Bewilderment, Fire and Nothingness

 

  بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Mīrzā ʿAbd-al-Qādir Bīdel (Bedil Dehlavi) (often dated 1644–1720/1721) was an Indo-Persian poet and Sufi-minded thinker who spent much of his life in Delhi, writing in Persian during the late Mughal period. He was born in ʿAẓīmābād (Patna), and sources describe his family as being of Turkic/Chaghatay (Arlās) descent. 
Bedil is widely regarded as the leading figure of the later “Indian style” (sabk-e hindī) in Persian poetry—famous (and sometimes feared) for compressed metaphors, intricate syntax, and a mind that keeps pressing spiritual questions into philosophical intensity. Encyclopaedia Iranica even calls him the most “difficult and challenging” poet of that school. 
His output is massive: he wrote across ghazal, masnavi, and prose; a standard compilation of his works runs to about 147,000 verses. His prose masterpiece, Chahār ʿUnṣur (The Four Elements), blends autobiographical moments with reflections on speech and silence, spiritual experience, and the riddles of being. Later poets such as Ghalib and Iqbal are often discussed as having felt his pressure and influence. 
In these couplets, Bedil speaks in the voice of hard-won counsel—urging wakefulness to time, humility under heat, and a kind of self-forgetful usefulness—returning again and again to “smoke” as the modest sign of an inner fire that refuses ego’s blaze.

  من نمی‌گویم زیان کن یا به فکر سود باش
ای ز فرصت بیخبر در هر چه باشی زود باش

Close translation:
I’m not telling you to take a loss, or to fixate on gain.
You who are unaware of opportunity—whatever you are doing, be quick about it.
My version:
Neither loss, nor profit do I preach
I  seek to awaken you who sleep through opportune time—whatever you do, do it now.
Explanation / notes:
This is not a merchant’s proverb. “Profit/loss” is a way of naming all the calculations of ego: How do I come out ahead?
Bedil’s point: you can argue forever about outcomes, but the real failure is missing the moment (فرصت).
زود باش (“be quick”) isn’t just speed; it’s wakefulness, responsiveness, not postponing life.

در طلب تشنیع کوتاهی مکش از هیچکس
شعله هم‌ گر بال بی‌ آبی‌ گشاید دود باش

Close translation:
In the pursuit of censure/blame, don’t hold back from anyone.
Even if a flame spreads wings in dryness, be smoke.
My version:
If blame is the price, don’t shy away from any road.
Even when the fire flares in drought—choose to be smoke.
Explanation / notes (and why it sounds paradoxical):
تشنیع is “denunciation, public blaming.” Bedil treats “being blamed” as something you may meet when you act truthfully or refuse hypocrisy.
The second line is a signature Bedil move: he shifts from heroic imagery (شعله, flame) to something less “proud”: دود, smoke.
My reading: he’s advising humility under heat. When conditions make you “flare up” (anger, ego, performance), don’t become a destructive blaze—be smoke: present, undeniable, but self-effacing, drifting upward rather than striking outward.
Another layer: smoke is also proof of an inner fire. Even when you cannot “burn brightly,” let there still be a sign of sincerity.

زیب هستی چیست غیر از شور عشق و ساز حسن
نکهت‌ گل ‌گر نه‌ای دود دماغ عود باش

Close translation:
What adorns existence except love’s fervor and beauty’s music?
If you’re not the flower’s fragrance, then be the incense-smoke that pleases the senses.
My version:
What makes life worth wearing, except love’s heat and beauty’s song?
If you can’t be rose-scent—then be oud-smoke: at least, perfume the air.
Explanation / notes:
زیب هستی = “the ornament/beauty of being.” For Bedil, existence is justified aesthetically and spiritually: love + beauty.
He offers a gentle but demanding ethic: If you can’t be the rose itself (natural perfection), then be the incense (crafted offering).
دود دماغ عود: literally “smoke for the nose from aloeswood/incense.” It suggests: even if your form is “smoke” (ephemeral, not solid), you can still give fragrance—benefit, refinement, sweetness—to others.

