To Companions of thw Way

(1)

Qalandar is a white falcon of the skies, heavy things weigh light on his wings;

he never hovers round nests, for the whole bluish span of the skies is his hunting ground.

The song Allah is He issued forth from my soul, and spread all around, like dirt from my life’s apparel;

hold the instrument from my hands, for its strings have dropped down, like my tear, by the burning of the plectrum.

I pulsated like a tear, in the heart of Nature, I pulsated—till I reached her eyes;

my radiance can be seen from her eyelashes, for I barely drop on the grass leaves.

To me logic smells of un ripeness, its reasoning betrays signs of weakness;

two verses from the Master of Rum or from Jami open for me the gates closed in my face.

Come and have from my hands that old (wine) that imparts soul to the cup’s clay;

if you water the tulip’s branch from my flask, it would grow up to man’s stature.

In my hands I hold the same old violin, Full of plaintive songs with many melodies.

But I play it with the claws of a lion, For its strings are made of gut as hard as rock.

Tell the Parvizes of the present age on my behalf: I’m no Farhad to take up an axe;

by a thorn that has sunk into my breast one can pierce the heart of hundred Behistun.

I am a fakir, my whole asset is my insight, to me other people’s mountain appears as a straw;

take it from me: graveyard’s crow is better than a falcon accustomed to a king’s hand.

I never shut my heart’s door on anybody, nor do I turn my back on friends and relatives;

I made my nest in my breast and lived happily under heaven’s canopy.

No position of honour do I have in this garden, neither robe nor cap do I possess;

the gardener calls me ill-mannered, for I bestowed sight to the narcissus’ eyes.

Two hundred sages spoke in this assembly, Their words more delicate than jasmine petals.

But tell me, who is that keen-sighted man Who saw a thorn and spoke of the garden?

I’m not acquainted with the secrets of art, yet I gave a new value to poetry;

my songs and lamentations have lightened the burden of the old aged people of the caravan.

Don’t you think, I’m a bird of morning song knowing nothing but lamentations and bewailing;

don’t spurn my guidance, you will find the key to the garden in my nest.

The world is only a passage for me; amidst a thousand wayfarers, none is my boon companion;

I’ve passed by crowd of dear ones, None is stranger than one’s own kith and kin.

Learn to live in spit of many mishaps, learn to highlight your values and worth;

throw yourself in the ocean of my song, and learn to settle down like a pearl in my storm.

I was raised long ago in this earthly place, But I do not care for my home.

I owe my very life to its bountiful moisture, But the earth is not my sky.

Perhaps you’re unaware—unless you enter into rapport with a man— that hearts become alive through his breath;

he doesn’t give bent to lamentations, for man’s grief knows control and composure.

Develop insight, look to the soul within the body, see on the bough jessamine yet to grow;

otherwise like an arrow in the bow, see the target through archer’s eye.

Intellect is unaware of certainty’s delight; is a bad companion, prostitution true wisdom;

two hundred Bu Hamids and Razis are not worth a simpleton that knows the Way.

What are fine linen, rubies and pearls? what are handsome slaves and golden girdle?

what are as free of the two worlds as God Himself? what else is the asset of the people of skill?

Khudi’s intoxication of I-ness is the essence of sobriety, my tavern therefore is not so noisy;

my wine, though not pure, yet you drink it: it is the residue of yesterday’s wine jar.

You are busy with your cup and dress, I discovered the Beloved’s smell by myself;

my whole asset consists of this one word of flute, I need neither pulpit’s wood nor that of gallows.

When I noticed my own mirror’s essence, I retreated to the solitude of my breast;

I took with me my old grief and ran away from intellectuals, blind and lacking in taste.

When I packed up to leave this earth, Everyone said, ‘We knew him!’

But no one knew what this traveller said, And to whom and where he had come from.

(2)

If he is wise and pure of conscience, he is rich, though poor and lacking in means;

costly apparel of the rich, who are devoid of deen, are but like pack saddle.

(3)

You pay homage to Darius and Jamshid But that is a disgrace to the Ka‘bah!

Do not present petitions to the Farangi: Tear this idol from the alcove of your heart!

I listened to a verse from an old man who was experienced, wise and enlightened:

if a fakir maintains himself safe in poverty, the two worlds are within his grasp.

The secret of everything lies hidden in two words: the of Love is not a pulpit but a gallows;

Abrahams are never afraid of Nimrods, for fire is touchstone of raw incense.

O tulip! don’t seek sympathy from anybody, try to get succour, like me, from your inner self;

open your heart to every wind that blows, keep alive the old mark that you already have.

I remember these two precepts from an old man: one should not live except through one’s soul;

avoid a mean and low born person who bartered away his soul and lived by his body.

The restless wave said to the shore: I judge myself through a Pharaoh;

sometimes I coil and recoil like a snake, sometimes I dance to enjoy the experience of waiting.

If this pageantry of yours is borrowed from the West, prostrate your head before none but her;

present your buttocks to her whip, for after all the saddle maker has a right over the ass.

The Westerner’s heart is not subject to discipline, his asset is all land, not deen;

my Lord, in the circumambulations of this sanctuary there are a hundred Iblises, not a single Gabriel.

(4)

You and I have lost all confidence in heart and deen, have flown away, like rose’s smell, from our roots;

our heart died, and hence our deen also vanished, we bought two deaths in a single bargain.

A Mussalman who is aware of deen’s secret does not prostrate before others than God;

if the sky does not revolve according to his wish, he makes the earth move to his wish.

This heart of strange nature is not of this earth, its days and nights are not by the revolution of the skies;

you yourself determine the time of your qayam, for the prayers of love and ecstasy have no adhan.

The station of yearning is not attained without certitude and sincerity, and certitude is not possible without Gabriel’s company;

if you share of sincerity and certitude, take your step undaunted, none lies in your ambush.

For the Muslim, this is knowledge and gnosis: he sees manifest in his person the secret of laulak;

God cannot be comprehended through our intellect, know therefore the one who declares: We cannot know Thee.

You threw yourself before Western idols, how unmanly you died in the idol temple;

your intellect is unaware of the heart, breast without ardour, for you didn’t drink wine from your ancestor’s vine.

Not everybody is self assertive and self surrendering too, not everybody is enamoured of self assertion in self abasement;

the cloak of la ilah is a bloody cloak, for it does not fit well unworthy persons.

A mumin burns in the fire of his being, everything that is closed opens by his talisman;

in his standing posture you see Divine Majesty, in his prostration, Beauty of Submission.

What do you ask about love’s prayers? its ruku, like its prostration, bespeaks of deep intimacy;

the fire and ardour of one Allahu Akbar cannot be contained in five prayers.

His Quran recitation is an invitation to the two worlds, Muslims becomes immortal through prayers;

one enamoured of the present age, that lacks ardour, doesn’t know what resurrection lies in prayers.

(5)

The West doesn’t know the law of Divine Providence, it gives to one, snatches from another;

it so provides sustenance to Iblis that God Himself is amazed.

No need to prolong this story, I express hidden secrets in a word:

He gave His world to tradespeople what does la makan know the value of makan!

There is a Paradise for the holy men of Ka‘bah, And there is a Paradise for those have will and determination;

Tell the Indian Muslims to be happy, There is still another Paradise and that will be given in charity.

Qalandar has no inclination to talk, he has no elixir except this point:

no produce can be had from a decollate field, that is not watered by Shabbir’s blood.