1Cademy - بخش ۵۳ - ظاهر شدن علامات وفات بر اسکندر و مکتوب نوشتن وی به سوی مادر / Section 53 - The Appearance of the Signs of Death upon Alexander and His Writing a Letter to His Mother

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بخش ۵۳ - ظاهر شدن علامات وفات بر اسکندر و مکتوب نوشتن وی به سوی مادر / Section 53 - The Appearance of the Signs of Death upon Alexander and His Writing a Letter to His Mother

Original content

چنین داد داننده داد سخن
ز مشکل گشای سپهر کهن

که از وضع افلاک و سیر نجوم
ز حال سکندر چنین زد رقوم

که چون صبح اقبالش آید به شام
بگردد تر و خشک گیتی تمام

به جایی که مرگش مقدر بود
زمین آهن و آسمان زر بود

بود زیر پا آهنین بسترش
به بالای سر سایبان زرش

سکندر چو آمد ز دریا برون
سپه را سوی روم شد رهنمون

همی رفت آورده پا در رکاب
چو عمر گرانمایه با صد شتاب

همی راند شکر به هر کوه و دشت
به هر روز از کشوری می گذشت

نبودی در آن جنبش کوه گاه
به جز خانه زینش آرامگاه

یکی روز در گرمگاه تموز
گرفته جهان خسرو نیمروز

به دشتی رسید آتشین ریگ و خاک
چو طشتی پر از اخگر تابناک

هوایش چو آه ستمدیده گرم
ز بس گرمیش سنگ چون موم نرم

به هر راهش از نعل های مذاب
نشان سم بادپایان پر آب

سمندر اگر کردی آنجا گذر
چو پروانه اش سوختی بال و پر

چو تابه زمین آتش افشان در او
چو ماهی شده مار بریان در او

اگر پر درم مشت بستی لئیم
فرو ریختی همچو سیماب سیم

سکندر در آن دشت پر تاب و تف
همی راند از پردلان بسته صف

ز آسیب ره در خراش و خروش
به تن خونش از گرمی خور به جوش

ز جوشش چو زد در تنش موج خون
ز راه دماغش شد از سر برون

فرو ریختش بر سر زین زر
ز ماشوره عاج مرجان تر

بسی کرد در دفع خون حیله ساز
ولی خون نیستاد ازان حیله باز

ز سیل اجل بر وی آمد شکست
بر آن سیل رخنه نیارست بست

بر او تنگ شد خانه پشت زین
شد از خانه مایل به سوی زمین

ز خاصان یکی سوی او رفت زود
به تدریجش آورد ازان زین فرود

ز جوشن به پا مفرش انداختش
ز زرین سپر سایبان ساختش

به بالای جوشن به زیر سپر
زمانی فتاد از جهان بی خبر

چو بگشاد ازان بی خودی چشم هوش
به گوشش فرو گفت پنهان سروش

که اینست جایی که دانا حکیم
در آنجا ز مرگ خودت کرد بیم

چو از مردن خویش آگاه شد
بر او راه امید کوتاه شد

دبیری طلب کرد روشن ضمیر
که بر لوح کافور ریزد عبیر

نویسد کتابی سوی مادرش
تسلی ده جان غم پرورش

چو بهر نوشتن ورق کرد باز
سر نامه را ساخت مشکین طراز

به نام خداوند پست و بلند
حکیم خرد بخش بخرد پسند

ازو عقل را رو در آوارگی
وزو عشق را چاره بیچارگی

هراسندگان را بدو صد امید
شناسندگان را ازو صد نوید

بسا شهریاران و شاهنشهان
که کردند تسخیر ملک جهان

ز زین پای ننهاده بالای تخت
به تاراج آفاتشان داده رخت

یکی زان قبل بنده اسکندر است
که اکنون به گرداب مرگ اندر است

سفر کرد گرد جهان سال ها
ز فتح و ظفر یافت اقبال ها

چو آورد رو در ره تختگاه
اجل زد بر او ره در اثنای راه

دو صد تحفه شوق ازان ناتوان
نثار ره بانوی بانوان

چراغ دل و دیده فیلقوس
فروزنده کشور روم و روس

نمی گویم او مهربان مادر است
که از مادری پایه اش برتر است

ازو دیده ام کار خود را رواج
و زو گشته ام صاحب تخت و تاج

دریغا که رفتم به تاراج دهر
ز دیدار او هیچ نگرفته بهر

دریغا که خفتم به دل داغ مرگ
نه از باغ او شاخ دیده نه برگ

بسی بهر آسانیم رنج برد
پی راحتم راه محنت سپرد

ازین چشمه لیک آبرویی ندید
ز خارم گل آرزویی نچید

جهاندیده دهقان درختی نشاند
به پایش ز جوی جگر آب راند

پس از سال ها داد چون میوه بار
به آن میوه دهقان شد امیدوار

ز ناگه برآمد یکی باد سخت
هم آن میوه بر باد شد هم درخت

درخت نوم من که اسکندرم
جهاندیده دهقان من مادرم

اگر من فتادم ز پای از نخست
قبای بقا هم بر او نیست چست

چه از جنس حیوان چه نوع بشر
که زاد اندرین کهنه دیر دو در

که آخر به صد نامرادی نمرد
ازین ورطه کس جان به شادی نبرد

چو از من برد قاصد نامه بر
به آن مادر مهربان این خبر

وز این غم بسوزد دل و جان او
شود خونفشان چشم گریان او

همان به که حکمت شناسی کند
نه چون سفلگان ناسپاسی کند

قدم در طریق صبوری نهد
جزع را به رخ داغ دوری نهد

