XVIII
An invocation.
O Thou that art as the soul in the body of the universe,
Thou art our soul and thou art ever fleeing from us.
Thou breathest music into Life's lute;
Life envies Death when death is for thy sake.
Once more bring comfort to our sad hearts,
Once more dwell in our breasts!
Once more let us hear thy call to honour,
Strengthen our weak love.
We are oft complaining of destiny,
1
Give us the sleepless eye and the passionate heart,
Give us again the nature of quicksilver!
Show unto us one of thy manifest signs,
That the necks of our enemies may be bowed!
Make this chaff a mountain crested with fire,
Burn with our fire all that is not God!
When the people let the clue of Unity go from their hands,
They fell into a hundred mazes.
We are dispersed like stars in the world;
Though of the same family, we are strange to one another.
Take us back to serve thee as of old,
Commit thy cause to them that love thee!
We are travellers: give us devotion as our goal!
Give us the strong faith of Abraham!
Make us know the meaning of "There is no god,"
Make us acquainted with the mystery of "except Allah"!
I who burn like a candle for the sake of others
Teach myself to weep like the candle.
O God! a tear that is heart-enkindling,
Passionful, wrung forth by pain, peace-consuming,
May I sow in the garden, and may it grow into a fire
That washes away the fire-brand from the tulip's robe!
"Every one fancies he is my friend,
But my secret thoughts have not escaped from my heart."
Oh, where in the wide world is my comrade?
I am the Bush of Sinai: where is my Moses?
I am tyrannous, I have done many a wrong to myself,
I have nourished a flame in my bosom,
A flame that seized the furniture of judgement,
And cast fire on the skirt of discretion,
And lessoned with madness the reason,
And burned up the existence of knowledge:
Its blaze enthrones the sun in the sky,
And lightnings encircle it with adoration for ever.
Mine eye fell to weeping, like dew,
At last flames breathed from every hair of me,
Fire dropped from the veins of my thought:
My nightingale picked up the spark-grains
And created a fire-tempered song.
Is the breast of this age without a heart?
Majnún trembles lest Lailá's howdah be empty.
It is not easy for the candle to throb alone:
Ah, is there no moth worthy of me?
How long shall I wait for one to share my grief?
How long must I search for a confidant?
Or give me one old comrade
To be the mirror of mine all-burning love!
In the sea wave tosses side by side with wave:
Each hath a partner in its emotion.
In heaven star consorts with star,
And the bright moon lays her head on the knees of Night.
Morning touches Night's dark side,
And To-day throws itself against To-morrow.
One river loses its being in another,
A waft of air dies in perfume.
There is dancing in every nook of the wine-house,
Madman dances with madman.
I beg of Thy grace a sympathising friend,
An adept in the mysteries of my nature,
A friend endowed with madness and wisdom,
One that knoweth not the phantom of vain things,
That I may confide my lament to his soul
And see again my face in his heart.
His image I will mould of mine own clay,
I will be to him both idol and worshipper.
THE END
Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.
Footnotes
142:1 Salmán was a Persian, Bílál an Abyssinian. Both had been slaves and were devoted henchmen of the Prophet.
