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,

sooner or later you re going

to have to climb up out of

that well, that smoky

gravity-laden pit you call

your body - source of all grief and perversion.

Mon vieux, you ve started

to shrink alarmingly. Stretch

out the hand of worship,

quick, quick . . . dear me,

what an unsightly hump

you seem to have acquired.

Can t you straighten up?

Speak sense? get hold

of yourself? Pray more?

The soul is whole-wheat

and the body is chaff. Have you

ever considered that? All

those sweet temptations of the

flesh - nothing but empty

husks? You re like a fly

who boasts about his tailor -

the Spider. Or a goldfish

set free in the Atlantic

just before hurricane season.

And let me tell you:

you re thinking of leaving

and making it to dry land

you d better learn how to

grow yourself a pair of

feet. Because fish don t

make much progress on

sandy beaches.

Your Majesty, cast an eye

on these poor dervishes

and learn how to be grateful

for your good luck and power.

Because the moon may shine

at the bottom of a well,

but it never loses any of its

silvery sheen. Because the stars

have robbed many a monarch

of is throne like Attila the Hun.

Listen to the PROOF:

he s nor selling any

professional flattery.

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

(snotty and sexy) for a while you drenched your hair

in hyacinth and ambergris. Those hyacinthine locks

look now like frayed ropes, which you weave

upon Death s spindle. Yesterday fell

through a hole in your pocket, long before

you managed to get hold of tomorrow.

Tomorrow you ll pluck the bitter roses sown

- was it only yesterday? Fifty years from

cradle to grave along this ghoulhaunted highway:

the poor travel no worse than the rich -

no first-class compartment for Muslim or Jew.

However, there does come a fork in the road

- one way to heaven, one to hell. Fire

burnt in your gut and singed your heart

and offered you an excuse to tear up

the scroll of religion. Slave of instinct,

worshipper of fire (like a Magi) you whine

I don t know nothin , I didn t do it . . .

and really how could you be considered guilty

of your own murder? The ignoramus, devoid

of worship and devotion, expects to find in paradise

only good huntin and good fishin. You yourself

are fit - ugly devil - only to be bagged

gutted, hunted and roasted. O PROOF OF KHORASAN

the noise you make reaches every corner

of the earth, as if a boulder dropped

from heaven and shattered this great bowl

to splinters.

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.

Every today avarice lulls you with promises

which tomorrow will not fulfil

your youth has grown grey with grief,

hardships and suffering in hopes of future bliss -

and moment by moment in utopian dreams

the clock of earth ticks off the flow of years.

My son the world is your adversary

and in you covets nothing but your soul.

For you it wears a silk brocade

which swarms beneath the sleeve with scorpions.

Arrogant fool, feel free - for you

yourself are not safe from such disgrace.

You sought refuge at its gate but it

sharpens its razors on the strop of your throat.

The dragon has chewed on many

and clever as you - watch out for its fangs.

Here, take this volume, dusty with tales

of the kings of Persia, carry it home and read:

where is Feraydun, Kaykubad

where the August banner of Kaviyan?

Where is Sam the son of Nariman, Rustam

the generalissimo of Mazandaran?

Where now is Babal the son of Sasan, Ardashir

where? Wehre? Bahram and Nushirvan?

All of them have gone away with their herds and treasures

the shepherd departed, the sheep vanished.

This world is a dark and vacant haaway

not a true house. Detach your heart, free your soul.

God summons you, - now -

Ah sweetheart of heaven and earth

how will you wander to left and right

nor follow straight the caravan;

how long will pirate and go on pirating

your neighbour s provisions for the road?

Do you not blush to set up your roadside stall

and sell straw and call it fine saffron?

Tomorrow when you rise fro sleep

your cries and lamentations will buy you nothing.

Does that not frighten you, that Gathering Day

where old and young alike will come

and where no one will take your hand,

neither your son nor your loving father?

Sacks of guilt and chests of sin

weigh your neck and turn your back to water

but still you will face the Kaaba

till they lay you out on a bier

nor will your tongue will touch the Testimony of Faith

till the last breath rattles in your throat.

Why? Why? A grain of godfearing repentance

would lift the burden from your shoulders.