نکوشد چو خور در گریبان دری
نپوشد چو مه جامه نیلوفری

اگر شعله دل کند اخگرش
نبیند زمین فرش خاکسترش

نه از پنجه گیسوی سنبل کند
نه از ناخنان چشمه در گل کند

ننالد ز رنج و نموید ز درد
نمالد به خاک سیه روی زرد

وگر بس نیاید به اندوه خویش
شود پست از اندوه چون کوه خویش

بکش گو چو شاهان یکی خوان عام
بخوان سوی آن مرد و زن را تمام

طعامی بنه پیش هر یک چنان
که برباید از دست رغبت عنان

وزآن پس بر آن جمع سوگند ده
ز سوگند بر دستشان بند نه

که هر کس درین تنگنای سپنج
ز مرگ عزیزی کشیده ست رنج

نیارد بدین طعمه ها دست آز
کند چشم امید از اینها فراز

اگر یک تن آرد سوی طعمه دست
به یک لقمه بر خوانش آرد شکست

سزد گر خورد غم ز خوان فراق
که با طعمه خواران خوش است اتفاق

وگر نی نشاید ز صاحب خرد
که در مجلس جمع تنها خورد

چرا غم خورد زیرک هوشیار
چو ز آغاز می داند انجام کار

سرانجام گیتی به خون خفتن است
به خواری به خاک اندرون خفتن است

کسی را که انجام کار این بود
پی دیگران از چه غمگین بود

تفاوت ندارد درین کس ز کس
جز این کاوفتد اندکی پیش و پس

چو آخر درین مهد باید غنود
ازین چند روزه تفاوت چه سود

گرانمایه عمرم که مستعجل است
ز میقات سی کرده رو در چل است

گرفتم که از سی به سیصد رسد
به هر روز ملکی مجدد رسد

چه حاصل ازان هم چو جاوید نیست
ز چنگ اجل رستن امید نیست

نیم من جز آن مرغ شیرین نفس
که ملک جهان بود بر من قفس

تنم در قفس بود با درد و داغ
ولی دل به جان آرزومند باغ

خوش آن کز قفس ره به باغم نمود
جدا کرد نور چراغم ز دود

رخ آوردم اینک به باغ و بهار
نهادم به ره دیده انتظار

بود کان ز من مانده در من رسد
وز این تیره گلخن به گلشن رسد

به یک جای گیریم با هم مقام
بر این ختم شد نامه ام والسلام

چو نامه ز مضمون به عنوان رسید
چو منشور عمرش به پایان رسید

به عنوانش از خون دل رنگ داد
ز داغ جگر سوز مهرش نهاد

ببوسید و مقصود را نام برد
پی بردن آنجا به قاصد سپرد

بیا ساقیا تا به می برده پی
کنیم از میان قاصد و نامه طی

ببندیم بار از مضیق خیال
گشاییم در بارگاه وصال

بیا مطربا کز صدای نفیر
ببندیم بر خامه صوت صریر

زنیم آتش از آه هنگامه را
بسوزیم هم خامه هم نامه را

English translation

Thus the knower of the eloquence of speech gave account, from the solver of the riddles of the ancient sphere, that from the disposition of the heavens and the course of the stars, regarding Alexander's state he thus set down his writ: that when the dawn of his fortune comes to its evening, all the moist and dry of the world shall turn about. In the place where his death is decreed, the earth shall be of iron and the sky of gold; beneath his feet an iron bed shall be, and above his head a golden canopy. When Alexander came forth from the sea, he led his army toward Rum. He went, having set foot in the stirrup, like precious life, in a hundredfold haste. He drove his ranks over every mountain and plain, each day passing through a realm. In that motion there was no mountain resting-place for him save the saddle-house of his repose. One day, in the heat of the height of summer, when the world-king had seized the noon, he reached a desert of fiery sand and dust, like a basin full of gleaming embers. Its air was hot as the sigh of the oppressed, from its heat the stone was soft as wax. Along its road, from the molten horseshoes, the hoof-marks of the swift steeds were full of water. If the salamander had passed that way, like the moth its wings and feathers would have burned. Like a griddle the earth scattered fire within it, like a fish the snake lay roasting within it. If the miser had clenched a fistful of coins, the silver would have poured down like quicksilver. Alexander, in that desert of blaze and fever, drove on with the ranks of his bold-hearted men. From the affliction of the road, in gash and clamor, from the sun's heat his blood boiled within his body. From