1Cademy - حکایت مرگ ققنس / The Tale of the Death of the Phoenix

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منطق‌الطیر / The Conference of the Birds

Poem

حکایت مرگ ققنس / The Tale of the Death of the Phoenix

Original content

هست ققنس طرفه مرغی دلستان
موضع این مرغ در هندوستان

سخت منقاری عجب دارد دراز
همچو نی در وی بسی سوراخ باز

قرب صد سوراخ در منقار اوست
نیست جفتش، طاق بودن کار اوست

هست در هر ثقبه آوازی دگر
زیر هر آواز او رازی دگر

چون به هر ثقبه بنالد زار زار
مرغ و ماهی گردد از وی بی قرار

جملهٔ پرندگان خامش شوند
در خوشی بانگ او بی هش شوند

فیلسوفی بود دمسازش گرفت
علم موسیقی ز آوازش گرفت

سال عمر او بود قرب هزار
وقت مرگ خود بداند آشکار

چون ببرد وقت مردن دل ز خویش
هیزم آرد گرد خود ده حزمه بیش

در میان هیزم آید بی قرار
دردهد صد نوحه خود را زار زار

پس بدان هر ثقبه ای از جان پاک
نوحه ای دیگر برآرد دردناک

چون که از هر ثقبه همچون نوحه گر
نوحهٔ دیگر کند نوعی دگر

در میان نوحه از اندوه مرگ
هر زمان بر خود بلرزد همچو برگ

از نفیر او همه پرندگان
وز خروش او همه درندگان

سوی او آیند چون نظارگی
دل ببرند از جهان یک بارگی

از غمش آن روز در خون جگر
پیش او بسیار میرد جانور

جمله از زاری او حیران شوند
بعضی از بی قوتی بی جان شوند

بس عجب روزی بود آن روز او
خون چکد از نالهٔ جان سوز او

باز چون عمرش رسد با یک نفس
بال و پر برهم زند از پیش و پس

آتشی بیرون جهد از بال او
بعد آن آتش بگردد حال او

زود در هیزم فتد آتش همی
پس بسوزد هیزمش خوش خوش همی

مرغ و هیزم هر دو چون اخگر شوند
بعد از اخگر نیز خاکستر شوند

چون نماند ذره ای اخگر پدید
ققنسی آید ز خاکستر پدید

آتش آن هیزم چو خاکستر کند
از میان، ققنس بچه سر برکند

هیچ کس را در جهان این اوفتاد
کو پس از مردن بزاید نابزاد؟

گر چو ققنس عمر بسیارت دهند
هم بمیری هم بسی کارت دهند

سال ها در ناله و در درد بود
بی ولد، بی جفت، فردی فرد بود

در همه آفاق پیوندی نداشت
محنت جفتی و فرزندی نداشت

آخرالامرش اجل چون یاد داد
آمد و خاکسترش بر باد داد

تا بدانی تو که از چنگ اجل
کس نخواهد برد جان چند از حیل

در همه آفاق کس بی مرگ نیست
وین عجایب بین که کس را برگ نیست

مرگ اگرچه بس درشت و ظالم است
گردن آن را نرم کردن لازم است

گرچه ما را کار بسیار اوفتاد
سخت تر از جمله، این کار اوفتاد

English translation

The Phoenix is a wondrous, heart-ravishing bird, The dwelling of this bird is in India. It has a very strange, long beak, Like a reed, with many open holes in it. Nearly a hundred holes are in its beak; It has no mate, being solitary is its lot. In each hole there is a different melody, Beneath each melody, a different secret. When it laments through each hole, weeping bitterly, Birds and fish become restless because of it. All the birds fall silent, By the sweetness of its cry, they swoon. There was a philosopher who became its companion, And learned the science of music from its song. The years of its life are nearly a thousand; It clearly knows the time of its own death. When at the time of death, it detaches its heart from itself, It gathers firewood around itself, ten bundles or more. It enters the midst of the firewood restlessly, And sings a hundred laments for itself, weeping bitterly. Then, through each hole, from its pure soul, It raises a different, painful lament. As from each hole, like a mourner, It raises a different lament of another kind, In the midst of the lament, from the grief of death, Every moment it trembles like a leaf. At its cry, all the birds, And at its clamor, all the beasts, Come towards it as spectators, And completely detach their hearts from the world. From grief for it that day, in the blood of their liver, Many an animal dies before it. All are bewildered by its wailing; Some, from lack of strength, lose their lives. A very wondrous day is that day of its; Blood drips from its soul-burning lament. Then, when its life reaches a single breath, It beats its wings and feathers forward and backward. A fire leaps out from its wings, After that fire, its state changes. Quickly the fire falls upon the firewood, Then it burns the wood joyfully. Both the bird and the firewood become embers, And after the embers, they also become ashes. When not a single speck of ember remains visible, A phoenix rises anew from the ashes. When the fire turns that wood to ashes, From the midst, a young phoenix raises its head. Has this ever happened to anyone in the world, To be born unborn after dying? Even if, like the phoenix, they give you a long life, You will still die, and much will be demanded of you. For years it was in lamentation and pain; Without offspring, without a mate, it was solitary and alone. In all the horizons, it had no connection, It did not have the trouble of a mate or a child. In the end, when death reminded it, It came and cast its ashes to the wind. So that you may know that from the clutches of death, No one will save their life, no matter how many tricks they use. In all the horizons, no one is free from death, And see this wonder, that no one has provisions for it. Although death is very harsh and cruel, It is necessary to bend its neck. Although many tasks have fallen to us, Harder than all, this task has fallen.

Updated 2026-07-02

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