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بخش ۶۴ - در شرح حال زلیخا بعد از وفات عزیز مصر و استیلای محبت یوسف علیه السلام بر وی و ابتلای وی به محنت فراق / Section 64 - An Account of Zulaykha's Condition after the Death of the Aziz of Egypt, Love for Joseph, Peace Be Upon Him, Overcame Her, and She Was Afflicted by the Torment of Separation

Original content

دلی کز دلبری ناشاد باشد
ز هر شادی و غم آزاد باشد

غم دیگر نگیرد دامن او
نگردد شادیی پیرامن او

اگر گردد جهان دریای اندوه
برآرد موجهای غصه چون کوه

ازان نم دامن او تر نگردد
ز اندوهی که دارد برنگردد

وگر جشن طرب سازد زمانه
دهد رو عیش های جاودانه

فرو پیچد ازان جشن طرب روی
نخواهد کم غم خود یک سر موی

زلیخا بود مرغ محنت آهنگ
جهان چون خانه مرغان بر او تنگ

در آن روزی که دولت یار بودش
حریم خانه چون گلزار بودش

عزیزش بود بر سر سایه گستر
نهالی بود رعنا سایه پرور

همه اسباب عشرت جمع می داشت
رخی افروخته چون شمع می داشت

غم یوسف ز جان او نمی رفت
حدیثش از زبان او نمی رفت

در این وقتی که رفت از سر عزیزش
نماند اسباب دولت هیچ چیزش

خیال روی یوسف یار او بود
انیس خاطر افگار او بود

به یادش روی در ویرانه ای کردی
وطن در کنج محنتخانه ای کرد

نه می خورد از فراق او نه می خفت
ز دیده خون همی بارید و می گفت

خوش آن کز بخت برخوردار بودم
درون یک سرا با یار بودم

دلی بی بار از حرمان دیدار
جمالش دیدمی هر روز صد بار

ازان دولت چو بختم ساخت محروم
به زندان کردمش مظلوم و مرحوم

به شب پنهان به زندان بردمی راه
تماشا کردمی آن روی چون ماه

به روزم زنگ غم از دل زدودی
در و دیوار آن منزل که بودی

منم امروز ازینها دور مانده
به دل رنجه به تن رنجور مانده

ندارم زو به جز در دل خیالی
وز آن خالی نیم در هیچ حالی

خیالش گر رود چون زنده مانم
که در قالب خیال اوست جانم

همی گفت این حدیث و آه می زد
ز آه آتش به مهر و ماه می زد

چو مد آه دایم دود آهش
به فرق سر شدی چتر سیاهش

ز خورشید حوادث هیچگاهی
نبودی غیر ازان چترش پناهی

نبود آن چتر کش بالای سر بود
فلک را از خدنگ او سپر بود

خدنگش را گر آن مانع نگشتی
ز صندوق فلک پران گذشتی

ز مژگان دمبدم خوناب می ریخت
مگر خوناب خون ناب می ریخت

چو بود از تاب دل سوزان تب او
مژه می ریخت آبی بر لب او

نمی شست از رخ آن خونابه گویی
ازان خونابه بودش سرخرویی

چو زان خونابه رخ را غازه کردی
به دل عقد محبت تازه کردی

به روی کار ناوردی دم نقد
به جز خون جگر کابین آن عقد

گهی کندی به ناخن روی گلگون
چو چشم خود گشادی چشم ها خون

ز سرخی هر یکی بودی دواتی
نوشتی از غمش خط نجاتی

گهی سینه گهی دل می خراشید
ز جان جز نقش جانان می تراشید

همی زد بر سر زانو کف دست
سمن را رنگ نیلوفر همی بست

به مهر دوست یعنی در خورم من
گر او خورشید شد نیلوفرم من

چو باشد آفتاب خاوری یار
مرا نبود به از نیلوفری کار

به دل همچون صنوبر کوفتی مشت
به سان نیشکر خاییدی انگشت

کفش کز هر نگاری داشتی عار
نگارین گشتی از انگشت افگار

ز انگشتان خونین خامه کردی
ز کافوری کف خود نامه کردی

درون نامه حرف غم نوشتی
برون زین حرف چیزی کم نوشتی

ولی زان نامه هرگز داستانش
نخواندی دلبر ننوشته خوانش

فراوان سال ها کار وی این بود
ز هجران رنج و تیمار وی این بود

جوانی تیره گشت از چرخ پیرش
به رنگ شیر شد موی چو قیرش

برآمد صبح و شب هنگامه برچید
به مشکستان او کافور بارید

گریزان گشت زاغ از تیر تقدیر
به جای زاغ شد بوم آشیان گیر

نباشد یاد پیری را درین باغ
کزینسان بوم گیرد خانه زاغ

سیاهی را سرشک از نرگسش شست
ز نرگسزار چشمش یاسمین رست

به شادی زیر این طاق کج آیین
سیه پوشیدیش چشم جهان بین

چو ماتمدار گشت از ناامیدی
چرا رفت از سیاهی در سفیدی

ز هندستان مگر بودش نمونه
که باشد کار هندو باژگونه

به روی تازه چون گل چینش افتاد
شکن در صفحه نسرینش افتاد

ز ناز آن چین که افکندی در ابرو
فتادش چون سپر بی ناز در رو

ندارد کس درین بحر کهن یاد
که گیرد آب چین بی جنبش باد

ولی گر باد بودی ور نبودی
رخ چون آب او پر چین نمودی

سهی سروش ز بار عشق خم شد
سرش چون حلقه همراز قدم شد

نه سر نی پای بود از بخت واژون
ز بزم وصل همچون حلقه بیرون

درین غمدیده خاک از خون مردم
چو شد سرمایه بیناییش گم

به پشت خم ازان بودی سرش پیش
که جستی گم شده سرمایه خویش

به سر بردی در آن ویران مه و سال
