Original content

English translation

A musician by whom the world became full of joy, and from whose song wondrous imaginings were set free; from his melody the bird of the heart would fly, and from his sound the soul's consciousness would be amazed. When time passed and he became old, through weakness the falcon of his soul became a gnat-catcher. His back bent like the back of a jar, and his eyebrows over his eyes like a pack-saddle. His delicate, life-giving voice became ugly and was not worth even free hearing to anyone. That melody which had become the envy of Venus became like the voice of an old donkey. What pleasant thing is there that has not become unpleasant, or what roof that has not become a floor? Except the voice of the beloved ones in hearts, which, from the reflection of their breath, is the blast of the Resurrection Trumpet. An inward one from whom inward beings are intoxicated; a nonbeing from whom these beings of ours have being. The magnet of thought is every voice of his; the delight of inspiration and revelation is his secret. When the musician grew older and weaker, through lack of livelihood he became hostage to a single loaf. He said: You gave me long life and respite; You showed kindnesses, O God, to a vile one. I have sinned for seventy years; yet You never withheld a day's morsel from me. Today I have no earning; I am Your guest. I will play the harp for You, for I am Yours. He took up the harp and went seeking God, sighing toward the graveyard of Yathrib. He said: I will ask the Real for the price of silk strings, for He graciously accepts counterfeit coins. When he had played much and laid down his weeping head, he made the harp his pillow and fell upon a grave. Sleep took him; the bird of his soul escaped from prison, left the harp and harpist behind, and leapt away. He became free from the body and the world's pain, in the simple world and the plain of the soul. There his soul was singing this tale: If they had left me here, my soul would have been happy in this garden and spring, drunk with this plain and unseen tulip-field. Without wings and without feet I would travel; without lips and teeth I would eat sugar. Free of the brain's toil, I would practice remembrance and contemplation and sport with the dwellers of the sphere. With closed eyes I would see a world; without a hand I would gather roses and basil. A water-bird drowned in a sea of honey; the very spring of Job, both drink and bathing-place, by which Job was cleansed from foot to crown of afflictions like eastern light. If the Masnavi in volume were like the heavens, even half of this portion would not fit in it; for that earth and sky, though very spacious, split my heart apart through their narrowness. And this world that appeared to me in sleep opened my wings and pinions by its spaciousness. If this world and its path were manifest, few people would remain there for even a moment. The command kept coming: No, do not be greedy; when the thorn has been pulled from your foot, go. There his soul kept crying Mawla, Mawla, in the expanse of His mercy and beneficence.