از خموشی‌ گر بچینی دستگاه عافیت
گفتگو هم عالمی دارد نفس فرسود باش

Close translation:
If from silence you set up the apparatus of safety/ease,
conversation too has its own world—be a worn-out breath.
My version:
Even if you build your comfort out of silence,
speech has its own universe—so speak like a worn breath: lightly.
Explanation / notes:
دستگاه عافیت: a whole “setup” of wellbeing—almost like a little fortress of comfort. Silence can be used as protection.
But Bedil refuses a simple “silence good / speech bad.” He says گفتگو هم عالمی دارد: talk also contains worlds—meaning, connection, discovery, even devotion.
نفس فرسود (“worn-out breath”) is striking: if you must speak, speak without force, without vanity—less “performance,” more “exhale.”
I also hear a warning: don’t let your speech become mere breath-waste; either keep silence, or let words carry real weight.

راحتی‌گر هست در آغوش سعی بیخودیست
یک قلم لغزش چو مژگانهای خواب‌آلود باش

Close translation:
If there is comfort, it’s in the embrace of striving—and in self-forgetfulness.
Let even a single slip of the pen be like the eyelashes of the drowsy.
My version:
Rest is not in idling—it’s in effort that forgets the self.
Even your smallest “mistake” should fall softly, like sleepy lashes.
Explanation / notes:
بیخودی in Bedil is often mystical: “selflessness / self-forgetfulness.”. Comfort comes when the ego loosens.
The second line uses calligraphic delicacy: لغزش قلم (a pen’s slip) can ruin a line—or create a graceful curve. مژگان (eyelashes) are a classic image for thin, fine strokes.
Ethically: even your wrong turns should be gentle, not cruel; aesthetically: even deviation can carry grace when it’s not driven by ego.

مومیایی هم شکستن خالی از تعمیر نیست
ای زیانت هیچ بهر دردمندی سود باش

Close translation:
Even breaking “mūmiyā’ī” (mummy-balm / medicinal mummia) is not without repair.
O you who are “loss”—be profit for some afflicted person.
My version:
Even what gets crushed can become a salve.
If you must be loss—then be someone’s healing.
Explanation / notes:
مومیایی can refer to a medicinal substance associated with “mummia,” used as a restorative in older medicine.  Dehkhodā explicitly records this “drug” sense alongside the mummy/embalming senses, and even notes older classifications like مومیایی معدنی (mineral mumiya) versus مومیایی قبوری (mumiya associated with tombs/mummies).  In older Arabic, mūmiyā as a resinous bitumen used medically.  In Indo-Persian/Unani-Ayurvedic spheres, مومیا / مومیایی is often used for a healing mineral substance, and it can overlap in popular naming with shilajit (the resin/exudate associated with mountain rock).

The idea is: it’s broken/crushed to become useful.
Bedil flips the ordinary fear of نقصان (loss): don’t obsess over being “successful.” If you’re broken, let the brokenness become medicine—service, compassion, repair.
This is one of Bedil’s most human lines: suffering is not praised as suffering; it’s praised only if it is turned outward into benefit.

خاک آدم‌، آتش ابلیس دارد درکمین
از تعین هم برآیی حاسد و محسود باش

Close translation:
Adam’s dust has Iblis’s fire lying in ambush.
Even if you rise beyond individuation, you’ll face envy—envier and envied.
My version:
In Adam’s clay, Satan’s fire waits in hiding.
Even if you outgrow the “self,” envy still circles: giving it, receiving it.
Explanation / notes:
The human is made of خاک (clay) but shadowed by آتش (fire): temptation, arrogance, rivalry.
تعین is “fixed identity / individuation”—the sense of “I am this, not that.” Bedil says: even if you transcend that, social life still throws envy at you.
حاسد و محسود: the jealous one and the one envied. It’s a bleak realism: as long as there are comparisons, envy keeps reproducing.
The implied counsel: don’t feed the comparison-machine. Keep the ego small; don’t intoxicate yourself with being admired, and don’t poison yourself with wanting what others have.

