Last night in sleep I dreamed—yet what sleep is there for lovers?—that I was searching inside the Kaaba for where a prayer-niche might be.
The Kaaba of the spirits, not that Kaaba which, when you reach it on a dark night, you say, “Where is candle or moonlight?”
Nay, rather its foundations are of the light of the whole world, from which the rays of your spirit take light. Only how can the soul endure it?
Its hospice is all light, its carpeting is knowledge and reason, its Sufis all bewildered, where is the clatter of the shoes?
Fortunate one, the crown and throne you hold hidden in you are beyond the imagination of Kai-Qub¯ad and Sanjar and Suhr¯ab.
Bird of heart, fly amidst the garden of its beauty, for there is a secure abode; where is snare or beating-stick?
There is a gift in the midst of your body’s loans; search in the middle of the soul for the gift of Giver.
In describing from afar the discourse of time became prolix; now that I have reached my tent-tope, where now is prolixity?
Since you quitted the clay, you forthright entered the garden of the heart; so from that side is there naught but concert and pure wine?
Since you left the salt marsh of the body for the garden of the soul, is there naught but rose and basil, tulip and fountains of water?
Since you have seen thousands of beauties that were not of body, why do you say, “Where is the beauty of the Opener of Doors?”
Faq¯ıh, for God’s sake, learn the science of love, for after death, where are “lawful,” “unlawful” and “obligatory?”
When in time of pain and affliction you quickly find His door, you say once more, “Where is He? Where is the door of His palace?”
Wait till the wave of union with Him snatches you away and you become unseen, then you may say, “Where is the world of causation?”
If the script of Ibn Baww¯ab has become your fancy in calligraphy, read the letter of His love, and it will show you where the Doorkeeper is.
Beware, say not of every man that he is God’s deputy; come to the court of the q¯a˙zi, then see where the deputies are.
Until you box your ears, you will see only men’s affairs; when you rub your eyes, you will say, “Where is his light?”
In the tavern of reality, before the dissolute drunkards, in such a pure wine you will not see where lees and straw are and secondary causes.
In the mortal reckoning your life has been wasted without reckoning; behold the purity of the Beloved; where is the similitude of the reckoners?
When the wine makes you brave and you plunge into the sea of the heart, you will strike up this melody: “Where is the bottom of this sea?”
