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دفتر سوم - بخش ۲۲۷ - حکایت عاشقی دراز هجرانی بسیار امتحانی / Book Three - Section 227 - The Tale of a Lover of Long Separation and Much Trial

Original content

یک جوانی بر زنی مجنون بدست
می‌ندادش روزگار وصل دست

بس شکنجه کرد عشقش بر زمین
خود چرا دارد ز اول عشق کین

عشق از اول چرا خونی بود
تا گریزد آنک بیرونی بود

چون فرستادی رسولی پیش زن
آن رسول از رشک گشتی راه‌زن

ور بسوی زن نبشتی کاتبش
نامه را تصحیف خواندی نایبش

ور صبا را پیک کردی در وفا
از غباری تیره گشتی آن صبا

رقعه گر بر پر مرغی دوختی
پر مرغ از تف رقعه سوختی

راههای چاره را غیرت ببست
لشکر اندیشه را رایت شکست

بود اول مونس غم انتظار
آخرش بشکست کی هم انتظار

گاه گفتی کین بلای بی‌دواست
گاه گفتی نه حیات جان ماست

گاه هستی زو بر آوردی سری
گاه او از نیستی خوردی بری

چونک بر وی سرد گشتی این نهاد
جوش کردی گرم چشمهٔ اتحاد

چونک با بی‌برگی غربت بساخت
برگ بی‌برگی به سوی او بتاخت

خوشه‌های فکرتش بی‌کاه شد
شب‌روان را رهنما چون ماه شد

ای بسا طوطی گویای خمش
ای بسا شیرین‌روان رو ترش

رو به گورستان دمی خامش نشین
آن خموشان سخن‌گو را ببین

لیک اگر یکرنگ بینی خاکشان
نیست یکسان حالت چالاکشان

شحم و لحم زندگان یکسان بود
آن یکی غمگین دگر شادان بود

تو چه دانی تا ننوشی قالشان
زانک پنهانست بر تو حالشان

بشنوی از قال های و هوی را
کی ببینی حالت صدتوی را

نقش ما یکسان بضدها متصف
خاک هم یکسان روانشان مختلف

همچنین یکسان بود آوازها
آن یکی پر درد و آن پر نازها

بانگ اسپان بشنوی اندر مصاف
بانگ مرغان بشنوی اندر طواف

آن یکی از حقد و دیگر ز ارتباط
آن یکی از رنج و دیگر از نشاط

هر که دور از حالت ایشان بود
پیشش آن آوازها یکسان بود

آن درختی جنبد از زخم تبر
و آن درخت دیگر از باد سحر

بس غلط گشتم ز دیگ مردریگ
زانک سرپوشیده می‌جوشید دیگ

جوش و نوش هرکست گوید بیا
جوش صدق و جوش تزویر و ریا

گر نداری بو ز جان روشناس
رو دماغی دست آور بوشناس

آن دماغی که بر آن گلشن تند
چشم یعقوبان هم او روشن کند

هین بگو احوال آن خسته‌جگر
کز بخاری دور ماندیم ای پسر

English translation

A young man had fallen madly in love with a woman; Fortune would not grant him the hand of union.

Love tormented him greatly upon the earth— Yet why does love hold enmity from the very start?

Why was love bloodthirsty from the beginning? So that those who are outsiders would flee.

When he sent a messenger to the woman, That messenger, out of jealousy, became a highway robber.

If his scribe wrote a letter toward her, The deputy would misread it through taṣḥīf.

If he made the morning breeze (ṣabā) his faithful courier, That breeze would be darkened by a cloud of dust.

If he sewed a note onto a bird's feather, The feather would burn from the heat of the note.

Ghayrat sealed all paths of remedy; The banner of the army of thought was broken.

At first, the grief of waiting was his companion; In the end, that very waiting broke him too.

Sometimes he said, "This is an ailment without cure"; Sometimes he said, "No—it is the life of our soul."

Sometimes existence would raise its head through him; Sometimes he took fruit from non-existence.

When this condition grew cold upon him, The warm spring of union would surge again.

When he made peace with leaflessness and exile, The provision of leaflessness came rushing toward him.

The clusters of his thought became free of chaff; He became a guide like the moon for night-travelers.

O how many a speaking parrot is silent! O how many a sweet-souled one wears a sour face!

Go to the graveyard and sit silent for a moment; Behold those silent ones who speak.

Yet if you see their dust as one color, The condition of their agility is not the same.

The fat and flesh of the living may look alike, Yet one is sorrowful and another joyful.

What would you know until you have heard their speech (qāl)? For their inner state (ḥāl) is hidden from you.

You may hear the clamor of outward speech (qāl)— When will you see the ḥāl of a hundredfold depths?

Our outward forms are alike, yet described by opposites; The dust too is the same, yet their souls differ.

So too voices may sound the same: One full of pain, another full of grace.

You hear the neighing of horses in battle; You hear the song of birds in ṭawāf.

One from hatred, another from bond; One from suffering, another from joy.

Whoever is distant from their inner state— To him all those voices sound the same.

One tree shakes from the blow of an axe; Another tree shakes from the morning breeze.

I was greatly misled by the pot of refuse, For the pot was boiling with its lid on.

Every boiling says "Come!" with its sweetness— The boiling of sincerity and the boiling of fraud and hypocrisy.

If you have no scent-sense from a clear soul, Go and acquire a nose that can truly smell.

That nose which rushes eagerly to that garden— It is the same that illuminates the eyes of the Jacobs.

Now tell of the state of that wounded-hearted one, For we have remained far from the Bukharan, O son.

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Updated 2026-06-07

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