چیست دل تا روکش دیدار باید ساختن
حسن بی‌پروا خوشست آیینه‌گو مر دود باش

Close translation:
What is the heart, that one must make a cover/veil for the sight of meeting?
Unguarded beauty is sweet—mirror, tell me: be smoke.
My version:
Why should the heart sew a veil over seeing?
Beauty is best unveiled—mirror, instruct me: become smoke.
Explanation / notes (this one is deliberately hard):
روکش دیدار: a “covering” over vision/encounter. The heart is often the “mirror” of seeing the Beloved; coverings are excuses, fears, self-protections.
Bedil praises حسن بی‌پروا: beauty without timid concealment.
Then he returns to the refrain: دود. Here smoke reads to me as self-erasure: when beauty appears, the lover’s ego should not “stand solid” in front of it. Become smoke—thin, rising, leaving no hard outline.
There’s also a dramatic logic: smoke is what a hidden fire produces. If you cannot show the fire directly, let the smoke of longing testify.

زینهمه سعی طلب جز عافیت مطلوب نیست
گر همه داغست هر جا شعله آب آسود باش

Close translation:
From all this striving of seeking, nothing is wanted except wellbeing/ease.
If everything is scorch and wound, wherever you are be a flame resting in water.
My version:
All our seeking, in the end, wants peace.
Even if the world is all burns—be a flame that can rest in water.
Explanation / notes:
First line is quietly ironic: we dress life up as ambition, spirituality, knowledge—yet we’re often just chasing aafiyat (ease, safety).
Second line is pure Bedil: an impossible image—a flame at ease in water. That impossibility is the point: a person with inward steadiness can hold fire (clarity, love, aspiration) without agitation, even inside conditions that should extinguish them.
It’s not about becoming cold; it’s about becoming unshaken.

نقد حیرتخانهٔ هستی صدایی بیش نیست
ای عدم نامی به دست آورده‌ای موجود باش

Close translation:
The ready cash of existence’s house of bewilderment is nothing but a sound.
O nonbeing, you’ve gained a name—be “existent.”
My version:
In the marketplace of this baffling life, the only currency is a sound—
a name. O nothingness, once you’re named, you pass as real.
Explanation / notes:
نقد is “cash-in-hand,” what counts immediately. Bedil says what counts, socially and existentially, is often just صدا—voice, talk, the word.
The second line is a sharp philosophical jab: naming creates “presence.” Nonbeing becomes “something” once language pins a label on it.
Bedil isn’t simply saying “everything is fake.” He’s showing how fragile our “reality” is: part experience, part story, part reputation, part sound.

بر مقیمان سرای عاریت بیدل مپیچ
چون تو اینجا نیستی‌ گوهر که خواهد بود باش

Close translation:
Don’t entangle yourself with the residents of this borrowed dwelling, Bedil.
Since you are not truly here, be the jewel—be what will endure.
My version:
Bedil—don’t entangle yourself with the residents of this  rented house.
Since you don’t belong to “here,”  be the jewel that lasts.
Explanation / notes:
سرای عاریت: the world as a loaned house—temporary lodging.
مپیچ: don’t twist yourself around them—don’t get caught in their disputes, status games, and attachments.
The closing push is strong: if you’re not made for this temporary stay, then be gohar—the essence, the concentrated value, the inner substance.
He ends by addressing himself, which makes it feel like a private correction rather than a sermon.

The Mark of the Qalandar: Power, Freedom, and Mastery of Time

 

 

  بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Allama Muhammad Iqbal was one of the most influential voices in modern Urdu and Persian poetry. Trained in philosophy and law, he wrote poetry not as ornament but as moral and spiritual address. Iqbal’s central concern was the awakening of the human self (khudī)—a self strengthened through faith, courage, responsibility, and inward discipline. Drawing deeply from Qur’anic thought, Sufi symbolism, and classical Persian–Urdu idiom, he re-imagined figures like the qalandar not as escapists, but as spiritually sovereign individuals who stand free from fear, illusion, and the tyranny of time.

“Qalandar ki Pehchaan” presents the qalandar as a figure of inward authority—one who follows Truth rather than the age, breaks the spell of false power through conviction, and moves through time as its rider, not its captive.

کہتا ہے زمانے سے یہ درویشِ جواں مرد
جاتا ہے جِدھر بندۂ حق، تُو بھی اُدھر جا!

