws can filter through;
Religious discipline and suffering loss
Is so the furnace burns the silver’s dross,
That’s why for good and bad we scrutinize
And gold is boiled so that the scum may rise—
So if his deeds from heaven didn’t spring
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He’d be a dog that bites and not a king!
Already he’s been purified from greed,
His righteous act just seemed a wicked deed:
When Khezr destroyed that boat out in the sea
What seemed destructive was true pi
ety,
Moses stayed veiled,* though he was wise and good—
Don’t jump without wings, till you’ve understood!
This red’s a rose and not a bloody stain,
He’s drunk with gnosis, don’t call him insane,
If shedding Muslim blood was his sole aim
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I’d be an infidel to bless his name!
When evil’s praised the highest heavens shake,
If pious men applaud that’s their mistake!
He was a glorious king, and circumspect,
Hand-picked by God, one of the pure elect,
Whoever such a king should choose to slay
More grace and status soon will come his way.
If good could not be caused through violence
How could his soul have shown such vehemence?
When children tremble near the barber’s blade,*
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Their mothers smile with joy though they’re afraid:
For half a life he gives a hundred more,
Such gifts beyond your dreams he has in store,
So stop comparing him with your low state,
Reflect on this before it gets too late!
The tale about the grocer and the parrot: the parrot spills oil in the store
A grocer kept a parrot in his stall,
The bird was green and talked, amusing all,
Perched on a bench it watched the passers-by,
Sharing a word with those who caught its eye,
It knew how to pronounce all human words,
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Spoke fluently with men as well as birds.
The parrot hopped down from the bench one day,
Spilling a flask of rose oil on its way;
And when the grocer came back to his store,
When he sat down he stained the clothes he wore.
On seeing the spilt oil a rage took hold—
He struck the parrot’s head and left it bald!
The next few days the bird refused to speak,
The grocer grieved, repentant now and meek,
He tugged his beard, ‘Alas!’ he cried aloud
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‘My sun of bounty’s hidden by a cloud!
Would that my hand had broken then instead
Of striking my most precious parrot’s head!’
He then gave gifts to all the needy men,
Hoping to hear the parrot speak again.
After three nights, perplexed and desperate
He sat down on the bench, disconsolate,
Then showed the parrot wondrous tricks galore
To coax it into talking back once more;
A monk then strolled by on his daily route,
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In woollen garb and balder than a coot—
This made the parrot talk again at last.
It shouted at the monk as he walked past:
‘How did you end up such a slaphead, friend?
Did you like me a flask of oil upend?’
At this assumption everybody laughed,
It thought the monk its equal—it was daft!
Don’t you compare yourself with God’s élite,
Remember ‘souls’ just sounds like ‘soles’ of feet!
Because of this the whole world’s gone astray,
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Few recognize God’s chosen saints today:
Themselves the prophets’ equals some proclaim
And that from saints they differ just in name,
‘We’re all mere human beings,’ they will say,
‘They too must eat some food and sleep each day.’
Their blindness stops them from discerning it—
Between the two the gap is infinite:
Both wasps and bees those flowers are nourishing,
Bees give back honey, wasps a painful sting!
All grazing deer look similar when they’re young
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But some give musk, while others just leave dung!
They’re like the canes that you see growing there—
One’s sugar-filled, the other just holds air!
With false comparisons this world is packed,
Notice how different each one is in fact:
For one, the food he eats just turns to shit,
Another shines the light of God with it;
One eats and grows more envious and tight,
Another one bestows God’s purest light.
Contrast this good land with that marshy patch,
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Don’t claim this angel and that demon match!
When opposites to us the same appear
Like sweet and bitter water, both being clear,
Who can discriminate between the two?
None but a man who’s tasted truth* will do.
The Masnavi, Book One: Bk. 1 (Oxford World's Classics) Page 6
