بخش 1 - قلندر جره باز سمانها

Qalandar is a white falcon of the skies, heavy things weigh light on his wings;

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he never hovers round nests, for the whole bluish span of the skies is his hunting ground.

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The song Allah is He issued forth from my soul, and spread all around, like dirt from my life’s apparel;

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hold the instrument from my hands, for its strings have dropped down, like my tear, by the burning of the plectrum.

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I pulsated like a tear, in the heart of Nature, I pulsated—till I reached her eyes;

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my radiance can be seen from her eyelashes, for I barely drop on the grass leaves.

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To me logic smells of un‐ripeness, its reasoning betrays signs of weakness;

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two verses from the Master of Rum or from Jami open for me the gates closed in my face.

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Come and have from my hands that old (wine) that imparts soul to the cup’s clay;

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if you water the tulip’s branch from my flask, it would grow up to man’s stature.

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In my hands I hold the same old violin, Full of plaintive songs with many melodies.

But I play it with the claws of a lion, For its strings are made of gut as hard as rock.

Tell the Parvizes of the present age on my behalf: I’m no Farhad to take up an axe;

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by a thorn that has sunk into my breast one can pierce the heart of hundred Behistun.

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I am a fakir, my whole asset is my insight, to me other people’s mountain appears as a straw;

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take it from me: graveyard’s crow is better than a falcon accustomed to a king’s hand.

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I never shut my heart’s door on anybody, nor do I turn my back on friends and relatives;

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I made my nest in my breast and lived happily under heaven’s canopy.

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No position of honour do I have in this garden, neither robe nor cap do I possess;

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the gardener calls me ill‐mannered, for I bestowed sight to the narcissus’ eyes.

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Two hundred sages spoke in this assembly, Their words more delicate than jasmine petals.

But tell me, who is that keen-sighted man Who saw a thorn and spoke of the garden?

I’m not acquainted with the secrets of art, yet I gave a new value to poetry;

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my songs and lamentations have lightened the burden of the old aged people of the caravan.

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Don’t you think, I’m a bird of morning song knowing nothing but lamentations and bewailing;

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don’t spurn my guidance, you will find the key to the garden in my nest.

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The world is only a passage for me; amidst a thousand wayfarers, none is my boon companion;

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I’ve passed by crowd of dear ones, None is stranger than one’s own kith and kin.

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Learn to live in spit of many mishaps, learn to highlight your values and worth;

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throw yourself in the ocean of my song, and learn to settle down like a pearl in my storm.

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I was raised long ago in this earthly place, But I do not care for my home.

I owe my very life to its bountiful moisture, But the earth is not my sky.

Perhaps you’re unaware—unless you enter into rapport with a man— that hearts become alive through his breath;

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he doesn’t give bent to lamentations, for man’s grief knows control and composure.

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Develop insight, look to the soul within the body, see on the bough jessamine yet to grow;

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otherwise like an arrow in the bow, see the target through archer’s eye.

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Intellect is unaware of certainty’s delight; is a bad companion, prostitution true wisdom;

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two hundred Bu Hamids and Razis are not worth a simpleton that knows the Way.

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What are fine linen, rubies and pearls? what are handsome slaves and golden girdle?

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what are as free of the two worlds as God Himself? what else is the asset of the people of skill?

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Khudi’s intoxication of I‐ness is the essence of sobriety, my tavern therefore is not so noisy;

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my wine, though not pure, yet you drink it: it is the residue of yesterday’s wine jar.

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You are busy with your cup and dress, I discovered the Beloved’s smell by myself;

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my whole asset consists of this one word of flute, I need neither pulpit’s wood nor that of gallows.

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When I noticed my own mirror’s essence, I retreated to the solitude of my breast;

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I took with me my old grief and ran away from intellectuals, blind and lacking in taste.

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When I packed up to leave this earth, Everyone said, ‘We knew him!’

But no one knew what this traveller said, And to whom‐and where he had come from.