On the Fine Arts of Slaves - Music

Arts cultivated (by people) in servitude are symbols of death; The spell cast by servitude is beyond description.

Its songs are devoid of the fire of life; They storm the wall like a flood.

The countenance of a slave is as black as his heart, The notes of a slave are as insipid as his nature.

His dead frozen heart has lost all gusto and ardour And is emptied of to‐dayʹs pleasure and the expectations of future.

His lute betrays his secret, His instruments embody the death of multitudes.

It makes you weak and ill And estranges you from the world.

His eyes are always full of tears— Keep away from his songs as far as you can.

Beware! it is but the song of death! It is nothing but nothingness in the guise of sound.

Feeling thirsty? This Haram is without Zamzam. His songs bring about the destruction of mankind.

It removes from the heart all ambitions and gives grief instead, It pours poison in the cup of Jamshid.

Hearken brother! grief is of two kinds, Lighten your lamp of reason with our flame:

One kind of grief is that consumes man; The other kind of grief is that eats up all other griefs.

The second kind of grief that is our companion Frees life from all kinds of grief.

It involves the tumults of the east and west It is like a vast ocean in which all beings are submerged.

When it takes its abode in the heart, It turns the heart into a vast shoreless sea.

Servitude is but ignorance of the secret of life; Its song is empty of the second kind of grief.

I donʹt say that its notes are wrong; Such bewailings become only a widow.