Original content

English translation

Like that rough man of pleasant speech who planted a thorn-bush in the middle of the road — Passersby reproached him; then they told him: "Uproot it" — he would not. Every moment that thorn-bush grew larger; people's feet ran with blood from its wounds. People's garments were torn by the thorns; the feet of the dervishes were sorely pierced.

When the governor earnestly told him, "Uproot this," he said, "Yes, I will uproot it — one day." For a time he gave promises of "tomorrow and tomorrow," while his thorn-tree grew firmly established.

One day the governor said to him: "O crooked-promise man, come forward in our affair — do not lag behind." He said, "Al-ayyāmu yā ʿamm baynanā." The governor said, "Hasten! Lā tumāṭil daynānā."

"You who say 'tomorrow' — know this: with every day that passes in its time, that evil tree grows younger, while this uprooter grows old and feeble. The thorn-bush is in strength and rising; the thorn-puller is in old age and decline. The thorn-bush every day and moment fresh and moist; the thorn-puller every day more wretched and dry. It grows younger, you grow older — make haste, do not waste your time."

Know every evil habit of yours to be a thorn-bush; it has many times pricked you in the foot at last. You have many times been wounded by your own habit; you have no feeling — you have become utterly numb. If from the wounding of others that comes from your ugly character you are heedless — at least you are not unaware of your own wound: you are a torment to yourself and every stranger.

Either take the axe and strike manfully, uproot this gate of Khaybar in the manner of ʿAlī; or join this thorn to a rose-tree — join with the fire the light of the Friend, so that his light may draw out your fire, his union may turn your thorn into a rose-garden.

You are like Hell; he is the believer — it is possible for the believer to extinguish fire. Muṣṭafā told of the speech of Jaḥīm, that it becomes a suppliant to the believer out of fear, saying to him: "Pass quickly by me, O King — beware, your light has stolen away my burning."

So the believer's light is the destruction of fire, for without a contrary, repelling the contrary is not possible. Fire is the contrary of light on the Day of Justice, for that was kindled by wrath, and this by grace.

If you wish to repel the evil of fire, set the water of mercy upon the fiery heart. The spring of that water of mercy is the believer; the Water of Life is the pure spirit of the virtuous. Your carnal soul flees greatly from him, because you are of the nature of fire and he of the nature of water. Fire flees from water for this reason: its fire is destroyed by water.

Your sense and thought are all of fire; the sense of the Shaykh and his thought are a pleasant light. When the water of his light drips onto fire, crackling and hissing leaps up from the fire. When it crackles, call it death and pain, so that this hell of your carnal soul may cool — so that it may not burn your rose-garden, so that it may not burn your justice and beneficence.

After that, something you plant will bear fruit; it will give tulips and narcissus and sweet basil.

Again we stray wide of the straight path — turn back, O master: where is our road? We were in that discourse, O envious one: your donkey is lame and the destination is far — make haste. The year has grown late; it is no time for planting; there is nothing but black-facedness and ugly deeds. A worm has fallen into the root of the tree of the body; it must be uprooted and placed in the fire.

Heed! Heed! O traveler, the hour has grown late; the sun of life has moved toward the pit. These few days while you still have strength — quickly: perform the casting-off of old age through the path of generosity. Scatter what little seed remains to you, so that from these two brief moments a long life may grow. While this jewel-bearing lamp has not yet died — quickly! Trim its wick and add the oil.

Heed! Do not say "tomorrow" — the tomorrows have passed, before the days of harvest pass away entirely. Hear my counsel, for the body's bond is strong; cast out the old if you desire the new. Close your lips and open a palm full of gold; abandon the body's miserliness and bring forth generosity.

Abandoning lusts and pleasures is generosity; whoever sank into lust did not rise again. This generosity is a branch of the cypress of Paradise; woe to him who let slip from his grasp such a branch. This abandonment of desire is the ʿurwat al-wuthqā; this branch draws the soul up to the heavens, so that the branch of generosity, O one of good faith, may draw you upward, ascending, to your own origin.

You are a Joseph of beauty, and this world is like a well; this rope is patience in God's command. O Joseph, the rope has come — seize it with both hands; do not be heedless of the rope: it has grown late.

Praise be to God that they hung this rope, that they mingled grace and mercy together, so that you may see the new world of the soul — a world very manifest, yet invisible.

