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(۸) حکایت شیخ علی رودباری / (8) The Tale of Sheikh Ali Rudbari

Original content

چنین گفتند جمعی هم دیاری
ز لفظ بوعلی رودباری

که در حمام رفتم من یکی روز
جوانی تازه دیدم بس دلفروز

برخساره چو ماه آسمان بود
به بالا همچو سرو بوستان بود

سر زلفش بپای افکنده دیدم
بروی او جهانی زنده دیدم

چو خورشید رخش تابنده گشتی
نگشتی آسمان تا بنده گشتی

بزلفش صد هزاران پیچ بودی
اگر بودی درو جان هیچ بودی

نظر می خواند بر رویش ز دو عین
بلا و رنج خود چون از صحیحین

ولی دل گفت ازان دو چشم بیمار
صحیحت کی شود این رنج و تیمار

چو بیماریش در عین اوفتادست
صحیحینم سقیمین اوفتادست

بجان و دل خطش را خط روان بود
بلی باشد روان چون روی آن بود

خطش سر سبزی باغ ارم داشت
لب او سرخ روئی نیز هم داشت

بدندان استخوانی لولوش بود
که مروارید کمتر هندوش بود

بکش آورده پای آن سیم اندام
نشسته از تکبر سوی حمام

یکی صوفی بخدمت ایستاده
نظر بر روی آن برنا گشاده

زمانی بر سرش می ریخت آبی
زمانی سرد می کردش شرابی

گهی دست و قفای او بمالید
گهی بر سنگ پای او بمالید

چو شد از شوخ پاک آن سیم اندام
چو خورشیدی برون آمد ز حمام

دوید آن صوفی و او را درآورد
برای خشک کردن میزر آورد

مصلی نماز آنگاه خرسند
بزیر پای آن دلخواه بفکند

پس آنگه جامه اندر بر فکندش
بخور عود در مجمر فکندش

گلاب آورد و پس بر روی او ریخت
ذریره بر شکنج موی او بیخت

بزودی باد بیزن هم روان کرد
چو بادی بر سر آن گل فشان کرد

اگرچه خدمتش هر دم فزون بود
ولی درچشم آن زیبا زبون بود

زبان بگشاد صوفی گفت ای ماه
چه می خواهی تو زین صوفی گمراه

چه باید تا پسندت آید از من
بگو کین خشم چندت آید از من

بمن می ننگری از ناز هرگز
چه سازد با تو این مسکین عاجز

چو از صوفی پسر بشنید این راز
بدو گفتا بمیر ورستی از ناز

چو بشنید این سخن صوفی ازان ماه
یکی آهی بکرد و مرد ناگاه

چنان مرد از کمال عشق زود او
که گفتی در جهان هرگز نبود او

تو گر نتوانی ای مسکین چنین رفت
چگونه خواهی اندر آن زمین رفت

اگر تو این چنین مردی برستی
وگرنه تا قیامت پای بستی

بآخر بوعلی او را کفن ساخت
وز آنجا رفت و کار خویشتن ساخت

مگر می رفت روزی بوعلی خوش
میان بادیه تنها چو آتش

جوان را دید با دلقی جگر خون
رخی چون زعفران حالی دگرگون

بر شیخ آمد و گفت آن جوانم
که از دعوی کشنده آن فلانم

بکشتم آن چنان مردی قوی را
چنین گشتم کنون از بدخوئی را

کنون عهدیست با حق این جوان را
که هر سالی کند حجی فلان را

برای او کنم حجی پیاده
دگر بر گور او باشم فتاده

دریغا مرد زر و زور بودم
کمال او ندیدم کور بودم

کنون هر دم ازان دردم دریغست
شبانروزی ازان مردم دریغست

اگر تو ذرهٔ داری ازین درد
زمان عشق بازی این چنین گرد

چه می گویم تو چه مرد نبردی
که تو در عاشق نه زن نه مردی

درین مجلس نیاری جمع مردن
مگو دل سوخته چون شمع مردن

ز پیش خویشتن بر بایدت خاست
نیاید عاشقی با عافیت راست

English translation

Thus said a group of compatriots From the words of Bu Ali Rudbari: That one day I went to the bathhouse, I saw a fresh, very heart-illuminating youth. In cheek he was like the moon of the sky, In stature he was like the cypress of the garden. I saw the ends of his locks cast to his feet, In his face I saw a living world. When the sun of his face became shining, The sky would not turn until it became his slave. In his locks there were a hundred thousand twists, If there were a soul in it, it would be nothing. The gaze read upon his face from both eyes, Its own affliction and suffering as if from the Sahihayn. But the heart said from those two sick eyes, When will this suffering and care become sound for you? Since his sickness fell in the eye, My Sahihayn has fallen to Saqimayn (two sick ones). With heart and soul, his facial down was a flowing script, Yes, it is flowing when it is on that face. His down had the verdancy of the garden of Iram, His lip had a red face too. By his teeth, there was a bone as his pearl, Compared to which a pearl was less than his Hindu slave. That silver-bodied one, having brought his foot into his embrace, Sat out of pride towards the bathhouse. A Sufi stood in service, Having opened his gaze upon the face of that youth. For a time he poured water over his head, For a time he cooled a drink for him. Sometimes he rubbed his hands and the back of his neck, Sometimes he rubbed his feet on the pumice stone. When that silver-bodied one became clean of dirt, Like a sun, he came out of the bathhouse. That Sufi ran and brought him in, Brought a towel for drying. Then, satisfied, he threw a prayer rug Under the feet of that desired one. Then he threw a garment over his chest, He threw aloe-wood incense into the censer. He brought rosewater and then poured it on his face, He sifted sweet-scented powder on the folds of his hair. Quickly he made the fan flow, Like a wind he scattered flowers over his head. Although his service increased every moment, But in the eyes of that beauty, he was lowly. The Sufi opened his tongue and said, O Moon, What do you want from this misguided Sufi? What is needed for me to be pleasing to you? Tell me, how much of this anger from you will come to me? You never look at me out of coquetry, What can this helpless wretched one do with you? When the boy heard this secret from the Sufi, He said to him: Die, and you are saved from coquetry. When the Sufi heard this word from that moon, He let out a sigh and died suddenly. He died so quickly from the perfection of love, That you would say he had never been in the world. If you cannot go like this, O wretched one, How will you go into that land? If you are such a man, you are saved, And if not, you are bound by the foot until Resurrection. In the end, Bu Ali made a shroud for him, And left there and went about his own business. It happened one day Bu Ali was happily going, Through the desert alone like fire. He saw the youth with a dervish cloak, his liver bleeding, A face like saffron, his state altered. He came to the Sheikh and said: I am that youth, Who from claiming, am the killer of that person. I killed such a strong man, Now I have become like this from bad temper. Now there is a covenant with God for this youth, That every year he performs a pilgrimage for that person. For him I perform a pilgrimage on foot, Otherwise, I am fallen on his grave. Alas, I was a man of gold and power, I did not see his perfection, I was blind. Now every moment from that pain is an 'alas', Day and night I am dying from that 'alas'. If you have a particle of this pain, At the time of love-play, become like this. What am I saying? You are not a man of battle, For in being a lover, you are neither a woman nor a man. In this gathering you do not have the totality to die, Do not talk of dying heart-burned like a candle. You must rise from before yourself, Being a lover does not come right with well-being.

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Updated 2026-07-03

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References

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Humanities

Literature

Persian Literature Prerequisite Course

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