1Cademy - دفتر چهارم - بخش ۶۶ - حکایت آن مداح کی از جهت ناموس شکر ممدوح می‌کرد و بوی اندوه و غم اندرون او و خلاقت دلق ظاهر او می‌نمود کی آن شکرها لافست و دروغ / Book Four — Section 66 — The Story of the Flatterer Who, for the Sake of Reputation, Was Giving Thanks to the Praised One, While the Smell of Grief and Sorrow Within Him and the Shabbiness of His Outer Robe Showed That Those Thanks Were Boasting and Lies

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مثنوی معنوی: دفتر چهارم / Masnavi: Book Four

Poem

دفتر چهارم - بخش ۶۶ - حکایت آن مداح کی از جهت ناموس شکر ممدوح می‌کرد و بوی اندوه و غم اندرون او و خلاقت دلق ظاهر او می‌نمود کی آن شکرها لافست و دروغ / Book Four — Section 66 — The Story of the Flatterer Who, for the Sake of Reputation, Was Giving Thanks to the Praised One, While the Smell of Grief and Sorrow Within Him and the Shabbiness of His Outer Robe Showed That Those Thanks Were Boasting and Lies

Original content

آن یکی با دلق آمد از عراق
باز پرسیدند یاران از فراق

گفت آری بد فراق الا سفر
بود بر من بس مبارک مژده‌ور

که خلیفه داد ده خلعت مرا
که قرینش باد صد مدح و ثنا

شکرها و حمدها بر می‌شمرد
تا که شکر از حد و اندازه ببرد

پس بگفتندش که احوال نژند
بر دروغ تو گواهی می‌دهند

تن برهنه سر برهنه سوخته
شکر را دزدیده یا آموخته

کو نشان شکر و حمد میر تو
بر سر و بر پای بی توفیر تو

گر زبانت مدح آن شه می‌تند
هفت اندامت شکایت می‌کند

در سخای آن شه و سلطان جود
مر ترا کفشی و شلواری نبود

گفت من ایثار کردم آنچ داد
میر تقصیری نکرد از افتقاد

بستدم جمله عطاها از امیر
بخش کردم بر یتیم و بر فقیر

مال دادم بستدم عمر دراز
در جزا زیرا که بودم پاک‌باز

پس بگفتندش مبارک مال رفت
چیست اندر باطنت این دود نفت

صد کراهت در درون تو چو خار
کی بود انده نشان ابتشار

کو نشان عشق و ایثار و رضا
گر درستست آنچ گفتی ما مضی

خود گرفتم مال گم شد میل کو
سیل اگر بگذشت جای سیل کو

چشم تو گر بد سیاه و جان‌فزا
گر نماند او جان‌فزا ازرق چرا

کو نشان پاک‌بازی ای ترش
بوی لاف کژ همی‌آید خمش

صد نشان باشد درون ایثار را
صد علامت هست نیکوکار را

مال در ایثار اگر گردد تلف
در درون صد زندگی آید خلف

در زمین حق زراعت کردنی
تخمهای پاک آنگه دخل نی

گر نروید خوشه از روضات هو
پس چه واسع باشد ارض الله بگو

چونک این ارض فنا بی‌ریع نیست
چون بود ارض الله آن مستوسعیست

این زمین را ریع او خود بی‌حدست
دانه‌ای را کمترین خود هفصدست

حمد گفتی کو نشان حامدون
نه برونت هست اثر نه اندرون

حمد عارف مر خدا را راستست
که گواه حمد او شد پا و دست

از چه تاریک جسمش بر کشید
وز تک زندان دنیااش خرید

اطلس تقوی و نور مؤتلف
آیت حمدست او را بر کتف

وا رهیده از جهان عاریه
ساکن گلزار و عین جاریه

بر سریر سر عالی‌همتش
مجلس و جا و مقام و رتبتش

مقعد صدقی که صدیقان درو
جمله سر سبزند و شاد و تازه‌رو

حمدشان چون حمد گلشن از بهار
صد نشانی دارد و صد گیر و دار

بر بهارش چشمه و نخل و گیاه
وآن گلستان و نگارستان گواه

شاهد شاهد هزاران هر طرف
در گواهی هم‌چو گوهر بر صدف

بوی سر بد بیاید از دمت
وز سر و رو تابد ای لافی غمت

بوشناسانند حاذق در مصاف
تو به جلدی های هو کم کن گزاف

تو ملاف از مشک کان بوی پیاز
از دم تو می‌کند مکشوف راز

گل‌شکر خوردم همی‌گویی و بوی
می‌زند از سیر که یافه مگوی

هست دل مانندهٔ خانهٔ کلان
خانهٔ دل را نهان همسایگان

از شکاف روزن و دیوارها
مطلع گردند بر اسرار ما

از شکافی که ندارد هیچ وهم
صاحب خانه و ندارد هیچ سهم

از نبی بر خوان که دیو و قوم او
می‌برند از حال انسی خفیه بو

از رهی که انس از آن آگاه نیست
زانک زین محسوس و زین اشباه نیست

در میان ناقدان زرقی متن
با محک ای قلب دون لافی مزن

مر محک را ره بود در نقد و قلب
که خدایش کرد امیر جسم و قلب

چون شیاطین با غلیظیهای خویش
واقف‌اند از سر ما و فکر و کیش

مسلکی دارند دزدیده درون
ما ز دزدیهای ایشان سرنگون

دم به دم خبط و زیانی می‌کنند
صاحب نقب و شکاف روزنند

پس چرا جان‌های روشن در جهان
بی‌خبر باشند از حال نهان

در سرایت کمتر از دیوان شدند
روحها که خیمه بر گردون زدند

دیو دزدانه سوی گردون رود
از شهاب محرق او مطعون شود

سرنگون از چرخ زیر افتد چنان
که شقی در جنگ از زخم سنان

آن ز رشک روحهای دل‌پسند
از فلکشان سرنگون می‌افکنند

تو اگر شلی و لنگ و کور و کر
این گمان بر روحهای مه مبر

شرم دار و لاف کم زن جان مکن
که بسی جاسوس هست آن سوی تن

English translation

A certain man came from Iraq in a patched cloak — Companions questioned him about the separation. He said: "Yes, the parting was hard — but the journey Was for me most blessed and full of glad tidings: The Caliph gave me ten robes of honor — May a hundred praises and laudations attend him!" He went on enumerating thanks and praises Until the thanksgiving exceeded all measure and limit. Then they said to him: "Your wretched condition Bears witness against your lies. Bare of body, bare of head, scorched — Have you stolen this thanksgiving, or learned it? Where is the mark of gratitude to your prince On your head and your feet, so stripped of dignity? If your tongue weaves praise of that king, Your seven limbs make complaint. In the generosity of