the boiling, as the wave of blood surged in his frame, by way of his brain it came forth from his head. Upon the golden saddle it poured down over him, like fresh coral from an ivory tube. Much he wrought in cunning to stanch the blood, yet the blood would not stand still for all his craft. From the flood of death destruction came upon him; in that flood he could open no breach against it. The saddle-house of the saddle grew narrow upon him; from that house he inclined toward the ground. One of his intimates went swiftly to him and gently brought him down from that saddle. Of his armor he made a carpet upon the ground, of the golden shield he made a canopy for him. Upon the armor, beneath the shield, for a while he lay senseless, unaware of the world. When from that swoon he opened the eye of consciousness, secretly the angel Surush whispered in his ear: 'This is the place where the wise sage warned you of your death here.' When he became aware of his own dying, the road of hope grew short for him. He sought a scribe of enlightened mind to scatter fragrance upon a tablet of camphor, to write a letter to his mother, to console her grief-nurtured soul. When for the writing he opened the page, he adorned the letter's head with a musky script: In the name of the Lord of the low and the high, the Wise, the Bestower of intellect, pleasing to the wise; from Him the intellect turns to wandering, and from Him love finds the remedy of helplessness; for the fearful, a hundred hopes from Him, for the knowers, a hundred glad tidings from Him. How many sovereigns and kings of kings have conquered the realm of the world, yet before they set foot from the saddle upon the throne, have given their belongings to the plunder of calamities. One of that kind is the servant Alexander, who is now within the whirlpool of death. He journeyed around the world for years, from conquest and victory he found much fortune. When he turned his face toward the road of the throne-city, death waylaid him in the midst of the road. Two hundred gifts of longing from that feeble one, a strewing on the road for the lady of ladies, lamp of the heart and eye of Philip, illuminer of the realm of Rum and Rus. I do not say she is a loving mother, for her rank is higher than motherhood. From her I have seen my affairs prosper, and through her I have become lord of throne and crown. Alas that I have gone to the plunder of the age, having taken no share of beholding her. Alas that I have lain down with the brand of death in my heart, having seen neither branch nor leaf of her garden. Much toil she bore for my ease, for my comfort she trod the road of hardship. Yet from this spring she saw no honor, from my thorn she plucked no rose of desire. The world-seeing farmer planted a tree, at its foot he ran the water of his liver's blood from the stream. After years, when it gave fruit, by that fruit the farmer grew hopeful. Suddenly a mighty wind arose; both that fruit and the tree went to the wind. The tree of my newness—I who am Alexander— my world-seeing farmer is my mother. If I have fallen from my feet first, the robe of survival is not fitted well upon her either. Whether of the kind of beast or the species of man, whoever was born in this old two-doored monastery, none in the end has died without a hundred failures; from this abyss none has borne their life away in joy. When the messenger carries the letter from me to that loving mother, this news, and from this grief her heart and soul shall burn, and her weeping eye shall pour blood, it