1Cademy - بخش ۵۸ - در ختم کتاب و خاتمه خطاب / Section 58 - On the Conclusion of the Book and the Ending of the Address

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Haft Awrang

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بخش ۵۸ - در ختم کتاب و خاتمه خطاب / Section 58 - On the Conclusion of the Book and the Ending of the Address

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هر چند چو بحر تلخکامی
این کام تو را بس است جامی

کز موج معانی ات ز سینه
افتاد به ساحل این سفینه

فرخنده تر از سفینهٔ نوح
آرام دل و سکینهٔ روح

از جودت طبع هر جوادی
بر جودی جودش ایستادی

نی نی که ز بحر جود مانده
بر خشک سفینه ای ست رانده

با خشک لبی سفینه آسا
لب تر نکند به هفت دریا

از لع همت آفتابی ست
وز دفتر دولت انتخابی ست

نوباوهٔ باغ زندگانی
سرمایهٔ عیش جاودانی

افسون فسون گران بابل
افسانهٔ عاشقان بیدل

خوش قصه ای از شکسته حالان
نو نکته ای از زبان لالان

مرهم نه داغ دل فگار ان
تسکین ده درد بی قرار ان

مشاطهٔ حسن خوبرویان
دلالهٔ طبع مهرجویان

مرغی ز فضای گلشن راز
از گلبن شوق نغمه پرداز

بر نغمهٔ او سماع جان ها
در جنبش ازو همه روان ها

بازار پری رخان ازو تیز
آه دل عاشقان سحر خیز

بینی ز لطیفه های کارش
خاصیت موسم بهارش

گل را به نشاط خنده آرد
از دیدهٔ ابر اشک بارد

سحری ست نتیجهٔ سحرها
بحری ست خزینهٔ گهرها

شیرین شکری ست نو رسیده
از نی شکر قلم چکیده

زین قند چکیده نیم قطره
وز شکر ناب صد قمطره

کو مرغ شکر شکن نظامی
کش دارم ازین شکر گرامی

جلاب خورد ز رشح این جام
شیرین سازد ازین شکر کام

صد بحرش اگر ذخیره باشد
آب در خانه تیره باشد

با کوزه کهنه از زر ناب
تشنه ز سفال نو خورد آب

کو خسرو تختگاه دلی
آن لطف طبیعتش جبلی

تا تحفه تخت و تاجم آرد
وز کشور خود خراجم آرد

از گنج ضمیر نکته انگیز
بر گفتهٔ من کند گهر ریز

سبحان الله این چه سودا ست
وز دایه طبعم این چه غوغا ست !