You build yourself a fine new house and suddenly

your neighbour s out on the street without a straw.

O ancient raider of the army of ignorance

now just once tighten your bridle.

Why are you running away with Satan himself

if you heart harbours no suspicions of the Qur an?

Your misgivings about the Book

will be punished, rest assured,

and on the day they surface, believe me,

your signs of regret will get you nowhere.

The soul is only webbed in this House of Bone

that you may bow to God;

the body s a quarry, your devotion a gem

which you must dig from the tenebrous veins of earth;

your spirit s a cavalier, the flesh its horse -

do not ride it except toward the Good.

Don t go running after the pleasures of the flesh

like a mangy cock after a hen.

Your world s an ocean, your body a ship

your life a fair tradewind and you the merchant:

my words are money in the bank -

why are your wasting your dividends?

O Nasir-i Khushraw you should say

give us words of wisdom as long as you can.

O you who are hidden in Khorasan like a Simurgh

your name is everywhere, your body concealed.

In the legions of the sciences of the Truth

your tongue is a bow, your speech a feathered shaft.

Day and night as always dive in the ocean of words

fetch back pearls and hand them around

so that something survives for posterity

when you leave on the eternal journey.

Arise at the command of the IMAM OF THE WORLD

and set sail upon the sea of speech.

. . . 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, an intelligent being, ought to imitate

and accept for yourself the virtues of the wise.

Look, the narcissus, spun of silver and gold

like the crown of Alexander; the orange tree s

aureate fruits give it the grace of Caesar s pavilion.

The poplar is sterile because it has chosen fruitlessness;

if you turn away from Wisdom how will your head

be exalted? Trees which do not produce

are burned for fuel, which all they deserve.

If your tree bears the fruit of knowledge

you can govern the stars yourself. But beware

not to count among the sciences the arts

of penmanship and poetry, which are simply aimed

at acquiring worldly status and wealth - no,

that is something else entirely. One finds various words

in human speech, but after all, the magic spells

of a sorcerer and the revelations of a prophet

are by no means the same thing, any more

than a noble falcon can be compared

to a partridge. Prophets give the science of Truth

to those they deem worthy of such sovereignty;

Moses bestowed knowledge of Aaron - Samari

had no hand in the affair, just as you,

shackled, stumbling on your feet before the horseman

are not worthy of anything but slavery.

Admit it: you have sold yourself to the King of Shugnah

or the Emir of Mazandaran - aprofessional poet

or a minstrel (the only difference being that a poet

stands up to a declaim his flatteries, the minstrel

sits to pluck or toot). Bah! Someone ought to

slice out your insolent tongue before you write

another bloody poem about the box-tree or the tulip

or the bright moonface and curly ambergris-scented locks

of some insipid beloved, or produce yet another ode

in praise of the vast erudition of some nobleman

who in fact can only belch forth ignorance as a marsh

ferments illsmelling bubbles. You versify lies

out of greed, and falsehood is capital in the bank

of unbelief. Well, I am one who will reuse to cast,

beneath the feet of swine, this pearl - the Persian language.

I will show you how and when to bow and prostrate yourself

like a cypress in the morning breeze, the wiseman

humbles himself before the one whom God has chosen

among all creatures for a Guide, the whose works

of justice have erased from the world s face

every smudge of oppression: the Imam of the Time.

What sorcerer could make a magic to compare

with that of his lovers, the Partisans of the Imam?

So wise one might think him more than human,

so much more generous than his station demands,

justly seated in the place of highest honour,

the planet Mars set as a jewel in his bezel ring.

God to him, in whose Father s hand is written

the talisman of the bold feats of Khaybar, to him

in whose outward form one might discern the

the character of Ali, whose bright light of knowledge

binds the exoterist s eye. If he (this exoterist)

were truly seeking to become human he would drive

the donkeylike qualities from his head - how can he

reckon me a stupid as himself? How can counterfeit

be compared with genuine gold? Shouldn t it be obvious

that compared to his, my prose and verse so adorn

plain white paper that it gains the beauty of brocade?

Read my two books of poetry and discover how

the eloquence of Persian, the precision of Arabic verse

have combined in me.