 Transliteration:
Kehtā hai zamāne se yeh darvesh-e jawānmard / Jātā hai jidhar banda-e Haq, tū bhi udhar jā!
Close translation:
“This young, manly dervish says to the age:
Wherever the servant of the Truth goes—go there too!”
My version:
“This dervish—young in years, grown in spirit—tells the world:
Follow the path of the one who serves the Truth; go where he goes.”
Explanation:
زمانہ (zamāna) is not just “time”; it’s the whole worldly age: fashions, politics, crowd-logic, fear, distraction.
درویشِ جواں مرد (darvesh-e jawānmard) is a striking phrase: a dervish is usually imagined as gentle or withdrawn, but jawānmard implies chivalry, courage, moral backbone—a spiritually charged “brave-hearted” person.
بندۂ حق (banda-e Haq): Haq means Truth/Reality and is also a divine name (God as “The Real”). So this is not “truth” as opinion—it’s alignment with the Real.

The couplet is basically saying: don’t let the age lead you; let the God-aligned person set the direction.
My take: the tone is already commanding—this isn’t a shy mystic; it’s a voice that expects the world to correct itself.

ہنگامے ہیں میرے تری طاقت سے زیادہ
بچتا ہوا بُنگاہِ قلندر سے گزر جا

Transliteration:
Hangāme hain mere terī tāqat se ziyādah / Bachtā huā bungāh-e qalandar se guzar jā.
Close translation:
“My upheavals are greater than your strength;
If you want to stay safe, pass by the qalandar’s dwelling.”
My version:
“The turbulence I carry exceeds your power—
If you value your safety, don’t linger at the qalandar’s door.”
Explanation:
ہنگامے (hangāme) = commotions, tumults, upheavals—inner force that spills into the world. It suggests spiritual intensity that is not decorative; it disrupts comfort.
بنگاہ (bungāh) = abode/den/dwelling-place. It can feel almost like “lair,” giving the qalandar a lion-like aura.
بچتا ہوا (bachtā huā) is idiomatic: “if you’re trying to avoid harm / if you’re being cautious.”
Meaning: If you’re living on shallow strength—status, noise, intimidation—don’t pick a fight with someone powered by certainty and surrender.
My opinion: this is one of the most “anti-pretence” couplets—almost a warning label: don’t approach spiritual fire if you only know smoke.

میں کشتی و ملّاح کا محتاج نہ ہوں گا
چڑھتا ہوا دریا ہے اگر تُو تو اُتر جا

Transliteration:
Main kashtī-o mallāh kā muhtāj na hūṅgā / Chaṛhtā huā daryā hai agar tū to utar jā.
Close translation:
“I will not be dependent on boat and boatman;
If you are a rising/swollen river—then subside.”
My version:
“I won’t need a boat or a ferryman—
If you’re the river in flood, then fall back and make way.”
Explanation:
کشتی و ملّاح (kashtī-o mallāh) = boat and boatman: the usual “means” and “helpers” we rely on.
The qalandar says: my crossing doesn’t depend on external arrangements. This is not bragging for its own sake—it’s a metaphor for tawakkul (radical trust), plus spiritual authority.
چڑھتا ہوا دریا (chaṛhtā huā daryā): a river in spate = life’s overwhelming obstacle, chaos, danger, history itself.
اُتر جا (utar jā) literally “come down / descend,” i.e., ebb, subside, step down. The river is being addressed like an arrogant opponent.
So the image is: when inner alignment is complete, even the “river” is told, lower yourself.
My opinion: the couplet’s power comes from how calmly it dismisses dependence—no drama, just certainty.

توڑا نہیں جادُو مری تکبیر نے تیرا؟
ہے تجھ میں مُکر جانے کی جُرأت تو مُکر جا!

