A king questions a sufi A ragged pilgrim of the sufis’ Way By chance met with a king, and heard him say: ‘Who’s better, me or you?’ The old man said: ‘Silence, your words are empty as your head! Although self-praise is not our normal rule (The man who loves himself is still a fool). I’ll tell you, since I must, that one like me Exceeds a thousand like your majesty. Since you find no delight in faith -- alas, Your Self has made of you, my lord, an ass And sat on you, and set its load on you -- You’re just its slave in everything you do; You wear its halter, follow its commands, A no-one, left completely in its hands. My study is to reach Truth’s inmost shrine -- And I am not my Self’s ass, he is mine; Now since the beast I ride on rides on you, That I’m your better is quite plainly true. You love the Self -- its lit in you a fire Of nagging lust, insatiable desire, A blaze that burns your vigour, wastes your heart, Leaving infirmity in every part -- Consuming all your strength, till deaf and blind You’re old, forgetful, rambling in your mind. This man, and hundreds like him, constitute The mighty phalanx of the Absolute; When such an army charges you will find You and your puny Self are left behind. How you delight in this dog’s partnership -- But it’s the dog, not you, that cracks the whip! The forces of the king will separate This dog and you -- why not anticipate Their order and forestall the pain? If though You weep that here on earth you cannot know Enough of this audacious infidel -- Don’t worry; you’ll be comrades down in hell. By Attar (R A)
Posted on: Thu, 17 Oct 2013 09:29:18 +0000
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