Poem

دفتر سوم - بخش ۱۷۳ - آداب المستمعین والمریدین عند فیض الحکمة من لسان الشیخ / Book Three - Section 173 - The Etiquette of the Listeners and the Disciples at the Outpouring of Wisdom from the Tongue of the Sheikh

Original content

بر ملولان این مکرر کردنست
نزد من عمر مکرر بردنست

شمع از برق مکرر بر شود
خاک از تاب مکرر زر شود

گر هزاران طالب‌اند و یک ملول
از رسالت باز می‌ماند رسول

این رسولان ضمیر رازگو
مستمع خواهند اسرافیل‌خو

نخوتی دارند و کبری چون شهان
چاکری خواهند از اهل جهان

تا ادبهاشان بجاگه ناوری
از رسالتشان چگونه بر خوری

کی رسانند آن امانت را بتو
تا نباشی پیششان راکع دوتو

هر ادبشان کی همی‌آید پسند
کامدند ایشان ز ایوان بلند

نه گدایانند کز هر خدمتی
از تو دارند ای مزور منتی

لیک با بی‌رغبتیها ای ضمیر
صدقهٔ سلطان بیفشان وا مگیر

اسپ خود را ای رسول آسمان
در ملولان منگر و اندر جهان

فرخ آن ترکی که استیزه نهد
اسپش اندر خندق آتش جهد

گرم گرداند فرس را آنچنان
که کند آهنگ اوج آسمان

چشم را از غیر و غیرت دوخته
همچو آتش خشک و تر را سوخته

گر پشیمانی برو عیبی کند
آتش اول در پشیمانی زند

خود پشیمانی نروید از عدم
چون ببیند گرمی صاحب‌قدم

English translation

For the wearied, this is repetition; to me it is a life lived over and over.

The candle rises higher through repeated sparks; clay becomes gold through repeated heat.

If there are thousands of seekers and one who is wearied, the messenger is held back from his mission.

These messengers—revealers of the heart's secret— require a listener with the nature of Israfil.

They hold a pride and grandeur like kings, and require servitude from the people of the world.

Until you render their proper courtesies in their rightful place, how will you benefit from their mission?

How will they convey that trust to you, unless you are bowed double before them?

How could any courtesy content them, when they have come from a lofty court?

They are not beggars who, for any service, would hold themselves obliged to you, O pretender.

Yet, with all your indifference, O inner self, scatter the Sultan's alms—do not hold them back.

Spur your horse, O messenger of heaven; look not at the wearied, nor at the world.

Blessed is that Turk who sets himself to striving, whose horse leaps into the trench of fire—

urging his steed with such heat that it makes for the zenith of heaven,

his eyes sewn shut to other and otherness, like fire, burning both the dry and the wet.

If regret should find fault with him, he first sets fire to regret itself.

Indeed, regret does not grow from nothingness when it beholds the ardor of the master of dignity.

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Updated 2026-05-16

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