Transliteration:
Toṛā nahīṅ jādū merī takbīr ne terā? / Hai tujh meṅ mukar jāne kī jur’at to mukar jā!
Close translation:
“Has my takbīr not broken your magic?
If you have the courage to disavow—then disavow!”
My version:
“Did my cry of ‘God is Greater’ not shatter your spell?
If you’ve got the nerve to recant—then go on,recant”
Explanation:
تکبیر (takbīr) here is not mere ritual sound; it’s a symbol of a consciousness that declares: God is greater than fear, empire, ego, illusion.
جادو (jādū) = magic/spell: the enchantment of false power—seduction, intimidation, glamour, propaganda, ego-trance.
مُکر جانا (mukar jānā) is wonderfully double-edged in Urdu: it can mean to deny (as in refusing truth) and also to go back on something / to back out / to retreat. Both meanings work.
The rhetorical question (“Hasn’t it broken…?”) implies: it already has. The second line is a taunt: if you think you can resist this clarity, attempt it.
My opinion: this couplet captures the poem’s spine—the qalandar’s weapon is not a sword; it’s a worldview that breaks illusions.

مہر و مہ و انجم کا محاسِب ہے قلندر
ایّام کا مَرکب نہیں، راکِب ہے قلندر

Transliteration:
Mehr-o mah-o anjum kā muhāsib hai qalandar / Ayyām kā markab nahīṅ, rākib hai qalandar.
Close translation:
“The qalandar is the reckoner/accountant of sun, moon, and stars;
He is not the mount of days—he is the rider.”
My version:
“He takes the measure of sun and moon and stars;
He isn’t dragged by time—he rides it.”
Explanation:
مہر، مہ، انجم (mehr, mah, anjum): sun, moon, stars—cosmic order, vast cycles, the clockwork of existence.
محاسب (muhāsib): reckoner/accountant/auditor—someone who can “take account,” measure, see patterns, not be dazzled. This implies inner clarity so steady it can face the immensities without shrinking.
ایّام (ayyām) = days, time, historical change.
مَرکب (markab) = mount/ride (horse, camel—something you sit on, but that also carries you).
The reversal is the point: most people are carried by time—deadlines, eras, fear of change, nostalgia. The qalandar is راکب (rākib), the rider: time is his vehicle, not his master.
My opinion: this is the culminating claim—true spiritual freedom isn’t “escaping the world,” it’s standing so firmly in meaning that even time feels like a tool rather than a threat.

This “qalandar” is not presented as a passive renunciant. He’s a figure of fearless inward freedom that becomes outward authority:

• he follows Truth (Haq), not the age;
• he carries storms that undo shallow power;
• he crosses obstacles without needing conventional supports;
• his takbīr breaks the world’s “spell”;
• and he masters time, rather than being mastered by it.

A Night of Life Slips Away

 

  بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Abu Saʿid Abul-Khayr (967–1049) was a Persian Sufi teacher and poet from Mayhana in Khorasan (in today’s Turkmenistan). He’s remembered less for formal scholarship and more for a lived spirituality grounded in love, humility, and service—turning everyday moments (like dawn and a rooster’s cry) into reminders of awakening. Many short mystical verses—especially rubāʿī (quatrains)—are linked to his name, though scholars note that not every poem attributed to him can be pinned down with certainty. What remains clear is his lasting influence: he helped shape a Persian poetic voice where devotion is intimate, direct, and morally bracing.

This quatrain of his serves as a wake-up call: 

هنگام سپیده‌دم خروس سحری
دانی که چرا همی کند نوحه‌گری؟

At first light the rooster laments like a mourner
Do you know why it cries out like that?
Explanation
“سپیده‌دم” (daybreak) is the threshold moment: darkness has not fully left, light has not fully arrived. In Persian mystical poetry, that in-between time is charged—good for waking, prayer, reckoning, and truth-telling.
“خروس سحری” is literally the rooster of sahar (pre-dawn). Sahar carries spiritual weight: the hour of wakefulness, remembrance, and inward clarity. The rooster becomes a natural alarm clock that is also a spiritual witness.
The striking twist is the rooster’s cry described as “نوحه‌گری”—keening, lamentation, the kind of crying done at funerals. A rooster normally “crows,” but the poet hears it as a dirge. That shift turns an everyday sound into a moral and spiritual warning.
The second line is a direct address—“دانی که…؟” (“Do you know…?”). This is not just a question; it’s a gentle challenge: are you awake in the deeper sense, or only physically?

یعنی که نمودند در آیینهٔ صبح
کز عمر، شبی گذشت و تو بی‌خبری

It means this: morning holds up a mirror and shows you—
another night of your life is gone, and you didn’t even notice.

