1Cademy - بخش ۷۵ - جواب نوشتن مادر اسکندر نامه ارسطو را / Section 75 - The Reply of Alexanders Mother to Aristotles Letter

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بخش ۷۵ - جواب نوشتن مادر اسکندر نامه ارسطو را / Section 75 - The Reply of Alexander's Mother to Aristotle's Letter

Original content

چو سرچشمه فیض اسکندری
کزو بود همچون صدف گوهری

در آن کاغذی کز ارسطو رسید
بسی داروی صبر پیچیده دید

ز داروی او دفع تیمار کرد
دوای دل و جان بیمار کرد

بلی شربتی بود آن معنوی
به وی از شفاخانه عیسوی

وز آن پس یکی نامه انگیز کرد
سر نامه را عنبرآمیز کرد

به نام حکیمی که هر نیک و بد
به حکم ویست از ازل تا ابد

اگر بر درش مرگ اگر زندگیست
سرآورده در ربقه بندگیست

بود حکمت او نهان در همه
به حکمت بود حکمران بر همه

به حکم وی آیند خلق و روند
به جز حکم او حکم کس نشنوند

سکندر که بر چرخ افسر کشید
نیارست از حکم او سرکشید

به فرمان او زیست چندان که زیست
چو فرمان مرگ آمدش خون گریست

ولی گریه اش هیچ کاری نکرد
به آن آب دفع غباری نکرد

مرا گرچه بر دل نشست آن غبار
شد آن سرمه دیده اعتبار

بدیدم سرانجام کار همه
که بر چیست آخر قرار همه

مرا زین مصیبت که ناگه رسید
صد اندوه بر جان آگه رسید

دلم بود در صبر لیکن چو کوه
نجنبید ازین ماتم پر ستوه

چه امکان بود سیل انبوه را
که از بیخ و بن برکند کوه را

کسی کز غم خود بود دل گران
چرا گرید از ماتم دیگران

اگر مرگ را سازگاری کنم
ازان به که بر مرده زاری کنم

مرا خود چنین بود حال ای حکیم
که آمد خطی از تو عنبر شمیم

به هر نقطه زو نکته ای دلپسند
به هر حرف ازو صد فرح کرده بند

به جان اختر هوش ازان تاب یافت
به دل مزرع صبر ازان آب یافت

اساس خرد دید ازان محکمی
غم و محنت آورد رو در کمی

حیات ابد رشح کلک تو باد
نظام ادب نظم سلک توباد

چو آن نامه غم به پایان رساند
نم حسرت از چشم گریان فشاند

وز آن پس یکی لحظه خندان نزیست
کنم قصه کوتاه چندان نزیست

نه او زیست جاوید نی ما زییم
کمینگاه مرگیم هر جا زییم

مکن هستی جاودانی هوس
که این خاصه کردگار است و بس

بیا ساقیا کان که فرزانه است
زده دست در دست پیمانه است

چو آرد غم مرگ بر دل شکست
نگیرد کسی غیر پیمانه دست

بیا مطربا تا ز چنگ سپهر
ببریم چون بخردان تار مهر

که آخر اجل تیغ خواهد کشید
به ناخواست این رشته خواهد برید

English translation

Since the fountainhead of Alexander's bounty, from whom, like a shell, came forth a pearl, saw in that letter which arrived from Aristotle much folded-up medicine of patience, from his remedy she drove away her grief, and healed the cure of the ailing heart and soul. Yes, it was a spiritual draught, brought to her from the healing-house of the Messiah. And after that she composed a letter, and made its opening scented with ambergris, in the name of the Wise One by whose command is every good and ill, from eternity to eternity; whether at His door there be death or life, all are bound in the collar of servitude. His wisdom is hidden within all things; by wisdom He rules over all. By His command creatures come and go; save His command they heed no command. Alexander, who set his crown upon the heavens, dared not raise his head against His command. By His decree he lived as long as he lived, and when the decree of death came to him he wept blood. Yet his weeping accomplished nothing at all; with that water he dispelled no speck of dust. Though that dust settled upon my heart, it became the collyrium of the eye of discernment. I saw at last the end of all affairs, and upon what, in the end, all things come to rest. From this calamity that suddenly befell me, a hundred sorrows reached my aware soul. My heart stood firm in patience, yet like a mountain it did not stir from this grief laden with anguish. What power had the swelling flood to uproot the mountain from its foundations? One whose own heart is heavy with grief, why should they weep at the mourning of others? If I make peace with death, that is better than lamenting over the dead. Such indeed was my state, O sage, when there came from you a script of ambergris scent; at every dot a heart-pleasing subtlety, at every letter a hundred joys made fast. By it the star of intellect gained its glow in the soul; by it the field of patience in the heart found water. The foundation of reason found firmness from it; sorrow and affliction turned toward diminishing. May eternal life be the drop of your pen; may the order of manners be the thread of your verse. When she brought that letter of grief to an end, she scattered the dew of regret from her weeping eye, and after that she lived not one moment in laughter— to make the tale short, she lived not long. Neither did he live forever, nor do we live on; wherever we live, we are the ambush of death. Do not crave everlasting existence, for that belongs to the Creator alone. Come, O cupbearer, for the one who is wise has set their hand upon the goblet. When the grief of death breaks upon the heart, no one grasps anything but the goblet. Come, O minstrel, that from the harp of the sphere we may cut, like the wise, the string of affection; for in the end death will draw its sword, and unwilling, it will sever this thread.

Updated 2026-07-19

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