This world is nothing, yet has become as if existent; that world truly is, yet has become very hidden. The earth is in the wind's hand, playing, showing crookedly, weaving veils. What is apparent is busy, but is nothing — mere husk; what is hidden is the marrow and the origin. Earth is like an instrument in the hand of the wind; know the wind to be exalted and of exalted lineage. The earthly eye falls upon the earth; but an eye that sees the wind is of another kind.

A horse knows a horse, for it is its companion; likewise a rider knows the states of a rider. The sense-eye is the horse and the light of God is the rider; without a rider, the horse itself is useless. So discipline the horse of evil habits, otherwise the horse will be rejected before the King. The horse's eye is guided by the king's eye; its eye without the king's eye is helpless. The eyes of horses see naught but grass and pasture; wherever you summon them, they have no wherefore.

When the light of God rides upon the light of sense, then the soul becomes desirous of God. What does a horse without a rider know of the way's custom? A king is needed to know the royal road. Go toward a sense upon which its light is riding; that light is a good master to sense.

The light of God is the adornment of sense-light; this is the meaning of "light upon light." Sense-light pulls toward the earth; the light of God bears it toward the Exalted. For the world of sensibles is a lower world; the light of God is a sea, and sense is like a dewdrop of night.

But that rider is not visible upon it except through effects and fair speech. The sense-light, which is dense and heavy, is hidden in the darkness of the eyes. Since you do not see the light of sense from the eye, how will you see the light of that religion from the eye? Sense-light is hidden despite this density; how would a radiance that is pure not be hidden?

This world is like straw in the hand of the wind of the Unseen; it took on helplessness and gave itself to the Unseen. Sometimes it raises it high, sometimes brings it low; sometimes makes it whole, sometimes breaks it. Sometimes it carries it right, sometimes left; sometimes makes it a rose-garden, sometimes a thorn-field.

The hand is hidden — see the pen tracing its line; the horse is galloping, the rider invisible. See the arrow flying, the bow invisible; souls are manifest, but the Soul of souls is hidden.

Do not break the arrow, for this arrow is a royal arrow; it is not a random throw — it is from the bow of Awareness. "Thou didst not throw when thou threwest" — God said this; God's work takes precedence over all works.

Break your own anger — do not break the arrow; the eye of your anger counts milk as blood. Kiss the arrow and bring it before the King; the blood-stained arrow is wet with your own blood. What is manifest is helpless, bound, and abject; what is hidden is so swift and unruly.

We are the prey — whose is such a snare? We are the polo-ball — where is the polo-stick? It tears, it sews — where is this tailor? It blows, it burns — where is this fire-blower? In an hour it makes an unbeliever of the truthful one; in an hour it makes an ascetic of the heretic.

For the sincere one (mukhlаṣ) is in danger from the snare until he becomes completely purified (khāliṣ) of self. For he is on the road, and the highwaymen are without limit; he is saved who is in God's protection. The mirror has not become pure — he is merely sincere (mukhlіṣ); he has not caught the bird — he is merely hunting.

When he becomes pure (khāliṣ), the sincere one is freed; he has entered the station of safety and raised his hand. No mirror has ever become iron again; no bread has ever become a stack of wheat again. No grape has ever become an unripe grape again; no ripe fruit has returned to rawness.

Become ripe and stay far from change; go, become light like a verified proof. When you are freed from self, you become all proof; when servitude ceases, you become sultan.

If you desire to see clearly — Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn manifested, opened, and made eyes seeing. Every eye that bears the light of Hū saw poverty through his eye and his face.

The Shaykh is active without instrument, like God; he has given the disciples precedence without speech. The heart in his hand is soft and obedient as wax; his seal sometimes makes shame, sometimes makes name. The seal of his wax is the likeness of the ring; and who is that seal's imprint the likeness of? It is the likeness of the thought of that goldsmith; the chain: every link is within another.

This echo in the mountain of hearts — whose cry is it? Sometimes it is full from this cry, sometimes empty. Wherever he is, he is a sage, a master; may his cry never be absent from this mountain of hearts. He is such that the mountain doubles the echo; he is such that the mountain makes the sound a hundredfold. The mountain brings forth from that voice and speech hundreds of thousands of springs of pure water.

