بخش 103 - بقیهٔ قصهٔ پیر چنگی و بیان مخلص آن

That minstrel by whom the world was filled with rapture, from whose voice wondrous phantasies grew (arose in the minds of those who heard him),

At whose song the bird of the soul would take wing, and at whose note the mind of the spirit would be distraught—

When time passed and he grew old, from weakness the falcon, his soul, became a catcher of gnats.

His back became bent like the back of a wine-jar, the brows over his eyes like a crupper-strap.

His charming soul-refreshing voice became ugly and worth nothing to any one.

The tone that had (once) been the envy of Zuhra (Venus) was now like the bray of an old donkey.

Truly, what fair thing is there that did not become foul, or what roof that did not become a carpet?—

Except the voices of holy men in their breasts, from the repercussion of whose breath is the blast of the trumpet (of Resurrection).

(Theirs is) the heart by which (all) hearts are made drunken, (theirs is) the nonexistence whereby these existences of ours are made existent.

He (the saint) is the amber (magnet) of (all) thought and of every voice; he is the (inward) delight of revelation and inspiration and (Divine) mystery.

When the minstrel grew older and feeble, through not earning (anything) he became indebted for a single loaf of bread.

He said, “Thou hast given me long life and respite: O God, Thou hast bestowed (many) favours on a vile wretch.

For seventy years I have been committing sin, (yet) not for one day hast Thou withheld Thy bounty from me.

I (can) earn nothing: to-day I am Thy guest, I will play the harp for Thee, I am Thine.”

He took up his harp and went in search of God to the graveyard of Medina, crying “Alas!”

He said, “I crave of God the price of silk (for harpstrings), for He in His kindness accepts adulterated coin.”

He played the harp a long while and (then), weeping, laid his head down: he made the harp his pillow and dropped on a tomb.

Sleep overtook him: the bird, his soul, escaped from captivity, it let harp and harper go and darted away.

It became freed from the body and the pain of this world in the simple (purely spiritual) world and the vast region of the soul.

There his soul was singing what had befallen (it), saying, “If they would but let me stay here,

Happy would be my soul in this garden and springtide, drunken with this (far stretching) plain and mystic anemone-field.

Without head or foot I would be journeying, without lip or tooth I would be eating sugar.

With a memory and thought free from brain-sickness, I would frolic with the dwellers in Heaven.

With eye shut I would be seeing a (whole) world, without a hand I would be gathering roses and basil.”

The water-bird (his soul) was plunged in a sea of honey— the fountain of Job, to drink and wash in,

Whereby Job, from his feet to the crown of his head, was purged of afflictions (and made pure) like the light of the sunrise.

If the Mathnawí were as the sky in magnitude, not half the portion of this (mystery) would find room in it,

For the exceeding broad earth and sky (of the material world) caused my heart, from (their) narrowness (in comparison with the spiritual universe), to be rent in pieces;

And this world that was revealed to me in this dream (of the minstrel) has spread wide my wings and pinions because of (its vast) expansion.

If this world and the way to it were manifest, no one would remain there (in the material world) for a single moment.

The (Divine) command was coming (to the minstrel)—“Nay, be not covetous: inasmuch as the thorn is out of thy foot, depart”—

(Whilst) his soul was lingering there in the spacious demesne of His (God's) mercy and beneficence.