Explanation
“یعنی که” signals: “What it means is…” The poet interprets the rooster’s “lament” for you, almost like a teacher unpacking a sign.
“نمودند” (they showed) uses an intentionally vague “they.” In Persian, this can point to the unseen—fate, time, the order of the world, or ultimately God—without pinning the mystery down. The effect: the message feels universal and unavoidable.
“آیینهٔ صبح” (the mirror of morning) is the key image. Morning doesn’t merely arrive; it reflects. It shows you what passed while you were not paying attention. The mirror is also moral: it exposes the face of your life as it truly is, not as you imagine it.
“کز عمر، شبی گذشت” is devastatingly simple: a night of your life has gone by. “Night” is both literal (one night) and symbolic (a portion of your finite lifetime). In this tradition, time is your capital—once spent, it does not return.
“تو بی‌خبری” means more than “you didn’t know.” It’s closer to heedlessness: being asleep to what matters, living on autopilot, forgetting mortality and purpose.

From a cage to La-Makan (From Cage to No-Place): A Reading of Rumi’s Ghazal of Departure

  بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

This is a ghazal from Divān-e Shams (often listed as Ghazal 3051), built around the repeated refrain رفتی (raftī: “you went / you left”), which gives the whole poem the pulse of astonishment and grief—like someone who can’t stop repeating, “You’re gone.” 
A small textual note: in some manuscripts the first verb appears as ببریدی (“you cut/severed [ties]”) instead of بپریدی (“you flew”), but the “flight” reading fits the poem’s sustained bird-and-release imagery.

به عاقبت بپریدی و در نهان رفتی
عجب عجب به کدامین ره از جهان رفتی

At last you took flight and slipped into the hidden.
How strange—how strange: by what road did you leave this world?
Explanation
    به عاقبت: “in the end / finally”—suggests a long tension before release.
    در نهان رفتن (“going into the hidden”) can mean death, disappearance, or the Sufi idea of withdrawing from the visible into the unseen.
    The doubled عجب عجب is not calm philosophy; it’s the voice of someone stunned.

بسی زدی پر و بال و قفس دراشکستی
هوا گرفتی و سوی جهان جان رفتی

You beat your wings again and again, and you shattered the cage.
You caught the air—and toward the world of spirit you went.

Explanation
    The cage is the classic symbol: body, ego, habit, fear, social “roles,” even ordinary thinking.
    هوا گرفتی literally “you took the air,” like a bird finally getting lift—an image of liberation that feels physical.
    جهانِ جان is “the world of soul/life”—not “another planet,” but a deeper mode of being.

تو باز خاص بدی در وثاق پیرزنی
چو طبل باز شنیدی به لامکان رفتی

You were a prized falcon, yet tethered to an old woman’s rope.
But when you heard the falcon-drum, to the placeless you went.

Explanation
    باز is a hunting falcon: noble, trained, meant for heights.
    وثاق پیرزنی (“the bond/tether of an old woman”) is deliberately humiliating: the high bird is tied down by something low and worn-out—often read as the soul bound to the tired “old” world of matter and routine.
    طبلِ باز: in falconry, a drum or call associated with summoning the bird back. Here it becomes the call of the Beloved.
    لامکان (“no-place”) is a key mystical word: what is beyond location, beyond “where.”

بدی تو بلبل مستی میانه جغدان
رسید بوی گلستان به گل ستان رفتی

You were a drunk nightingale among owls.
When the scent of the rose-garden arrived, to the rose-gathering you went.

Explanation
    Nightingale vs owls: song and longing in a deadened, nocturnal world.
    مست (“drunk”) signals intoxication with love, not alcohol alone.
    بوی گلستان (“the scent of the garden”) is the moment of recognition: one whiff of the real, and you can’t stay among the owls.
    گل‌ستان can be heard as “place of taking roses” (a deliberate pull toward the source).

بسی خمار کشیدی از این خمیر ترش
به عاقبت به خرابات جاودان رفتی

You endured many hangovers from this sour dough.
At last, to the everlasting tavern of ruin you went.

