Poem

دفتر پنجم - بخش ۱۶۲ - حکایت عیاضی رحمه‌الله کی هفتاد غزو کرده بود سینه برهنه بر امید شهید شدن چون از آن نومید شد از جهاد اصغر رو به جهاد اکبر آورد و خلوت گزید ناگهان طبل غازیان شنید نفس از اندرون زنجیر می‌درانید سوی غزا و متهم داشتن او نفس خود را درین رغبت / Book Five - Section 162 - The Story of ‘Ayāḍī, may God have mercy on him, who fought seventy battles bare-chested in the hope of becoming a martyr; when he was disappointed in that, he turned from the lesser jihad to the greater jihad and chose solitude; suddenly he heard the drum of the warriors, and his soul (nafs) from within began tearing its chains toward the battle, and his accusing/suspecting his soul in this desire

Original content

گفت عیاضی نود بار آمدم
تن برهنه بوک زخمی آیدم

تن برهنه می شدم در پیش تیر
تا یکی تیری خورم من جای گیر

تیر خوردن بر گلو یا مقتلی
در نیابد جز شهیدی مقبلی

بر تنم یک جایگه بی زخم نیست
این تنم از تیر چون پرویزنیست

لیک بر مقتل نیامد تیرها
کار بخت است این نه جلدی و دها

چون شهیدی روزی جانم نبود
رفتم اندر خلوت و در چله زود

در جهاد اکبر افکندم بدن
در ریاضت کردن و لاغر شدن

بانگ طبل غازیان آمد به گوش
که خرامیدند جیش غزوکوش

نفس از باطن مرا آواز داد
که به گوش حس شنیدم بامداد

خیز هنگام غزا آمد برو
خویش را در غزو کردن کن گرو

گفتم ای نفس خبیث بی وفا
از کجا میل غزا تو از کجا

راست گوی ای نفس کین حیلت گریست
ورنه نفس شهوت از طاعت بریست

گر نگویی راست حمله آرمت
در ریاضت سخت تر افشارمت

نفس بانگ آورد آن دم از درون
با فصاحت بی دهان اندر فسون

که مرا هر روز اینجا می کشی
جان من چون جان گبران می کشی

هیچ کس را نیست از حالم خبر
که مرا تو می کشی بی خواب و خور

در غزا بجهم به یک زخم از بدن
خلق بیند مردی و ایثار من

گفتم ای نفسک منافق زیستی
هم منافق می مری تو چیستی

در دو عالم تو مرایی بوده ای
در دو عالم تو چنین بیهوده ای

نذر کردم که ز خلوت هیچ من
سر برون نارم چو زنده ست این بدن

زانک در خلوت هر آنچ تن کند
نه از برای روی مرد و زن کند

جنبش و آرامش اندر خلوتش
جز برای حق نباشد نیتش

این جهاد اکبرست آن اصغرست
هر دو کار رستمست و حیدرست

کار آن کس نیست کو را عقل و هوش
پرد از تن چون بجنبد دنب موش

آن چنان کس را بباید چون زنان
دور بودن از مصاف و از سنان

صوفیی آن صوفیی این اینت حیف
آن ز سوزن کشته این را طعمه سیف

نقش صوفی باشد او را نیست جان
صوفیان بدنام هم زین صوفیان

بر در و دیوار جسم گل سرشت
حق ز غیرت نقش صد صوفی نبشت

تا ز سحر آن نقشها جنبان شود
تا عصای موسوی پنهان شود

نقشها را میخورد صدق عصا
چشم فرعونیست پر گرد و حصا

صوفی دیگر میان صف حرب
اندر آمد بیست بار از بهر ضرب

با مسلمانان به کافر وقت کر
وانگشت او با مسلمانان به فر

زخم خورد و بست زخمی را که خورد
بار دیگر حمله آورد و نبرد

تا نمیرد تن به یک زخم از گزاف
تا خورد او بیست زخم اندر مصاف

حیفش آمد که به زخمی جان دهد
جان ز دست صدق او آسان رهد

English translation

Ayadi said: 'I went ninety times [to battle], With a bare body, hoping that a wound might strike me. I went bare-bodied in front of arrows, So that a fatal arrow might hit me. To be struck by an arrow in the throat or a vital spot, Is not attained except by a fortunate martyr. There is not a single spot on my body without a wound; This body of mine is like a sieve from arrows. Yet no arrows hit a vital spot; This is a matter of fortune, not of agility and cleverness. Since martyrdom was not the daily bread of my soul, I quickly went into seclusion and a forty-day retreat (chilla). I cast my body into the greater jihad, In practicing self-mortification and becoming thin. Then the sound of the drum of the holy warriors reached my ear, That the battle-seeking army had marched out. The carnal soul (nafs) called out to me from within, Such that I heard it in the morning with my sensory ear: "Arise, the time for holy war has come, go, Commit yourself to fighting in the battle." I said: "O wicked, faithless soul, Where do you get this desire for battle, where? Tell the truth, O soul, for this is a trick, Otherwise, the soul of lust is free from obedience." If you do not tell the truth, I will attack you, And press you even harder in self-mortification.' The soul cried out at that moment from within, With eloquence, without a mouth, in a magical tone: 'You kill me here every single day, You kill my soul like the soul of infidels. No one knows of my condition, That you are killing me without sleep and food. In battle, I will escape from the body with a single wound, And the people will see my manliness and self-sacrifice.' I said: 'O little soul, you lived as a hypocrite, And you die as a hypocrite; what are you? In both worlds you have been a hypocrite, In both worlds you have been thus useless. I make a vow that I shall never put my head out of seclusion, As long as this body is alive. For whatever the body does in seclusion, It does not do for the face of man or woman. The movement and stillness in its seclusion, Its intention is for none other than God.' This is the greater jihad, and that is the lesser; Both are the work of Rustam and Haidar. It is not the work of one whose intellect and senses Fly from his body when a mouse’s tail moves. Such a person must, like women, Keep far away from the battlefield and the spear. What a pity: that one is a Sufi, and this is a Sufi! That one is killed by a needle, while this one is the prey of the sword. He has the form of a Sufi but has no soul; Sufis are made ill-reputed by such Sufis. On the door and wall of the body made of clay, God, out of jealousy, painted the forms of a hundred Sufis, So that by magic those forms might move, Until the staff of Moses is hidden. The truth of the staff swallows those forms; Pharaoh's eye is full of dust and pebbles. Another Sufi, in the midst of the battle line, Entered twenty times for the sake of striking, Attacking the infidels with the Muslims, And returning with glory with the Muslims. He was wounded, and bound the wound he received, And once again brought an attack and fought, Lest the body die from a single random wound, And that he might receive twenty wounds in the battle. He felt it a pity to give up his soul with one wound, And that his soul should escape so easily from his hand of sincerity.'

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Updated 2026-06-13

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