سرش ز افسر تهی پایش ز خلخال

تهی از حله های اطلسش دوش
سبک از دانه های گوهرش گوش

معطل گردن از طوق مرصع
معرا عارض از زربفت برقع

به زیر پهلو از خاکش نهالین
عذار نازکش را خشت بالین

به مهر یوسفش از خاک بستر
به از مهد حریر حور گستر

به یاد او به زیر روی خشتش
مربع بالشی بود از بهشتش

درین محنت کزان یک شمه گفتم
به شرحش گوهر صد نکته سفتم

نرفتی غیر یوسف بر زبانش
نبودی غیر او آرام جانش

در آن وقتی که گنج سیم و زر داشت
هزاران حقه پر در و گهر داشت

ز هر کس قصه یوسف شنیدی
به پایش گنج سیم و زر کشیدی

دهانش را چو درجی از گهر پر
لبالب ساختی از گوهر و در

بدین بخشش که بودش کار پیوست
شد از سیم و زر و گوهر تهیدست

به پشمین جامه مسکین گشت خرسند
بر آن از لیف خرما شد کمربند

خبرگویان ز یوسف لب ببستند
پس زانوی خاموشی نشستند

گذشت آن کز لب هر صاحب هوش
ز یوسف یافتی قوت از ره گوش

بر آن شد تا ز بی قوتی رهد باز
کند بر راه یوسف خانه ای ساز

که چون افتد گذرگاهی به راهش
پذیرد قوت از آواز سپاهش

زهی بیچاره آن از پا فتاده
زمام اختیار از دست داده

ز وصل خوان جانان بازمانده
نوای عیش او ناساز مانده

نباشد قوتی از بوی یارش
نیابد قوت از پیک دیارش

گهی با باد از وی راز گوید
گه از مرغی نشانش باز جوید

چو بیند رهروی بر رهگذاری
به رویش از ره غربت غباری

ببوسد پای او کز شهریار است
بشوید گرد او گر زان دیار است

وگر سلطانش از راهی سواره
برآید نبودش تاب نظاره

شود خرم به خاک و گرد راهش
نشیند خوش به آواز سپاهش

English translation

A heart made joyless by a beloved Is free of every other joy and grief.

No other sorrow catches at its hem, And no delight draws near its bounds.

Though the world become a sea of anguish And raise waves of sorrow high as mountains,

Not even a trace of its spray will wet her hem, Nor will she turn from the grief she already bears.

And though the age arrange a feast of joy And offer everlasting pleasures,

She turns her face away from that glad feast And will not lessen her own grief by a single hair.

Zulaykha was a bird attuned to suffering; The world grew narrow around her like a cage.

In the days when fortune was her friend, The sanctuary of her house was like a rose garden.

The Aziz spread his shelter over her head; She was a graceful sapling nurtured in his shade.

She possessed every means of pleasure And kept her face radiant like a candle.

Yet grief for Joseph never left her soul, And talk of him never left her tongue.

But now that her Aziz had departed, Nothing remained of all her former prosperity.

The image of Joseph's face was her companion, The intimate solace of her wounded heart.

Remembering him, she turned toward a ruin And made her home in a corner of affliction.

In separation from him she neither ate nor slept; She shed blood from her eyes and said:

How blessed was I when fortune favored me, When I dwelt beneath one roof with my beloved!

My heart was unburdened by denial of his sight, For I beheld his beauty a hundred times each day.

When fate deprived me of that happiness, I cast him, innocent and wronged, into prison.

By night I secretly made my way to the prison And gazed upon that face as bright as the moon.

By day, the doors and walls of the dwelling Where he stayed removed sorrow's rust from my heart.

Today I remain far away from all of these, My heart afflicted and my body sick.

I have nothing of him but an image in my heart, Yet never, in any state, am I without it.

If his image leaves me, how could I remain alive, When the soul within my body is his image?

She spoke these words and heaved sigh after sigh; The fire of her sighs struck the sun and moon.

As the smoke of her ceaseless sighing rose, It became a black canopy above her head.

Against the sun of calamities, at every moment, She had no shelter except that canopy.

It was no canopy held above her head; It was a shield protecting heaven from her arrow.

