Epiphany of Sarosh

Thereupon the wise man ceased his discourse; self intoxicated, he broke away from the world—

ecstasy and yearning snatched him out of his own hands. Then came into being, by the magic of divine vision—

when it is present the motes become like Mount Sinai, without its presence there is nor light nor manifestation—

a delicate creature in the talisman of that night, a star shining upon that starless night.

The hyacinth curls of his two tresses reached his waist, mountains and foothills drew brilliance from his face.

Wholly drowned in a drunken epiphany, drunken without wine, he chanted melodiously.

Before him the lantern of the imagination span around, full of wiles as the ancient sphere of heaven;

in that lantern appeared a form of many hues, hawk pouncing on sparrow, panther seizing deer.

I said to Rumi, ‘You who know the secret, reveal the secret to your companion of little vision.’

He said, ‘This form like unto flashing silver was born in the thought of the holy God;

impatiently, out of the joy of self manifestation, he came down into the dormitory of existence,

like ourselves a wanderer, exile his portion— you are an exile, I am an exile, he is an exile.

His rank is that of Gabriel, his name is Sarosh, he transports from sense, and restores to sense.

It was his dew that opened our bud, the fire of his breath kindled the dead ember.

The poet’s plectrum striking the chords of the heart is of him, and it is he who rends the veil shrouding the Ka‘bah.

Within his melody I have glimpsed an entire universe. now take fire for a moment from his song.’

The Song of Sarosh

I fear that you are steering the barque into a mirage; born within a veil, you will die within a veil.

When I washed the collyrium of Razi from my eyes I saw the destinies of nations hidden in the Book.

Twist over field and avenue, twist over mountain and desert— the lightning that twists upon itself dies within the cloud.

I dwelt a while with the Westerners, sought much and saw scarcely the man whose musical modes turn not upon number.

Without the anguish of battle that propinquity is not attainable; you who speak of ‘scent in rose water,’ go, ravish the rose bush!

Superficial ascetic, I concede that selfhood is transient, but you do not see the whirlpool within the bubble.

This delightful music comes not from the minstrel’s plucking, a houri exiled from Paradise is weeping within the lute.