is best that she act with wisdom, not show ingratitude like the base. Let her set her foot on the path of patience, and set upon the cheek of impatience the brand of parting. Let her not strive, like the sun, to tear her collar; let her not don, like the moon, a garment of indigo. If the flame of her heart makes an ember, let not the earth see the carpet of her ashes. Let her not with her hand tear out her hyacinth tresses, nor with her nails dig springs in the rose of her cheeks. Let her not moan from suffering nor wail from pain, nor rub her pale face in the black dust. And if she cannot suffice against her sorrow, let her, from grief, be laid low like her own mountain. Bid her spread, like kings, a public feast; let her invite to it all men and women. Let her set before each such food as would seize the rein of desire from the hand. And after that, put that gathering under oath; by the oath place a bond upon their hands: that whoever, in this narrow inn of the world, has suffered pain from the death of a dear one, shall not stretch the hand of greed to these dishes, but close the eye of hope upon them. If one person stretches a hand to the food, with a single morsel he brings ruin upon her feast. It is fitting that he eat the grief of the table of separation, for with the food-eaters accord is pleasant. And if not, it is not seemly for the possessor of wisdom to eat alone in an assembly of gathered folk. Why should the keen and vigilant eat grief, when from the beginning they know the ending of the affair? The end of the world is to sleep in blood, to sleep in abasement beneath the dust. One whose end of affairs is this, why should he be sorrowful on account of others? In this, person differs not from person, save that one falls a little before and another after. Since in the end one must slumber in this cradle, what profit is the difference of these few days? My precious life, which is fleeting, from the appointment of thirty has turned toward forty. Suppose it reached from thirty to three hundred, and each day a renewed kingdom came; what gain in that, since it too is not eternal, and there is no hope of escaping the grip of death? I am nothing but that sweet-breathed bird for whom the realm of the world was a cage. My body was in the cage with pain and brand, yet my heart was longing for the garden with all its soul. Blessed is he who showed me the road from the cage to the garden, who parted the light of my lamp from the smoke. Behold, I have turned my face to the garden and the spring, I have set my expectant eye upon the road, that what has remained of me may reach me, and from this dark ashpit reach the rose-garden. In one place let us take our abode together; upon this my letter has ended, and peace. When the letter came from its content to its heading, as the scroll of his life came to its end, he gave its heading color from the blood of his heart, and set upon it the seal of love from the brand of his burning liver. He kissed it and named the one it was meant for, and entrusted it to the courier to carry there. Come, O cupbearer, having found the way to wine, let us fold up from between the courier and the letter. Let us bind our load from the narrow pass of fancy, and open the door of the court of union. Come, O minstrel, that from the cry of the wailing horn we may bind upon the pen the sound of its scratching. Let us strike fire from the sigh upon the uproar, and burn both the pen and the letter.

Updated 2026-07-19

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