Had that barrier not checked her arrow, It would have flown beyond the vault of heaven.

Moment by moment she poured bloody tears from her lashes, As though pouring the purest blood of all.

Because the burning of her heart made her feverish, Her lashes sprinkled water upon her lips.

It seemed she did not wash that blood from her face, For that very blood gave her a crimson glow.

Whenever she rouged her face with those bloody tears, She renewed the covenant of love within her heart.

For the immediate payment of that bond, She offered nothing but her heart's blood as dowry.

At times she scratched her rose-red face with her nails; When she opened her own eyes, other eyes wept blood.

From their redness, each eye became an inkwell With which she wrote a writ of deliverance from her grief.

At times she tore her breast, at times her heart, Carving from her soul every image but the beloved's.

She struck the palm of her hand upon her knee, Staining the jasmine with the hue of the water lily.

Through love of her friend she meant: I am worthy of this; If he is the sun, then I am his water lily.

When the beloved is the eastern sun, No occupation suits me better than being a water lily.

She struck her cypress-like heart with her fist And chewed her fingers as one chews sugarcane.

Her palm, once ashamed of every painted ornament, Became ornamented by her wounded fingers.

She made a pen from her bloodied fingers And a letter from her camphor-white palm.

Within the letter she wrote words of grief, And beyond those words she wrote scarcely anything.

Yet the beloved who could read the unwritten Never read the story contained in that letter.

For many years this was her occupation; Such were her suffering and anguish in separation.

Her youth grew dark beneath the aged sphere; Her hair, once black as pitch, became the color of milk.

Morning arose and night folded up its assembly; Camphor snowed upon her land of musk.

The raven fled before the arrow of fate, And in place of the raven, an owl made its nest.

No one recalls old age in this garden Taking the raven's house in such a way.

Her tears washed blackness from her narcissus eyes, And jasmine grew in the narcissus bed of her sight.

In joy beneath this crooked-vaulted sky, Her world-seeing eye had once worn black.

Now that despair had made it a mourner, Why did it pass from blackness into white?

Perhaps it took India as its pattern, For the Hindu's way is to work in reverse.

Wrinkles fell upon her face, once fresh as a rose; Creases appeared upon her jasmine-white page.

The crease that coyness once cast upon her brow Now fell without coyness across her face like a shield.

No one remembers, upon this ancient sea, The waters of China rippling without a wind.

Yet whether or not a wind was blowing, Her water-bright face always appeared full of ripples.

Her tall cypress bent beneath love's burden; Her head, curved like a ring, became the confidant of her feet.

Through overturned fortune she had neither head nor foot; Like a ring, she remained outside the banquet of union.

When, upon this grief-stricken earth, the blood of her eyes— The treasure of her sight—was lost,

Her head bowed forward upon her bent back Because she searched for the treasure she had lost.

She passed months and years in that ruin, Her head without a crown and her feet without anklets.

Her shoulders were bare of robes of satin, And her ears were lightened of their jeweled drops.

Her neck was without its ornamented collar, And her cheek was stripped of its gold-brocaded veil.

Beneath her side, the earth was her mattress; A brick was the pillow for her delicate cheek.

Through love for Joseph, a bed of dust Was better to her than a houri-spread cradle of silk.

Remembering him, the brick beneath her face Became for her a square cushion from paradise.

Of this affliction I have told but one small part, Yet in explaining it I have strung the pearls of a hundred subtle points.

None but Joseph ever passed across her tongue; None but he brought repose to her soul.

In the days when she possessed treasures of silver and gold And thousands of caskets filled with pearls and jewels,

Whenever she heard anyone tell news of Joseph, She poured treasures of silver and gold at that person's feet.

She filled the speaker's mouth like a jewel casket, Brimming it with pearls and precious gems.

Through this generosity, which became her constant practice, She was left destitute of silver, gold, and jewels.

In poverty she became content with a woolen garment And bound around it a girdle made of palm fiber.

Those who brought news of Joseph closed their lips And afterward sat with the knees of silence drawn up.

Gone were the days when, from the lips of every wise person, Her ear found nourishment in news of Joseph.

Therefore, to escape this lack of sustenance, She resolved to build a dwelling along Joseph's road,

So that whenever he happened to pass that way, She might gain strength from the sound of his army.

How wretched is the one who has fallen from her feet And let the reins of choice slip from her hands;

Shut out from the banquet of union with the beloved, The melody of her pleasure has fallen out of tune.

She has no sustenance from the fragrance of her beloved And gains no strength from a messenger coming from his land.

At times she tells the wind her secrets about him; At times she asks a bird again for some sign of him.

Whenever she sees a traveler upon the road With the dust of a distant journey upon his face,

She kisses his feet if he comes from the sovereign's city And washes away his dust if it is from that land.

And whenever her sovereign rides forth along the road, She has no strength to look upon him.

She rejoices in the dust and earth of his road And sits contentedly listening to the sound of his army.

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Updated 2026-07-18

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Humanities

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Persian Literature Prerequisite Course

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