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

from God. Your unlawful fortune came to you

as id on a breeze - a breeze will puff it away.

Wake up! Recite a chapter from the Qur an

and breathe it into your body and soul.

The devil s cheated you, sold you a felt rug

for the price of a silk carpet. You say

you re enjoying yourself, but from where I stand

your festivity looks like a funeral. Lost

in a salt desert, you imagine it an orchard.

Don t pay your way to Mecca with

a pickpocket s silver - don t mingle honey

with poison. You are human, my son,

and must repent of your sins, like Adam.

If the sun of your sins burns your eyes, take refuge

under the shady roof of repentance.

If you want to dwell in the pasture of mercy

graze today in the field of knowledge,

tomorrow in that of action. Moisten the seed

of action with knowledge - the seed

does not grow by itself. Look: a stout rope

hangs down from the Seventh Sphere -

you ll never see it with your darkened eyes

and shadowy heart. Go, take hold of it,

lift yourself up from this aimless caravan,

this shepherdless flock. The rope stands

for one who is the embodiment of wisdom

- no one sees knowledge except in him.

My heart knows - he is God s Trustee,

guardian of the Qur anic wisdom and the realm

of Jamshid. On Judgement Day only those

will be honoured who have been honoured by him.

He soars above all men in wisdom, and men

can raise themselves by his lofty precepts.

The world would be a fair price to pay

for him - he is the celebrated gem, the world

his bezel ring. As for me, he has appointed me

shepherd over a flock - and I shall not

wander away in search of another.

Do you thirst? Of you re sober enough

I ll show you a way to a sweet sea.

And if you listen to my advice, I ll see you

pulled out of the well, raised to the spheres.

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.

Tell me how you made it through this dangerous

journey I said.All the time you have been away

I ve had nothing but sorrow for companionship.

Congratulations, Haji! There s no one like you

in our whole province, I m sure. Tell me

how you visited that sacred place, with what

honour and dignity you beheld it. Tell me

about the donning the pilgrim s robe, and what

your inner intentions were at that moment.

Did you prohibit to yourself everything other

than the Eternal Lord?

Well . . . . no , he admitted.

Did you answer the call out of knowledge

and with due reverence? Did you hear the summons

of the Lord, and answer back, like Moses?

Well . . . . um . . .

At Arafat, when in the presence of God, did

you welcome His Knower, and the denyer of your self?

Did the breeze of Gnosis blow upon your you?

. . . uh . . . to tell the truth I . . .

When you sacrificed the obligatory sheep

did you see yourself in proximity to Him

and think of the sheep as your carnal soul?

My what? I say . . .

When you entered the Sacred Grounds were you safe

from the evil of your lower self and from the sorrow

of separation, the chastisement of Hell?

You see, actually . . . .

When you threw stones at the Accursed One

did you fling out of yourself all bad habits

and reprehensible acts?

Umm . . . um . . .

When you prayed at the Station of Abraham

did you, in truth, faith and certitude, submit

the very core of your being to the Absolute?

The what?

At the time of circumambulation, when you

were no doubt running around fast as an ostrich,

did you remind yourself of the circling cherubim

around the Celestial Throne?

Really, Nasir, what . . .?

Did you behold in your purity of heart the Two Worlds

and become inwardly free of both Paradise and Hell?

NO, NO, NO!

Now that you have come back, is your heart

pained by separation from the Kaaba?

Did you bury your selfish ego in the tomb

. . . or are you still no better than a

decaying bag of bones?

I must admit

he answered,that in all these matters

I seem not to have known the true from the false.

Then, my friend , I said,you have not made

a pilgrimage, and have not taken up residence

in the Abode of Annihilation. You have simply

visited Mecca and come back, having purchased

the toils of the desert with your silver.

If you ever go again, bear in mind

all that I have said.

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

horse is human too - it s draped in gold.

One really must pity, like a worn-out

beast of burden, the man who doesn t know

who Man is. His humanity hides so deep

within him, he appears to be a piece

of pottery. The wise identify the man with

his speech; the rest is a toy. Speech

is the only ticket, the only mode of transport

to the Kingdom. All men are equal - only

speech makes one more equal than the others.