that king, that sultan of munificence, You did not receive even a shoe or a pair of trousers." He said: "I gave in charity all that he gave; The Amir was not at fault, lacking in nothing. I received all the gifts from the Amir And distributed them among the orphan and the poor. I gave wealth and received long life in return, As recompense — for I was a sincere giver." Then they said to him: "Blessed be the wealth that went — But what is this naphtha-smoke within you? A hundred aversions within you like thorns — When was sorrow ever a sign of gladness? Where is the mark of love, of self-sacrifice, and of contentment, If what you said of past events is true? Even granting the wealth is gone — where is the yearning? If the flood has passed, where is the trace of the flood? If your eye was once dark and soul-nourishing, If it is no longer soul-nourishing, why has it gone blue-grey? Where is the sign of true sincerity, O sourpuss? The odor of crooked boasting keeps rising — be silent! There are a hundred inward signs within the true giver, A hundred marks there are for the doer of good. If wealth perishes in self-sacrifice, Within, a hundred lives come as recompense. To sow in the soil of God Pure seeds — and then no income? If no ear of grain grows from the meadows of Hū, Tell me then — how is God's earth wide? Since even this earth of transience is not without yield, How much more must God's earth be — that vast expanse! The yield of this earth is itself without limit — The least return for a single grain is seven hundred. You spoke praise — where is the mark of the praisers? There is no trace in your exterior, and none within. The gnostic's praise of God is true — His feet and hands have become witnesses to his praise. For He drew his body out from darkness And purchased him from the depths of the prison of the world. The satin of piety and the concordant light — These are the sign of praise upon his shoulder. Released from the borrowed world, He dwells in a rose garden by a flowing spring. Upon the throne of his loftily aspiring spirit — His assembly, his place, his station, and his rank. The Maq'ad al-Ṣidq in which the ṣiddīqān Are all fresh and joyful and bright of face. Their praise is like a garden's praise in spring — It has a hundred signs and a hundred entanglements. In its spring: fountain, palm, and green growth — And that rose garden and painted bower bear witness. Witness upon witness, thousands on every side, In testimony like a pearl upon a shell. The stench of a bad head comes from your breath, And from your head and face, O boaster, your grief shines forth. Experts in scent are discerning in the confrontation — In your hastiness, stop making outrageous clamor. Do not boast of musk when the smell of onion From your breath lays bare the secret. "I have eaten rose-sugar," you say — yet the stench Of garlic strikes — do not speak nonsense. The heart is like a great mansion — The mansion of the heart has hidden neighbors. Through the cracks of window and wall They become acquainted with our secrets. Through a crack of which the householder Has no inkling and no portion. Read from the Prophet that the demon and his kind Stealthily catch the scent of the human being's state — By a path of which humankind is unaware, Because it is not of these sensory things and semblances. Do not practice hypocrisy among the assayers — With the touchstone present, O base counterfeit, do not boast. The touchstone has a path into genuine coin and counterfeit, For God made it the commander of body and heart. Since the devils, with all their coarseness, Are aware of our secrets, our thoughts, and our inclinations, They have a pathway, stealthily within — We are overturned by their thieveries. Moment by moment they commit error and bring harm — They are masters of the tunnel and the crack of the window. Then why should the illumined souls in the world Be unaware of what lies hidden? Have the souls that pitched their tent upon the heavens Become, in your dwelling, less than demons? The demon goes stealthily toward the heaven — He is struck by the burning meteor. He falls headlong from the sphere below, As the wretched one falls in battle from the wound of a lance. Out of envy of those heart-pleasing souls, They are cast headlong from the celestial spheres. If you are lame and crippled and blind and deaf, Do not carry this opinion of the noble souls. Have shame, and boast less, do not trouble the soul — For there are many spies on the other side of the body.

Updated 2026-05-09

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Ganjoor

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