The Sage of Rum bids Zinda-Rud into a Song

The Sage of Rum, that man filled wholly with ecstasy and passion, I know what effect these words had on his soul;

he drew from his breast a heart rending sigh, his tears ran redder than the blood of martyrs.

He, whose arrows pierced only the hearts of heroes, turned his gaze upon Afghani, and spoke:

‘The heart must throb with blood like the twilight, the hand must be thrust into the saddle‐straps of God;

hope moves the soul to flow like a running river, the abandonment of hope is eternal death.’

He looked at me again, and said: ‘O Zinda Rud, with a couplet set all being afire.

Our camel is weary and the load is heavy; more bitter must be the song of the caravaneer.

The proving of holy men is through adversity, it is right to make the thirsty yet more athirst.

Like Moses depart from the the River Nile, stride out like Abraham towards the fire.

A melody of one who catches the scent of the Beloved bears a people onwards even to the Beloved’s street.

The Song of Zinda-Rud

You say that these roses and tulips are permanent here; no, they are travellers all, like the waves of the breeze.

Where is the new truth which we seek, and do not find? Mosque, school and tavern, all alike are barren.

Learn a word from your own self, and in that word burn, for in this convent all lack Moses’ fire.

Speak not of the striving for purity of these monastery dwellers, they are all dishevelled of hair, blankets unwashed.

What temples they have fashioned within the Sanctuary, these unitarians of one thought, but all split in two!

The problem is not that the hour of feasting has passed, the problem is that they are all without sweetmeats and boon companion!