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Fifty years in Yamgan . . . why am I in jail?

Two sets of chains: Reason for my spirit,

and devil s shackles for my body. No wonder

the demons don t obey me: am I Solomon?

In fact I am more like Salman.

My words shine like the sun, even if

you haven t seen me in the flesh

for . . . how many years? Your heart:

a moon to the wisdom of my

pearl-scattering sun. Yamgan:

the gold-mine of knowledge and sagacity

(aren t I buried in Yamgan?)

I ve changed a lot since we met -

at least that part of that s

bound to the material realm. But

Pass by, food of his heart, sweet breeze of Khorasan

Here to a dim prison in the vale of Yamgan

Where he sits narrowed by poverty, comfortless, cold,

His fortune gone, possessions lost, landless and old.

Unjust Fate has stripped from his soul in its tyranny

All repose, and from his body all luxury;

He knows more sorrows than a pomergranate has seeds,

His limbs possess less power than the winter reeds;

That elegant frame, that once too-handsome face

Have decayed now to ugliness, distraction and disgrace -

That face, once luminous as Spring anemones,

Have I changed? Or is it the world that s changed?

I think it must be me; the world seems the same as ever.

It would bound away when I used to chase after it

but now things are different - it s me who turns away;

or perhaps we ve both changed: I have become

more like the world and the world more like me.

I used to be precious ore in its mine, but now

I myself am a mine of golden speech in the rational soul.

What could have happened to everyone, that they seem

so severely frightened just at the mention of my name?

I never spilled the cup of anyone s reputation

You cannot - O wiseman -

on the Worldtree

see other fruit than

the man of Wisdom;

to a gnostic like you

the sage is a plum

and the ignorant

are thorns

- the good are hidden

among the bad

as a lonely datepalm

in a desert of brambles.

But you object: Nasir!

If you re such a noble spirit

why do you vegetate here in Yamgan

lowly and alone?

For me Yamgan

is God s refuge.

Look well! Don t imagine me

some sort of prisoner.

No one claims

that silver, diamonds, rubies

are base or held captive

in the mine;

Yamgan itself may be

Let us closely observe

what the devil s happening tot he world -

how Virtue and Rectitude seem

to have flown - not that the fleeting world

itself has changed its nature

but that people s temperaments have undergone

some transformation.

Your body

in the Child of Nature, babe of the Spheres,

its state forever shifting under Heaven -

one can only imagine therefore that you

- who were so subtle - have fallen

into such a carnal and inferior state

because the spheres themselves have somehow

gone awry.

Humanity (by way of simile)

Weak as we are - and alone - and dangerous the way -

how can we tread the Prophet s path?

If the road is plagued by day with highwaymen

my son, perhaps we d do better to travel by night,

hidden like stars against the noontide from all eyes

but after sunset, vigilant guides, awake;

corporeally concealed from the ignorant but

to the wise openly visible as sunlight.

Physically all are equal: rank depends on intellect,

dignity on wisdom alone. Again, everyone speaks,

but some speak with knowledge, others not -

judge the speech and you have judged the man:

Seeking wisdom? Imitate the wise

who know how to make things easy for themselves:

their conversation, their economy is geared

to those same laws which the elements obey today,

the elements of the Cosmos, harmonised

with spheres and stars, and by their powers

moulded into to living things. The stars are fingers

which the artisan spheres use to animate

the unborn earth - hands of Heaven

which as willing slaves run errands

for galactic lords - eyes of the universe

who cast a glance at earth and spark to life

delicate corals and pearls. Behold the Throne,

Almighty God, my Creator,

I thank Thee for Thy favours

for in my dotage I have no cure for grief

but such gratitude to Thee.

A hundred thanks that I have no work

but to compose these pious and devotional poems.

Help me not to sow in my heart

any seed but that of Thy good pleasure.

Thou knowest the secret of all souls

and that my hart ails within me

that here in Yamgan I am alone

weak, abandoned and afflicted.

The world venerates a happy drunkard, but I

a teetotaller, am sad and despised.

In fear of my oppressors I am helpless

The philosophy section contains 8 poems.

you can count, old man. Figure up

how many Springs and Summers you ve lost

remembering how your hair before was black

as pitchy raven s wing, spine fletched like an arrow -

was it June that rained and spilled

milk upon your tarblack head?

Then your fancy was to while away your time

eating or in idle talk, aimless strolling

till from such good works as these your body

grew to that of a senile beast.