من کیستم و ز من که گوید ؟!
زین نوع سخن ، سخن که گوید

رسمی ست که خلق قدر کالا
از پایهٔ وی نهند بالا

خر مهره فروش می زند بانگ
فیروزه دو صد عدد به یک دانگ

فیروزه نهد سفال را نام
تا میل کند طبیعت عام

من نیز سفال ریزه ای چند
کردم با هم به حیله پیوند

گشتم به سفال خود خروشان
بر قاعدهٔ گهر فروشان

هر کس که خرد به قول شاباش
پاداش جزای خیر باداش

گرچه نه سخن بلندم افتد
از هر سخن آن پسندم افتد

میل زاغان به بچه خویش
از بچه طوطیان بود بیش

شعری که ز خاطر خردمند
زاید به مثل بود چو فرزند

فرزند به صورت ار چه زشت است
در چشم پدر نکو سرشت است

ای ساخته تیز خامه را نوک
زان کرده عروس طبع را دوک

می کن زان نوک خوشنویسی
زان دوک ز مشک رشته ریسی

می زن رقمی به لوح انصاف
دراعه عیب پوش می باف

چون شعر نکو بود خط نیک
باشد مدد نکوییش لیک

گردد ز لباس خط ناخوب
در دیده عیب جویی معیوب

گر می نشوی نکویی افزای
کم زن پی عیبناکی ش رای

بیهوده مسای خامهٔ خویش
آلوده مساز نامهٔ خویش

حرفی که به خط بد نویسی
در وی همه عیب خود نویسی

گر عیب مرا کنی شماری
معیوبی خود بپوش باری

در خوبی خط اگر نکوشی
از بهر خدا ز تیز هوشی

حرفی که نهی به راستی نه
کز هر هنری ست راستی به

وان دم که نویسی اش سراسر
با نسخهٔ راست کن برابر

چون خود کردی فساد از آغاز
اصلاح به دیگران مینداز

آب دهنت ز طبع بی باک
چون افکندی بپوشش از خاک

کوتاهی این بلند بنیاد
در هشتصد و نه فتاد و هشتاد

ورتو به شمار آن بری دست
باشد سه هزار و هشتصد و شصت

شد عرض ز طبع فکرت اندیش
در طول چهار مه کمابیش

در یک دو سه ساعتی ز هر روز
شد طبع بر این مراد فیروز

گر ساعت ها فراهم آیند
بر یک دو سه هفته کی فزایند ؟

هر چند که قدر این تهی دست
زین نظم شکسته بسته بشکست

زو حقه چرخ درج در باد
ز آوازه او زمانه پر باد

پاکان به نیاز صبحگاهان
آمرزشم از خدای خواهان

English translation

Though like the sea you are bitter of palate, this attainment is enough for you, O Jami, for from the wave of your meanings, out of your breast, this vessel has come to rest upon the shore. More blessed than the ark of Noah, the repose of the heart and the tranquility of the soul. Before the bounty of your nature every generous one would halt his bounty upon Mount Judi. No, no—rather, left behind by the sea of bounty, it is a vessel driven onto dry land. With a parched lip, ship-like, it does not moisten its lip in the seven seas. From the ruby of high aspiration it is a sun, and from the register of fortune it is a choice selection. The fresh fruit of the garden of life, the capital of everlasting delight. The spell of the mighty enchanters of Babylon, the fable of the heart-lost lovers. A sweet story from the broken-hearted, a fresh subtlety from the tongue of the tongue-tied. A balm laid upon the wound of the stricken hearts, a soother of the pain of the restless. The adorner of the beauty of the fair-faced, the go-between for the nature of the love-seekers. A bird from the expanse of the rose-garden of mystery, singing melodies from the rose-bush of longing. At its song the souls fall to dancing, by it all spirits are stirred into motion. The market of the fairy-faced is made brisk by it, as is the sigh of the hearts of the dawn-rising lovers. You would see, from the subtleties of its craft, the quality of its springtime season. It brings the rose to laughter with delight, it rains down tears from the eye of the cloud. It is a magic that is the fruit of magics, it is a sea that is the treasury of pearls. It is a sweet sugar newly come, dripped from the sugarcane of the pen. Of this candy only half a drop has dripped, yet of pure sugar there are a hundred baskets. Where is the sugar-cracking bird, Nizami, that I might offer him some of this precious sugar? He would drink julep from the sprinkling of this cup, and sweeten his palate from this sugar. Even if a hundred seas were his store, the water at home is murky and dull. Despite an old jug of pure gold, the thirsty one drinks water from new earthenware. Where is a Khusraw, throne-seat of a heart, whose graciousness of nature is inborn, that he might bring me the gift of throne and crown, and bring me tribute out of his own realm? From the treasure of his subtlety-raising mind he would scatter pearls upon my words. Glory to God, what a fancy is this, and from the nurse of my nature, what a clamor is this! Who am I, and who would speak of me? Of this kind of discourse, who would speak? It is the custom that people rate the worth of goods higher than their true standing. The bead-monger cries aloud: turquoise, two hundred pieces for a single dang! He gives earthenware the name of turquoise so that the common nature may incline to it. I too, a few shards of earthenware, have joined together by a trick, and grown clamorous over my own earthenware after the manner of the pearl-sellers. Whoever buys, at the word 'bravo,' may the recompense of good reward be his. Though my speech does not turn out lofty, of every speech, that which pleases falls to me. The crows' fondness for their own young is greater than for the young of parrots. A poem that is born of a wise mind is, as it were, like a child. Though the child be ugly in form, in the father's eye it is of goodly nature. O you who have sharpened the nib of the pen, and thereby made the bride of nature a spindle, do fine calligraphy with that nib, spin thread of musk from that spindle. Write a line upon the tablet of fairness, weave a fault-covering robe. When the poem is good, fine handwriting is an aid to its goodness—and yet by the garb of poor handwriting it turns faulty in the eye of the fault-finder. If you will not be one who increases goodness, at least lessen your resolve toward marring it. Do not wear down your pen in vain, do not make your writing defiled. A letter that you set down in poor script— in it you write out all your own faults. If you would tally up my faults, at least cover your own faultiness. If you will not strive in fine handwriting, then for God's sake, out of sharp wit, a letter that you set down, set it straight, for of every art, straightness is the best. And the moment you have written it all through, compare it against a correct copy. Since you yourself worked corruption from the start, do not cast the correcting onto others. When you have spat the water of your mouth from a reckless nature, cover it over with dust. The completing of this lofty foundation fell in the year eight hundred, ninety and eighty [chronogram], and if you set your hand to reckoning it, it would be three thousand eight hundred and sixty. Its breadth came forth from the thought-pondering nature over the length of four months, more or less; in one, two, or three hours of each day the nature was made victorious in this aim. Were the hours all gathered together, by how much would they exceed one, two, or three weeks? Though the worth of this empty-handed one was broken by this halting, ragged verse, from it may the casket of the sphere be strewn with pearls to the wind, and from its fame may the age be filled with renown. May the pure ones, in the supplication of the mornings, seek forgiveness for me from God.

Updated 2026-07-20

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