The true man is God s Messenger - the rest

(the ones you call thereligious community )

are but pack-horses. The eloquent man

has a rapier, and the energy to use it.

Thetouche , theau point , the shield

and the due - these are his proof and demonstration,

his question and answer. A much more difficult

battle than your common warfare. After all

even a desert lion is the equal of a soldier;

it has its claws for a sword, its fangs

for arrows. But you, who desires theinner

Holy War , have words for arrows, your tongue

for a bow, and the wounds they make

are painful and incurable. In such conflict

the wiseman sees the unwise as naked.

No, do not turn away from speech and knowledge

- more precious than this world and the next.

The sage s greatest reward is to feed his soul

on good words. Don t despair; the star

of knowledge shall rise at last, even if now

it is dark and in decline. Don t worry if

the rabble strut their brief hour -

to the wiseman, an ass with a hundred

bags of gold is still a worthless ass.

Every finger may shine with diamonds like lamps -

he s still in darkness. Knowledge suffers no

deflation even in the land of fools. Why

should a lion repent of his lion-ness, even

when surrounded by a herd of lazy and undignified

camels? Good and evil, like day and night, follow

each other on the stage. One moment you rage

the next you smile - that s the way of the world.

One man s catastrophe is another s apotheosis.

Night follows in Day s wake, like bad luck.

Pigs arf repulsive, evil omens. Sheep are

nice and useful. The pig will never achieve

the status os a sheep - pigginess is written

in its horoscope. Fools think the devil

a capital fellow, a real fashion-plate -

stay away froma la mode like this!

Lawyers nowadays - the cleanest money they make

is from bribes. And as for the hermits

they slide about a mud like drunkards in April.

Love sings, farce and buffoonery are all the rage -

all the more reason for you to stay home

and pray. Vanity of vanities - cast it away!

The words of the PROOF should be proof enough

for the likes of you. And if you are not in need

of the PROOF, the PROOF is not in need of you

either.

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

for me, just as an old shirt looks elegant again

when it comes back fresh from the laundry.

Poems from a heart-full of knowledge must be sweet

as spring-water poured from clean clay jug.

What is the spice of speech? Meaning and metaphor -

and yours is a cook s garden of poetic herbs.

Repetitive? Yes, but one need not fear repetition

in poetry which can only improve the more we read.

God seasons the pot of earth with tastes, smells, colours -

apples, oranges, walnuts, quince and pomegranate;

the grapes of the vine never clog your palate

even if they taste the same as last year s or

the year before. To the intelligent reader

wisdom and knowledge are the seeds of literature;

come, Sage, sow these seeds in my heart,

leave behind you a harvest of verse which will keep

your memory fresh (on its own level) as that

of the Prophet himself. Was it not eloquence

which spread his Faith to Earth s four corners,

was it not by his words he raised himself

on Seventh Heaven?

Earth s creatures may be

conquered by Wisdom only because the Almighty Lord,

the Subduer, is also the All-Wise. Contemplate

your body, see the soul that hides within it:

how can it be, when this too too solid flesh

sinks to sleep, that something remains awake,

seeing, speaking, aware? This dead carrion lives

only by a magic jewel, the amulet of gnosis:

shame and speech, praise and blame belong to it alone,

and when it departs, your body s no more than a corpse

why do you value skin and bones, and despise the true

and only Lord of your body? You consort with slaves

but have not met the master; know both

as they are in REALITY, for in this knowledge

(all wisemen agree) all wisdom resides.

Old fellow, if you neglect your better half,

don t complain if wisemen refuse you the

title of MAN. Body ad soul are comrades

in knowledge and action, but you have neglected

the affairs of the older and better of the two.

You treat your soul as if it were a stranger,

your body a suspicious and inhospitable

town-dweller; the wanders the streets unhoused,

unfed. Is this the custom of the noble host?

How can you train your soul if it remains

unknown to you? Make its acquaintance,

treat it well; your soul goes naked while

your body is cosseted in silks and furs. Shame!

