The Book of Servitude
The world illuminating moon said to God: ʺMy light turns the night into day;
I remember the time when there was neither day nor night And I lay slumbering in the depth of Time;
There was no star in my retinue And my nature was unaware of revolution.
No vast expanse of desert was illumined by my light Nor did the sea feel commotion on seeing my beauty.
Alas! all this was changed by the magic and spell of Being, By the illumination and by the desire for manifestation!
I learnt from the sun the art of shining And brightened this dead earthly abode—
An abode that possessed splendour but lacked joy and happiness. Its face was distorted by the ugly marks of servitude.
Its Adam entrapped in the net like a fish, He has killed God and worships man.
Ever since you bound me down to this earth I have been ashamed of revolving round it.
This world is not aware of the light of the soul, It is not worthy of the sun and the moon.
Cast it away into the space blue, Sever the ties that bind us, the celestial beings, to it.
Either relieve me of my service to him Or create another Adam out of its soil.
It were better if my ever vigilant eye be blind! O God, let this earthly abode remain without light.ʺ
Servitude deadens oneʹs heart, It makes the soul a burden for the body.
Through servitude the young suffer weakness of old age, A fierce lion of the forest is enervated
A society disintegrates And its members fly at one anotherʹs throat.
If one is standing, the other is in prostration; Their affairs are disorganised like a prayer without an Imam.
Everyone is fighting with the other Each individual is seeking his own interests.
Through servitude even a virtuous man goes astray And his potentialities for good fail to actualise.
His branches are shorne of leaves even when there is no autumn. He is always encumbered with the fear of death.
Devoid of good taste, he takes the evil for the good, He is dead without death and carries his corpse on his shoulders.
He has staked away the very honour of life, And like asses is content with hay and barley.
Just look at his ʺpossibleʺ and his ʺimpossible,ʺ See how months and years of his life pass.
His days bewail of one another, Their movement is slower than the sands of time.
Imagine a brackish ground, infested with stings of scorpions, Its ants bite dragons and prey on scorpions.
Its strong wind has fire as if from Hell Which is for the barge of Satan steering gail.
The fire permeates the air Its flames intermingling and multiplying.
A fire that has grown bitter through wreathing smoke— A fire that has the roar of a thunder and the rage of a storming sea.
On its outskirts, snakes are biting one another Snakes whose hoods are full of poison.
Its flames pounce upon (people) like biting dogs, Are dangerously frightening, burn them alive and their light is dead.
To live for millennia in such a dangerous desert Is far better than a moment spent in servitude.