1Cademy - بخش ۵۱ - حکایت سرد شدن پیر سفید موی از نفس آن خورشید گرم خوی که با زلف شبرنگ دم از صبح سفید مویی زد / Section 51 - The Tale of the White-Haired Old Man Growing Cold from the Breath of That Warm-Natured Sun Who, with Night-Colored Locks, Spoke of the Dawn of White Hair

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Haft Awrang

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بخش ۵۱ - حکایت سرد شدن پیر سفید موی از نفس آن خورشید گرم خوی که با زلف شبرنگ دم از صبح سفید مویی زد / Section 51 - The Tale of the White-Haired Old Man Growing Cold from the Breath of That Warm-Natured Sun Who, with Night-Colored Locks, Spoke of the Dawn of White Hair

Original content

فصل خزان کز دم باد وزان
کارگه رنگرزان شد رزان

باغ جوان صورت پیری گرفت
سبزه تر رنگ زریری گرفت

برگ درختان ز سر شاخسار
مختلف الوان چو گل اندر بهار

موی سفیدی به قد خم شده
سینه اش آتشکده غم شده

پای نشست از ته دامان کشید
رخت تماشا به گلستان کشید

از ره فکرت قدمی می نهاد
وز سر عبرت نظری می گشاد

دید که با گیسوی چون پر زاغ
کبک خرامی شده طاووس باغ

معجر کافوری او مشک پوش
گوهر و زر زآمدنش در خروش

رنگ حنا را ز کفش خون جگر
هر سر انگشت چو عناب تر

پنجه مرجان زده انگشت او
گوهر خود یافته در مشت او

گشته ز هر ناخن او در خضاب
بدر و هلالی ز شفق رنگ یاب

پیر چو آن دید دل از دست داد
پشت دو تا روی به پایش نهاد

گفت بدین صورت زیبا که یی
آدمیی یا پریی یا کیی

ناز جوانی ز سر خود بنه
داد دل پی سپر خود بده

نیم دمی همدم من بنده باش
جمع کن پیر پراکنده باش

غنچه نوشین به تبسم گشود
گفت که دیر آمده ای خیز زود

روی به ره کن ببر از من امید
زانکه سرم هست چو معجر سفید

بلکه تو گویی به سر این معجرم
شعر سفید است ز موی سرم

پیر چو از موی شنید این خبر
خاست چو مو حالی و پیچید سر

تازه گل از پیر چو آن شیوه دید
پرده کافور ز سنبل کشید

موی خود آورد ز معجر برون
چون شبه شبرنگ و چو شب قیرگون

پیر بنالید که ای در فروغ
مه ز تو کم بهر چه بود این دروغ

گفت پی آنکه کنم آگهت
کانچه زند از طلب ما رهت

زان سبب افتاده ز راهیم ما
هر چه نخواهی تو نخواهیم ما

پیر شدی جامی و عمرت ز شصت
رشته پیوند به هفتاد بست

یاد جوانی و جوانان مکن
قبله جان جز در جانان مکن

English translation

The autumn season, when by the breath of the blowing wind, The dyer's workshop became the vineyard. The young garden took on the appearance of old age, The fresh grass took on a yellow color. The leaves of the trees upon the branches Became multicolored like flowers in spring. A white-haired old man with a bent stature, Whose chest had become a temple of grief, Withdrew his foot from under his robe, And took his sight-seeing gear to the garden. He walked along the path of contemplation, And opened a gaze full of warning. He saw that, with hair like a crow's wing, A gracefully walking partridge had become the peacock of the garden. Her camphor-white veil was covering musk, While jewels and gold clamored at her arrival. The color of henna on her palm was like the heart's blood, Each of her fingertips was like a fresh jujube. Her fingers resembled claws of coral, Having found their own pearls within her fist. Stained with henna, each of her nails Was like a full moon and a crescent gaining color from the twilight. When the old man saw this, he lost his heart, With bent back, he placed his face at her feet. He said, 'With this beautiful face, who are you? Are you a human, a fairy, or who? Put aside the coquetry of youth from your head, And grant justice to my downtrodden heart. For a brief moment, be a companion to me, your servant; Gather together the shattered senses of this old man.' She opened her sweet bud in a smile And said, 'You have come late, rise quickly! Set your face to the path, cut off hope from me, Because my head is as white as a veil. Indeed, you might say beneath this veil of mine, There is white hair from the locks of my head.' When the old man heard this news about her hair, He instantly rose like a hair and turned away his head. When the fresh flower saw that behavior from the old man, She drew back the veil of camphor from her hyacinth. She brought her hair out from the veil— Night-colored like jet-stone, and pitch-black like the night. The old man lamented, 'O you in whose radiance The moon is diminished, why was this lie?' She said, 'In order to make you aware Of that which blocks you from seeking us. For that reason we are turned away from the path; Whatever you do not desire, we do not desire either.' You have grown old, Jami, and your age has passed sixty, The cord of your connection has bound seventy. Do not think of youth and the young; Make none other than the threshold of the Beloved the Qibla of your soul.

Updated 2026-07-07

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Ganjoor

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