When that grace ceases to come from the mountain, the waters in the springs turn to blood. It is from that blessed-shod King that the whole of Mount Sinai was ruby. The parts of the mountain received soul and reason; are we then less than stone, O company?

Not one spring gushes from the soul; nor does the body become clothed in green. No sound of the cry of longing in it; no purity of the sip of the cupbearer in it. Where is the zeal that with pick and mattock such a one as this might be uprooted entirely? Perhaps the moon will shine upon its parts; perhaps through it a moonbeam will find a way.

When the Resurrection uproots the mountains, how then will it cast a shadow upon us? How is this resurrection less than that Resurrection? That Resurrection is the wound, and this is like the balm. Whoever has seen this balm is safe from the wound; every wicked one who has seen this beauty becomes virtuous.

Happy the ugly one whose companion became beauty; woe to the rose-faced one whose partner became autumn. When dead bread becomes companion to the living soul, the bread comes alive and becomes that very thing. Dark firewood became companion to fire; the darkness left and it became all light. When the dead donkey fell into the salt-mine, it set aside that donkey-ness and deadness.

Ṣibghat Allāh is the vat of the color of Hū; the piebald ones become one color within it. When it falls into that vat and you say to it "Rise," in joy it says, "I am the vat — do not blame me." That "I am the vat" is itself saying Anā al-Ḥaqq; it has the color of fire — but it is iron, nothing else.

The color of iron is dissolved in the color of fire; it boasts of being fire, yet is silent as fire. When it becomes red like ore-gold, then its boast without tongue is: "I am the fire." It has become great from fire's color and nature; it says, "I am fire, I am fire." "I am fire — if you have doubt and suspicion, put it to the test: strike your hand upon me." "I am fire — if it has become unclear to you, place your face upon my face for a moment."

When the human receives light from God, he is the object of the angels' prostration through divine election. Also prostrated to is one whose soul, like an angel, has been freed from rebellion and doubt.

Whether fire or iron — close your lips; do not mock the beard of the simile's subject through comparison. Do not set foot in the sea — speak little of it; on the shore of the sea be silent, biting your lip. Though a hundred like me cannot bear the sea, yet I cannot hold back from drowning in the sea. May my soul and reason be sacrificed to the sea; this sea gave the blood-price of reason and soul. While my foot is going, I push into it; when no foot remains, I float in it like a duck.

The rude one who is present is better than the absent one; the ring, though crooked, is still on the door. O body-soiled one, circle around the pool; how will a man become pure outside the pool? The pure one who fell away from the pool fell away also from his own purity. The purity of this pool is without end; the purity of bodies is of lesser measure. For the heart is the pool — yet lying in ambush, it has a hidden path toward the sea. Your limited purity needs replenishment; otherwise its number diminishes in expenditure.

The water said to the impure one: "Hasten into me." The impure one said: "I am ashamed before the water." The water said: "Without me, when will this shame depart? Without me, when will this impurity be removed?" Every impure one who hides from the water — "Al-ḥayāʾu yamnaʿu al-īmān."

The heart became muddied at the base of the pool of the body; the body became pure from the water of the pool of hearts. Circle the base of the pool of the heart, O son; beware! Beware of the base of the pool of the body. The sea of the body and the sea of the heart beating against one another; between them a barzakh — they do not transgress.

Whether you are straight or whether you are crooked, move forward toward it — do not retreat. Before kings, even if there is danger to life, yet those of high aspiration do not hold back. When the King is sweeter than sugar, it is sweeter for the soul to go sweetly.

O blamer — safety to you. O seeker of safety — leave me be. My soul is a furnace — it is happy with fire; for the furnace this is enough: that it is the house of fire. Like the furnace, love must burn; whoever is blind to this is not a furnace.

When the provision of leaflessness became provision for you, you found eternal life and death was gone. When sorrow began to increase joy for you, the garden of your soul filled with roses and lilies. What is fear for others is your security; the duck is strong from the sea, the household bird is weak.

Again I have become mad, O physician; again I have become melancholic, O beloved. The rings of your chain are of many arts; each ring gives another madness. The gift of each ring is a different art; so I have at every moment a different madness.

So madness would be arts — this became a proverb, especially in the chain of this prince of princes. Such a madness has broken the bond that all the mad ones give me counsel.