Story of the lover who had been long separated (from his beloved) and had suffered much tribulation.
شاعر: رومی
وزن: فاعلاتن فاعلاتن فاعلن (رمل مسدس محذوف یا وزن مثنوی)
صنف: مثنوی
A certain youth was madly enamoured of a woman: the fortune of union was not granted to him.
Love tortured him exceedingly on the earth: why, in sooth, does Love bear hatred (to the lover) from the first?
Why is Love murderous from the first, so that he who is an outsider runs away?
Whenever he sent a messenger to the woman, the messenger because of jealousy would become a highwayman (barring the way against him);
And if his secretary wrote (a letter to be sent) to the woman, his delegate (messenger) would read the letter (to her) with tashíf;
And if in good faith he made the zephyr his envoy, that zephyr would be darkened by a (cloud of) dust.
If he sewed the letter on the wing of a bird, the bird's wing would be burnt by the ardour of the letter.
The (Divine) jealousy barred (all) the ways of device and broke the banner of the army of cogitation.
At first, expectation was the comforting friend of (his) sorrow; at last, there broke him—who? Even (the same) expectation.
Sometimes he would say, “This is an irremediable affliction”; sometimes he would say, “No, it is the life of my spirit.”
Sometimes (self-) existence would lift up a head from him (appear in him); sometimes he would eat of the fruit of non-existence.
When this (bodily) nature became cold (irksome and useless) to him, the fountain of union (with the beloved) would boil hotly.
When he put up with (contented himself with) the unprovidedness of exile, the provision of unprovidedness hastened towards him.
The wheat-ears of his thought were purged of chaff: he became, like the moon, a guide to the night-travellers.
Oh, there is many a parrot that speaks though it is mute; oh, there is many a sweet-spirited one whose face is sour.
Go to the graveyard, sit awhile in silence, and behold those eloquent silent ones;
But, if you see that their dust is of one colour, (yet) their active (spiritual) state is not uniform.
The fat and flesh of living persons is uniform, (yet) one is sad, another glad.
Until you hear their words, what should you know (of their feelings), inasmuch as their (inward) state is hidden from you?
You may hear words—(cries of) háy, húy; (but) how will you perceive the (inward) state that hath a hundred folds?
Our (human) figure is uniform, (yet) endued with contrary qualities: likewise their dust is uniform, (yet) their spirits are diverse.
Similarly, voices are uniform (as such), (but) one is sorrowful, and another full of charms.
On the battle-field you may hear the cry of horses; in strolling round (a garden) you may hear the cry of birds.
One (voice proceeds) from hate, and another from harmony; one from pain, and another from joy.
Whoever is remote from (ignorant of) their (inward) state, to him the voices are uniform.
One tree is moved by blows of the axe, another tree by the breeze of dawn.
Much error befell me from (I was greatly deceived by) the worthless pot, because the pot was boiling (while) covered by the lid.
The fervour and savour of every one says to you, “Come”— the fervour of sincerity and the fervour of imposture and hypocrisy.
If you have not the scent (discernment derived) from the soul that recognises the face (reality), go, get for yourself a (spiritual) brain (sense) that recognises the scent.
The brain (sense) that haunts yon Rose-garden—’tis it that makes bright the eyes of (all) Jacobs.
Come now, relate what happened to that heart-sick (youth), for we have left the man of Bukhárá far behind, O son.
