1Cademy - بخش ۴۳ - جواب نوشتن مجنون نامه لیلی را / Section 43

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بخش ۴۳ - جواب نوشتن مجنون نامه لیلی را / Section 43 - Majnun Writing a Reply to Layla's Letter

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مجنون چو به نامه در قلم زد
در اول نامه این رقم زد

دیباچه نامه امانی
عنوان صحیفه معانی

جز نام مسببی نشاید
کز وی در هر سبب گشاید

مطلق گردان دست تقدیر
زنجیری ساز پای تدبیر

دارای زمین و آسمان نیز
جان ده جان دار و جان ستان نیز

کوته کن دست بی نصیبان
مونس شو خلوت غریبان

فواره گشای چشمه جود
مطموره نشان کنج نابود

آن را که به وصل چاره سازد
سر برتر از آسمان فرازد

وان را که ز هجر سینه سوزد
صد شعله به خرمنش فروزد

چون بست زبان ازین سرآغاز
گشت از دل ریش راز پرداز

کین هست صحیفه نیازی
زآزرده دلی به دلنوازی

یعنی ز من به خار خفته
نزدیک تو ای گل شگفته

ای همچو بهار تازه خندان
لیکن نه به روی دردمندان

ای باغ ولی نشیمن زاغ
بهر همه مرهم و مرا داغ

ای روی ز من نهفته چون گنج
در دامن دیگران گهرسنج

ابری تو ولی به روزگاران
برق از تو به من رسد نه باران

کشت همه از تو چو بهشت است
خاکم ز تو چون به خون سرشته ست

اینست عنایت از تو بر من
کز برق توام بسوخت خرمن

بر سوخته خرمنان ببخشای
رشحی ز زلال لطف بگشای

ای چشمه آب زندگانی
لیک از پیش تشنه ای که دانی

آن تشنه شده ز چشمه سیراب
من سوخته دل ز صد تف و تاب

خضر است بلی به چشمه در خور
گو تشنه بمیر صد سکندر

ز آبی که سکندر است لب خشک
با سوخته دل چو نافه مشک

کی بهره برد چو من گدایی
در ظلمت هجر مبتلایی

آن دم که رسید نامه تو
پر عطر وفا ز خامه تو

بردیده خونفشان نهادم
در سینه به جای جان نهادم

تعویذ دل رمیده کردم
قوت تن قحط دیده کردم

هر حرف وفا از وی که خواندم
از دیده سرشک خون فشاندم

هر نقش امل ز وی که دیدم
از سینه نوای غم کشیدم

در وی سخنان نوشته بودی
صد تخم فریب کشته بودی

غمخواری من بسی نمودی
غم های مرا بسی فزودی

گفتی که بجاست تا هش از من
هرگز نشوی فرامش از من

زآغوش کسان نباشد انصاف
از عشق کسی دگر زدن لاف

لب از دگریت بوسه آلود
پاکی زبان نداردت سود

گیرم که تو دوری از کم و کاست
ناید به زبان تو به جز راست

مسکین عاشق چه بدگمان است
هر لحظه اسیر صد گمان است

هر شبهه به پیش او دلیلیست
هر پشه مرده زنده پیلیست

کاهی بیند گمان برد کوه
کوهیش آید به سینه ز اندوه

از مور کند توهم مار
صد زخم خورد به جان افگار

مرغی که به بام یار بیند
کو دانه ز بام یار چیند

زان مرغ به خاطرش غباریست
کز غیر به دوست نامه آریست

گفتی که به بوسه دل ندارم
وز فکر کنار برکنارم

این درد نه بس که صبح تا شام
همصحبت توست کام و ناکام

رویی که به سالها نبینم
وان میوه که عمرها نچینم

هر روز هزار بار بیند
هر لحظه به کام خویش چیند

گفتی که ز درد پایمال است
وز غصه به معرض زوال است

خوهد ز میانه زود رفتن
بر باد هوا چو دود رفتن

گر او برود تو را چه کم یار
کالای تو را چه کم خریدار

زانجیر بن ار جدا شود زاغ
صد مرغ دگر ستاده در باغ

ممکن بود از تو کام هر کس
محروم ازان همین منم بس

چون روز امیدم از سفیدی
دور است خوشم به ناامیدی

نومید چه خواهیم در این بار
نبود به امیدواریم کار

گر از من خسته بر کرانی
این بس که به کام دیگرانی

کام دل دشمنان که خواهی
حاصل بادا چنانکه خواهی

چون کام تو هست کام ایشان
بادا کامم به نام ایشان

هر پوست که دوست دانی او را
حیف است که پوست خوانی او را

از دوستی تو پوست مغز است
آن پوست که خوانیش نه نغز است

آن را که تو دوست داری ای دوست
گر دوست ندارمش نه نیکوست

با هر که تو دوستدار اویی
از من نسزد بجز نکویی

عاشق که برای دوست کاهد
آن به که رضای دوست خواهد

از خواش خویش رو بتابد
در راه مراد او شتابد

عشق از طلب مراد دور است
عاشق ز مراد خود نفور است

شادان به غم و غمین ز شادی
خاک است به کوی نامرادی

هر چند که من نه از تو شادم
یک بار نداده ای مرادم

خاطر ز زمانه شاد بادت
گیتی همه بر مراد بادت

دمسازی دوستان تو را باد
ور من میرم تو را بقا باد

English translation

When Majnun set pen to the letter, at its head he inscribed this mark: The preface of the letter is [in the name of] the Bestower of security, the heading of the page of meanings. Nothing befits it but the name of the Causer of causes, through Whom every cause is unlocked. He frees the hand of destiny, and fashions a chain for the foot of contrivance. Possessor of the earth and the heaven too, Giver of life, Keeper of life, and Taker of life too. He cuts short the hand of the destitute [and relieves them], and becomes the companion of the solitude of strangers. He opens the fountain of generosity's spring, and marks out the buried corner of non-existence. The one for whom He provides the remedy of union raises his head higher than the sky; and the one whose breast He burns with parting, for him He kindles a hundred flames upon his harvest.