Elegance - no penury - awake or asleep

smothered in silk - sweet songs in your ear

while round you swarmed mate-hungry friends

CLOCK, what do you want from me?

Go somewhere else to peddle your fakes.

I know your game - go and bother

someone else - anyone you like.

Only yesterday I was ambling along

ignorant of your tricks,

bumbling, grinning idiot,

handsome as a tailor s dummy.

You joined me - all at once

youth and delight drained away,

picked out of my pocket -

thief! Callous highwayman!

Friends, let me warn you:

a whale, once it s decided

to eat you, may take its time,

but sooner or later - GULP

- down the hatch - and so it is

with the world. Innocenti,

O nitwit body, how could you ever have lost

(as one might drop something in the street) your strength,

your paradisal face? When you had them

you acted ugly enough - now you ve grown ugly

better make at least your actions beautiful.

Your back is pale as winter. Once a peacock,

now a porcupine. If that beauty had really

meant something, it would never change, would it?

It only came on loan, it s been repossessed.

Ah corpus indelectable, don t weep, don t moan,

frail scallop on life s plumbless sea, brief breeze,

thin sail. Like a slick perfume salesman

Ah the busynessman, engage des affaires

what have you to pride yourself in this passing show?

You are theprophet of a world which

- consider ! - has made you a boob.

Run, run after it! now to the Spring

now to the Autumn of its ends.

If you have not sold your life to demonologies

why must you scuttle after a demon?

It strides hugely before you swollen with rancour -

why, why do you follow it in joy?

D you not fear some day this shark

may kiss you between its teeth?

If you ve a shred of brain

turn your face from the Big Lie of the Time.

. . . something in my horoscope . . . stars are against me . . .

Good heavens, drive these vapours away! It ill befits

the wise to rebuke the sublime and distant spheres.

If they make a profession of cruelty, in any case,

you make a habit of patience - and don t put off

till tomorrow what ought to be done today.

If you create an evil star for yourself

you can hardly expect a favourable horoscope.

He who acts like an angel acquires an angel s face.

Have not seen Spring come to the desert

giving each freshborn tulip the countenance of a star?

You've washed your face with Zam-Zam water,

made your pilgrimage like a man, escaped all sorrow,

worked hard for forty years - given away very little,

true, but taken very little - etc., etc. But

how many times have you sold plain linen

and charged the price of silk? If you wish

to purify yourself at last from sin, forget

the business world - does a slave of vinegar and salt

ease the pain of a wound? More and less of

measure and balance - these things are not washed away

by the water of Zam-Zam. You might hide

your connivance even from yourself, but not

The pilgrims had returned, reverenced and honoured,

giving thanks to God for His compassion and mercy,

from the dangers and hardships of the Arabian journey,

and saved - no doubt - from hell and painful chastisement,

having walked from Arafat to Mecca and answered

the pilgrim s call with joy, having performed

all the duties of the Hajj and retuned home

hale and hearty. I decided to go and welcome them back

but I m afraid I asked too many questions

and put my foot in it. Among the caravan, one

was a particular friend of mine, a dear man.

The philosophy section contains 7 poems.

Even if a life which lasts but one brief hour

must be lived in obedience to God.

Divine gifts are seeds, gratitude the fruit -

and these are not on permanent reduced sale.

If worship is the root of devotion, life

is the fountain of all nobility and blessings -

but if you don t think life is something

to be thankful for, you must think I m

a lunatic. A fellow with a pretty face

- the sages say - is an idol. Why?

Because he takes up space but isn t

worth a centavo. If you call himhuman

because he s rich, why then, the Emir s

Eloquent PROOF, open your book of poems or from the point

of your pen shower forth your pearls of speech.

Your verses are perhaps too long, too many - but

since I find them

sweet and instructive, I cannot have enough of them!

I ll write a panegyric on a king whose gifts are precious

even if he gives me so many of them I can t stagger away

under their weight! So refresh those words growth hoary,

give new life to old saws, rain down a cloud of gems

and ancient earth in Springtime. This book

which at first looked too heavy, has become a joy

How long have you praised the spring,when the dry stems

shall blossom and the almond bear fruit; when

the garden, like my beloved, shall blush

and its meadows grow fresh as her skin;

when dew shall polish the waxy petals

of the pomegranate, and the nightingale leave

his rose to fly and salute them. The songster

burns with love and haunts the garden

till the mournful raven comes to chase him away.

The rose rides upon its steed of ruby,

the tulip marches before, bearing its banner.

The garden was scattered with Winters white camphor