غزل شمارهٔ 1925

That enemy of soul and mind and faith has returned, shaking his sleeves—

Plunderer of a hundred thousand houses, devastator of a hundred thousand shops,

Stirrer-up of a hundred thousand tumults, amazement-focus of a hundred thousand amazed ones,

That nurse of reason and bane of reason, that friend of the soul and enemy of the soul.

Whither will he transport my light reason? He seeks a reason like that of Luqm¯an.

How does he accept my worthless soul? He seeks a soul like the sea of Oman.

He came, saying, “Bring the tribute of the village!” I said, “What village? It is a ruined village.

“Your flood has shattered cities; how shall a village stand amid the flood?”

He said, “Ruins are the abode of treasures; it is our ruin, O Muslim!

“Give us the ruin, or go forth; do not upbraid, do not speak at random.”

The ruin is of yourself; once you have gone it thrives through the justice of the King.

Do not dissemble and say I have gone; do not hide behind the door.

Make yourself as one dead, that you may become living by the spirit of a man.

You said, “You shall not be in the midst”; that saying of yours is the essence of Koran.

The work you do, yourself not in the midst, that is work done by God—know this for sure.

I will recite the rest of the poem in secret; it cannot be told before the uninitiated.

Silence! For there are a hundred thousand differences between the tongue’s utterance and the light of revelation.