What a state of affairs! Weave a cloak

with meaning as warp and words as weft,

for the soul must clothed in the texture

of Wisdom. Wisdom is a citadel, just as

the Prophet was acity of knowledge and Ali

its worthyGate (this is a sound tradition,

recorded by honest men). The knowledge and advice

which have issued forth from this Gate

are too exalted even to be calledknowledge andadvice ;

they bear the same relation to the ordinary sense

of these words as a rose to a thorn.

If you find Wisdom something mean and hateful, no wonder!

Even the camel (gourmet of thorns) refuses to eat

your wormy flower. I offer you a clue, a way

to that House of Wisdom; keep it secret, guard it

from the frivolous. If you find the Gate and

enter the palace, you escape forever this

caravan of demons, you will learn at least

why the cosmic dance was begun, and what

shall be the end of its monotonous revolutions.

The Architect of the galactic dome has brought you

here for a certain task - why do you shun it?

Feed your soul till it s fat on wisdom -

don t let it end its prison days lean

as a boneyard cur. Everything s found is its

proper place - to reach elsewhere is to make

unnecessary trouble. The world cotains only

fraud and deceit; if you want Wisdom, listen to me

and seek it in religion. This upturned bowl,

this sky under which you sit (as you imagine)

so safe and secure, is really as ocean, about

to fall on your head. Watch out! God has

chained you up in this cave only to protect you

from Satan s marauding band - you will never

realise how lucky you are till a day comes

which is a thousand times worse. The world

is a bazar where you must shop as if

for an endless journey, before you return

to your empty house - for perhaps you may

fall ill, and never find the market again.

O noble reader, act according to my words,

for in the great BALANCE, your deeds

must measure up to what you say.

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

but now is strewn with Spring s pearls.

The moonfaced children of the rose,

with its uncles and cousins now join it for a picnic.

The willow signs a peace-treaty

with the boisterous wind, the tulip

embraces and kisses the narcissus. The garden

is a constellation from which Venus,

in the early dawn, peeps down upon earth . . .

Bah! Enough of such futile nonsense! Such blather

merely embarrasses me! Spring has returned

as my guest now sixty times - it will be the same

if I live to be six hundred. Those whom Fate

has stripped of all adornment can take no joy

in the garden s decorations; to me its loveliness,

this Spring of your, is but a daydream

concealing pain beneath its charming robes,

poison in its sugar, thorns in its roses.

The cheerful day will come after the sorrows

of stygian night - but when mad Winter

cannot drive away your bile, what use

are Spring and its blossoming meadows?

The changing seasons are but ravenous lions

which steal forth each night to stalk us -

whoever raises his head will have it

bitten off. These beasts are not filled even

with the blood of thousands of victims.

Yes, the world is a sweet place to fools

but to me disagreeable and hateful. Whatever

character of a man, the world offers him

the same portion. Everything s proper

in its proper place - wetness from water,

corrosion fro acid - and even the tasteless thorn

seem moist and toothsome to the mouth of

an ass. We must learn to compromise

with the habitual injustice of the world,

when evil always follows after good,

and (I suppose) good after evil - for they make

a pulpit and a gallows from the same tree.

Sometimes you need defences, a strong castle

with a dungeon and chains - but then again

you are blamed for being toosensitive !

One day the shrewd spheres raise an army

against you, the next they smile and pat you

on the back . .

Ah, now I have shocked you.

Go away you shout,you irreligious maniac

and just wait till Judgement Day!

But to me, my forelocks are blades of sweet basil

even if to you, coiled black rattlesnakes.

To the children of Fatimah I am a branch

laden with fruit, even if to you I seem

a sterile weeping willow. How can I take pride

in religion when you too claim to be a Muslim?

I choose the friendship of Ali, whose sword

brings dark night to his foes, bright day

to his Partisans. Light is far superior

to smoke, even if both come from fire.

A neighbour can never take the place

of a brother, even if he comes with you

to the mountains and caverns. Test gold and flint

with the same touchstone, they cannot posses

the same value. Islam is a palace built for all

to take rest therein, by the Prophet himself.

Ali and his children are its gates. Welcome, O you

who enter here, and hail to him who has rolled out

the red carpet of knowledge and action.