Someone said, “Master San¯a’¯ı is dead.” The death of such a master is no small thing.
He was not chaff which flew on the wind, he was not water which froze in the cold;
He was not a comb that split on a hair, he was not a seed crushed by the earth.
He was a treasure of gold in this dust bowl, for he reckoned both worlds at one barleycorn.
The earthly mould he flung to the earth, the soul of reason he carried to the heavens.
The second soul of which men know nothing—we talk ambiguously—he committed to the Beloved.
The pure wine mingled with the wine-dregs, rose to the top of the vat and separated from the dregs.
They meet together on the journey, dear friend, native of Marghaz, of Rayy, of Rum, Kurd;
Each one returns to his own home—how should silk be compared with striped cloth?
Be silent, like (a letter’s) points, inasmuch as the King has erased your name from the volume of speech.
