Ayaz’s sickness Ayaz, afflicted with the Evil Eye, Fell ill. For safety he was forced to lie Sequestered from the court, in loneliness. The king (who loved him) heard of his distress And called a servant. ‘Tell Ayaz,’ he said, ‘What tears of sympathy I daily shed. Tell him that I endure his suffering, And hardly comprehend I am the king; My soul is with him (though my flesh is here) And guards his bed solicitous with fear; Ayaz, what could this Evil Eye not do, If it destroys such loveliness as you!’ The king was silent; then again he spoke: ‘Go quickly as a fire, return like smoke; Stop nowhere, but outrun the brilliant flash That lights the world before the thunder’s crash. Go now; if you so much as pause for breath My anger will pursue you after death.’ The servant scuttled off, consumed with dread, And like the wind arrived at Ayaz’ bed -- There sat his sovereign, by the patient’s head! Aghast, the servant trembled for his life And pictured in his mind the blood-smeared knife. ‘My king,’ he said, ‘I swear, I swear indeed, That I have hurried here with utmost speed -- Although I see you here I cannot see How in the world you have preceded me; Believe my innocence, and if I lie I am a heathen and deserve to die.’ His sovereign answered him: ‘You could not know The hidden ways by which we lovers go; I cannot bear my life without his face, And every minute I am in this place. The passing world outside is unaware Of mysteries Ayaz and Mahmoud share; In public I ask after him, although Behind the veil of secrecy I know Whatever news my messengers could give; I hide my secret and in secret live’.” The birds question the hoopoe and he advises them An ancient secret yielded to the birds When they understood the hoopoe’s words -- Their kinship with the Simorgh was now plain And all were eager to set off again. The homily returned them to the Way And with one voice the birds were heard to say: “Tell us, dear hoopoe, how we should proceed -- Our weakness quails before this glorious deed.” “A lover,” said the hoopoe, now their guide, “Is one in whom all thoughts of Self have died; Those who renounce the Self deserve that name; Righteous or sinful, they are all the same! Your heart is thwarted by the Self’s control; Destroy its hold on you and reach your goal. Give up this hindrance, give up mortal sight, For only then can you approach the light. If you are told: ‘Renounce our Faith’, obey! The Self and Faith must both be tossed away; Blasphemers call such actions blasphemy -- Tell them that love exceeds mere piety. Love has no time for blasphemy or faith, Nor lovers for the Self, that feeble wraith. They burn all that they own; unmoved they feel Against their skin the torturer’s sharp steel. Heart’s blood and bitter pain belong to love, And tales of problems no one can remove; Cupbearer, fill the bowl with blood, not wine -- And if you lack the heart’s rich blood take mine. Love thrives on inextinguishable pain, Which tears the soul, then knits the threads again. A mote of love exceeds all bounds; it gives The vital essence to whatever lives. But where love thrives, there pain is always found; Angels alone escape this weary round -- They love without that savage agony Which is reserved for vexed humanity. Islam and blasphemy have both been passed By those who set out on love’s path at last; Love will direct you to Dame Poverty, And she will show the way to Blasphemy. When neither Blasphemy nor Faith remain, The body and the Self have both been slain; Then the fierce fortitude the Way will ask Is yours, and you are worthy of our task. Begin the journey without fear; be calm; Forget what is and what is not Islam; Put childish dread aside -- like heroes meet The hundred problems which you must defeat. Attar (R A)
Posted on: Sat, 15 Jun 2013 03:30:57 +0000
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