When he had closed his tongue upon this opening, from his wounded heart he began to unfold the secret: That this is a page of entreaty, from a wounded heart to a soother of hearts— that is, from me, asleep upon the thorns, to you, O blossomed rose. O you, like spring, freshly laughing, but never toward the faces of the afflicted. O garden, yet the nesting-place of the crow, a salve for all, but for me a brand. O face hidden from me like a treasure, weighing out jewels in the lap of others. You are a cloud, yet through all the ages lightning reaches me from you, never rain. Everyone's field is like paradise from you, yet my earth is kneaded with blood from you. This is your favor upon me: that my harvest was burned by your lightning. Have mercy on those whose harvests are burned; release one droplet of the pure water of kindness. O spring of the water of life— but before a thirsty one whom you well know. That thirsty one was quenched from the spring, while I am burned of heart by a hundred fevers and torments. Khizr indeed is worthy of the spring; let a hundred Alexanders die of thirst. From the water for which Alexander's lip stays dry, with a heart scorched like a musk-pod, how should a beggar like me gain a share, an afflicted one in the darkness of separation?

The moment your letter arrived, full of the fragrance of fidelity from your pen, I laid it upon my blood-raining eyes, and set it in my breast in place of my soul. I made it an amulet for my startled heart, and the sustenance of my famine-stricken body. Every word of fidelity I read from it, I scattered tears of blood from my eyes. Every image of hope I saw in it, I drew forth the melody of grief from my breast. Within it you had written words, you had sown a hundred seeds of deceit. You showed much sympathy for me, yet you greatly increased my sorrows. You said: so long as sense remains in me, you will never be forgotten by me. It is not fair, from the embrace of others, to boast of love for someone else. With your lip stained by another's kiss, the purity of your tongue avails you nothing. Suppose that you are free of every fault, and nothing but truth comes to your tongue— the poor lover, how suspicious he is, every moment captive to a hundred doubts. Every misgiving is a proof before him, every dead gnat a living elephant. He sees a straw and imagines a mountain; a mountain of grief comes upon his breast. From an ant he conjures a serpent, and suffers a hundred wounds to his stricken soul. A bird that he sees upon the beloved's roof, picking grain from the beloved's roof— from that bird a shadow falls upon his mind, as though it brought a letter from a rival to his love.

You said: I have no heart for a kiss, and I am far from the thought of an embrace. Is this pain not enough—that from dawn to dusk another is your companion, willing or unwilling? A face that I do not see for years, and that fruit I do not pluck for lifetimes, he sees a thousand times each day, and plucks it at his pleasure every moment. You said: he is trampled by pain, and on the verge of ruin from his grief; he wishes to depart soon from the midst, to go upon the wind of the air like smoke. If he goes, what lover do you lack? What buyer is wanting for your wares? If the crow parts from the fig-tree's root, a hundred other birds stand in the garden. Everyone's desire from you is possible; only I am deprived of it. Since the dawn of my hope, in its whiteness, is far off, I am content with despair. What should I, despairing, wish for this time? I have no business with hoping. If you keep aloof from wounded me, it is enough that you belong to others' desire. The heart's desire of the enemies that you wish for— may it be attained just as you wish. Since your desire is their desire, may my own desire be in their name. Any husk that you consider a friend, it is a pity that you should call it a husk. By your friendship the husk becomes the kernel; that husk you call is not without worth. The one whom you love, O friend, if I did not love him, it would not be good. With everyone of whom you are a lover, nothing but goodness befits me. The lover who wastes away for his beloved— it is best that he desire the beloved's pleasure, that he turn his face from his own wishes, and hasten upon the path of the beloved's will. Love is far removed from seeking one's own desire; the lover is averse to his own desire. Joyful in grief and grieved by joy, he is dust in the street of desirelessness. Although I take no joy in you, and you have not once granted my desire, may your heart be glad with the world, may the whole world be to your desire. May the companionship of friends be yours, and if I die, may long life be yours.

Updated 2026-07-19

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