Poem

دفتر پنجم - بخش ۱۴۸ - حکایت مات کردن دلقک سید شاه ترمد را / Book Five - Section 148 - The Tale of the Jester Checkmating the Sayyid, King of Tirmidh

Original content

شاه با دلقک همی شطرنج باخت
مات کردش زود خشم شه بتاخت

گفت شه شه و آن شه کبرآورش
یک یک از شطرنج می زد بر سرش

که بگیر اینک شهت ای قلتبان
صبر کرد آن دلقک و گفت الامان

دست دیگر باختن فرمود میر
او چنان لرزان که عور از زمهریر

باخت دست دیگر و شه مات شد
وقت شه شه گفتن و میقات شد

بر جهید آن دلقک و در کنج رفت
شش نمد بر خود فکند از بیم تفت

زیر بالشها و زیر شش نمد
خفت پنهان تا ز زخم شه رهد

گفت شه هی هی چه کردی چیست این
گفت شه شه شه شه ای شاه گزین

کی توان حق گفت جز زیر لحاف
با تو ای خشم آور آتش سجاف

ای تو مات و من ز زخم شاه مات
می زنم شه شه به زیر رختهات

چون محله پر شد از هیهای میر
وز لگد بر در زدن وز دار و گیر

خلق بیرون جست زود از چپ و راست
کای مقدم وقت عفوست و رضاست

مغز او خشکست و عقلش این زمان
کمترست از عقل و فهم کودکان

زهد و پیری ضعف بر ضعف آمده
واندر آن زهدش گشادی ناشده

رنج دیده گنج نادیده ز یار
کارها کرده ندیده مزد کار

یا نبود آن کار او را خود گهر
یا نیامد وقت پاداش از قدر

یا که بود آن سعی چون سعی جهود
یا جزا وابسته میقات بود

مر ورا درد و مصیبت این بس است
که درین وادی پر خون بی کس است

چشم پر درد و نشسته او به کنج
رو ترش کرده فرو افکنده لنج

نه یکی کحال کو را غم خورد
نیش عقلی که به کحلی پی برد

اجتهادی می کند با حزر و ظن
کار در بوکست تا نیکو شدن

زان رهش دورست تا دیدار دوست
کو نجوید سر رییسیش آرزوست

ساعتی او با خدا اندر عتاب
که نصیبم رنج آمد زین حساب

ساعتی با بخت خود اندر جدال
که همه پران و ما ببریده بال

هر که محبوس است اندر بو و رنگ
گرچه در زهدست باشد خوش تنگ

تا برون ناید ازین ننگین مناخ
کی شود خویش خوش و صدرش فراخ

زاهدان را در خلا پیش از گشاد
کارد و استره نشاید هیچ داد

کز ضجر خود را بدراند شکم
غصه آن بی مرادیها و غم

English translation

The King was playing chess with the jester; He checkmated him quickly, and the King's wrath flared up. The King cried, 'Check! Check!' and in his pride, He struck the jester's head with the chess pieces one by one, Crying, 'Take this, here is your King, O scoundrel!' The jester was patient and cried, 'Mercy!' The prince ordered another game to be played; The jester was trembling like a naked person in severe winter cold. He played the other game, and the King was checkmated; The time and appointed hour for saying 'Checkmate!' arrived. The jester leaped up and ran to a corner; He threw six felt rugs over himself out of intense fear. Under the pillows and under the six felt rugs, He lay hidden so that he might escape the King's blows. The King said, 'Hey, hey! What have you done? What is this?' He replied, 'Check! Check! Checkmate, O choice King! How can one speak the truth except from under the quilt, With you, O wrathful one with a fiery border? You are checkmated, and I am checkmated by the King's blows; I cry 'Checkmate!' from beneath your rugs.' When the neighborhood was filled with the shouting of the prince, And the kicking of doors, and the uproar, The people rushed out quickly from left and right, Crying, 'O leader, it is the time for forgiveness and reconciliation! His brain is dry, and his intellect at this time Is less than the intellect and understanding of children. Asceticism and old age have brought weakness upon weakness, And in that asceticism of his, no spiritual opening has occurred. He has suffered pain but has seen no treasure from the Beloved; He has done deeds but has seen no wage for his work. Either his work itself lacked essence, Or the time for reward has not yet come from Destiny, Or his effort was like the effort of the Jew, Or the reward was dependent on an appointed time. This pain and calamity is enough for him: That he is alone in this valley of blood. His eyes full of pain, sitting in a corner, Making a sour face and hanging his lip. There is no oculist to care for him, Nor any prick of intellect to guide him to collyrium (cure). He strives with estimation and conjecture; His affair is in 'perhaps' and 'may-be' until it becomes well. For this reason, his path is far from the vision of the Friend: Because he does not seek the secret, but desires leadership. For an hour he is in dispute with God, Saying, 'My portion from this reckoning has been only pain.' For another hour he is in conflict with his own fortune, Saying, 'All others are flying, while I am clipped-winged.' Whoever is imprisoned in scent and color, Even though he be in asceticism, his heart is narrow. Until he emerges from this shameful resting-place, How can his self be happy and his breast spacious? Before spiritual opening, one should not give A knife or a razor to ascetics in seclusion, Lest out of distress they rip open their own belly, From the grief and sorrow of those unfulfilled desires.

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Updated 2026-06-13

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