1Cademy - بخش ۲۳ - حکایت بر سبیل تمثیل / Section 23

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Haft Awrang

Poem

بخش ۲۳ - حکایت بر سبیل تمثیل / Section 23 - A Tale by Way of Allegory

Original content

هوشمندی بدید مجنون را
آن ز فرمان عقل بیرون را

گه به ویرانه ای همی گردید
گریه می کرد و زار می نالید

گاه چون سایه با زمین هموار
اوفتادی به پای هر دیوار

گه فکندی چو آفتاب سپهر
خویشتن را به صحنش از سر مهر

گه به مژگانش آستان رفتی
چون سگان سر بر آستان خفتی

گفت با او حریف فرزانه
که تو را این همه بدین خانه

مهر ورزی و چاپلوسی چیست
خاکروبی و خاکبوسی چیست

نیست نقش بتی به دیوارش
چه بری سجده بر همن وارش

از خس و خار او چه می جویی
زان نرسته گلی چه می بویی

گفت خامش که این مقام کسیست
که به هر موی من ازو هوسیست

قصه کوته نشیمن لیلی ست
که ز هر ذره ام به او میلیست

نیست اینجا گشاده هیچ دری
که نبوده بر آن درش گذری

نیست اینجا ستاده دیواری
که به پشتش نسوده یکباری

نیست اینجا ز گل دمیده خسی
که نه دامن بر آن کشیده بسی

هر چه من می کنم به بوی ویست
اضطرابی ز آرزوی ویست

عشقبازی به منزل یاران
نیست جز شیوه وفاداران

سنگدل آن که چون به منزل یار
بگذرد نگذرد ز هوش و قرار

بی قراری و بیخودی نکند
ترک سامان و بخردی نکند

نکند داستان شوق آغاز
با در و بام او نگوید راز

English translation

A wise man saw Majnun, The one who was out of the command of intellect. Sometimes he wandered in a ruin, Weeping and wailing bitterly. Sometimes, like a shadow flat on the ground, He would fall at the foot of every wall. Sometimes, like the sun of the sky, He would cast himself upon its courtyard out of love. Sometimes he would sweep the threshold with his eyelashes, Sleeping with his head on the threshold like dogs. A wise companion said to him: 'What is all this affection and fawning of yours for this house? What is this sweeping of the dust and kissing of the earth? There is no image of an idol on its wall, Why do you bow to it like a pagan? What do you seek from its straw and thorns? What flower do you smell from where no flower has grown?' He said, 'Be silent, for this is the place of someone, For whom there is a desire in my every hair. To make the story short, it is the dwelling of Layla, Towards whom there is an inclination from my every atom. There is no open door here, Through which she has not passed. There is no wall standing here, Against whose back she has not leaned at least once. There is no thorn grown from the clay here, That has not brushed against her skirt many times. Whatever I do is for her scent, It is an agitation out of yearning for her. Playing at love at the home of friends Is nothing but the way of the loyal. Stoney-hearted is the one who, when passing by the beloved's home, Does not lose his consciousness and composure, Does not show restlessness and selflessness, Does not abandon his belongings and wisdom, Does not begin the story of yearning, Does not tell his secrets to its doors and roofs.'

Updated 2026-07-07

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