The Free Man

The free man is fortified by the Quranic chant “Fear not” —

We enter the field with lowered heads, he steps forth with his head in his hand.

His conscience is lit by “There is no god but God” —

He serves neither king nor noble.

Like a camel he bears the load —

He shoulders burdens and lives by swallowing thorns.

He plants his foot so firm upon the path —

The pulse of the path leaps with his burning fire.

By death his soul grows even more abiding —

His cry of takbir lies beyond letter and sound.

Who deems the stones of the way as brittle glass —

That dervish takes tribute from the king.

Your spirit’s warmth is from his sacred wine —

Your stream is reared by his ocean.

Kings in their silken robes —

Turn pale before the awe of that naked faqir.

For us the secret of faith is report, for him it is vision —

He stands within the house while we wait outside the door.

We are fond of churches and traders of mosques —

He drinks the cup from the hand of Mustafa, peace be upon him.

He is not the slave of the wine-seller, nor does he hold a goblet —

He is drunk on the wine of “Alast” while we are empty of that cup.

The flower’s cheek is red from his tears —

His smoke is brighter than our fire.

Within his breast resounds the takbir of nations —

Upon his brow is written the destiny of peoples.

Our qibla shifts from church to cloister —

He seeks no sustenance from another’s hand.

We are servants of the West, he is servant of God —

He does not fit within the world of color and scent.

Morning and night we fret about gear and means —

What is our end? The bitterness of death.

In a fleeting world he alone finds firmness —

For him death is among the stations of life.

The people of heart grow dim in our company —

By his company even clay receives a heart.

Our deeds are bound to guess and doubt —

He is all action and speaks but little.

We are beggars, alley rovers, dazed with hunger —

His poverty bears the sword of “There is no god but God”.

We are straws, captives of the whirlwind —

His strike cleaves rivers from mighty mountains.

Become his intimate and be a stranger to us —

Ruin your house and become master of the true Home.

Complain less of the circling firmament —

Come alive through the company of that living man.

Sweeter than bookish learning is the discourse —

Of free men whose company shapes true men.

The free man is a deep and boundless sea —

Draw water from the ocean, not from the spout.

The breast of such a man boils like a cauldron —

Before him a heavy mountain is a mound of sand.

On the day of peace he is the grace of the gathering —

Like the spring breeze among the garden flowers.

On the day of wrath he is intimate with his fate —

He digs his grave with his own sword (a seeker of martyrdom).

O let me be your sacrifice; flee from us like an arrow —

Take his hem and take it with restless grip.

The seed of the heart does not sprout from water and clay —

Without a glance from the men of the heart.

In this world you are worth less than chaff —

Until you cling to the hem of a man of God.