Explanation
    This is one of my favorite images in the poem: خمیر ترش (sour dough) suggests a ferment that never becomes true wine—life’s petty intoxications that leave you heavy and fogged (خمار).
    خرابات in Persian Sufi poetry is not “just a bar.” It’s the place where respectability collapses, the ego’s architecture is ruined, and a different kind of “wine” is poured—often meaning annihilation of self-consciousness in love.

پی نشانه دولت چو تیر راست شدی
بدان نشانه پریدی و زین کمان رفتی

Seeking the sign of true fortune, you became straight as an arrow.
With that sign you sprang—and from this bow you went.

Explanation
     دولت can mean worldly “fortune,” but in mystical usage it often means inner sovereignty, grace, right-timing.
    “Straight as an arrow” hints at استقامت (uprightness, unswerving orientation).
    Bow and arrow: the body/time is the bow; the soul is the arrow. Release is painful—but it’s the point.

نشان‌های کژت داد این جهان چو غول
نشان گذاشتی و سوی بی‌نشان رفتی

This world, like a ghoul, handed you crooked signposts.
You left the signs behind—and toward the signless you went.
 

Explanation
    The world as غول (ghoul) is strong language: it seduces and misleads with distorted markers of “success,” “meaning,” “identity.”
    بی‌نشان (“the signless”) is a daring mystical claim: the final truth is not an object you can point to, label, or prove. You can’t carry your usual “evidence” there.

تو تاج را چه کنی چونک آفتاب شدی
کمر چرا طلبی چونک از میان رفتی

What use is a crown, once you’ve become the sun?
Why ask for a belt, once the “middle” itself is gone?

Explanation
    Crown = rank, recognition. Sun = the source of radiance. Once you’re the sun, crowns are toys.
    The second line is wonderfully strange: “the middle is gone.” I read it as: once you’ve passed beyond bodily form and social form, why would you seek any ornament of form?

دو چشم کشته شنیدم که سوی جان نگرد
چرا به جان نگری چون به جان جان رفتی

I’ve heard even slain eyes don’t turn back toward life.
Why look toward the soul, when you’ve gone to the soul of the soul?

Explanation
    There’s a deliberate piling up of جان / جانِ جان: “life/soul” and “the soul of the soul.”
    جانِ جان is a classic way to name the Beloved as the source of life—life’s very life.
    The poet scolds the impulse to look back: once you’ve reached the source, ordinary “life” is no longer the reference point.

دلا چه نادره مرغی که در شکار شکور
تو با دو پر چو سپر جانب سنان رفتی

O heart—what a rare bird you are, in the hunt of Shakūr:
with two wings like a shield, straight toward the spearpoint you went.

Explanation
    This couplet flips instinct on its head: the bird doesn’t flee the weapon; it flies into it.
    In one strong interpretive tradition, سنان (spearpoint) is explicitly read as the spear of Love—meaning the lover rushes into the danger that will end the ego. 
    شکور (Shakūr) carries layered meanings: in Arabic/Persian usage it can mean “deeply grateful,” and it is also used as a divine name (“the One who abundantly rewards / appreciates”).  
    My opinion: in this line it functions less as “thanks” and more as a titled figure—the Hunter/Beloved—so the phrase feels like “in the hunt set by Shakūr,” i.e., the sacred chase where surrender is the win.

گل از خزان بگریزد عجب چه شوخ گلی
که پیش باد خزانی خزان خزان رفتی

A rose runs from autumn—what a mischievous rose you are,
that before the autumn wind, into autumn-after-autumn you went.

Explanation
    The normal rose tries to avoid withering. This rose walks straight into it.
    The doubled خزان خزان intensifies the choice: not just “you accepted decline,” but “you went into it fully.”
    Mystically, it hints: the lover doesn’t avoid death-of-self; the lover chooses it as the way to real permanence.

ز آسمان تو چو باران به بام عالم خاک
به هر طرف بدویدی به ناودان رفتی

From the sky you fell like rain onto the roof of the earth-world.
You ran in every direction—then down the gutter-spout you went.

Explanation
    A striking “physics” image: rain hits a roof, scatters, then is gathered into a navedan (spout/gutter) and disappears downward.
    One reading: the spirit descends into the material world, disperses into multiplicity, then finds a channel back out.
    Another (more emotional) reading: you came like mercy, touched everything, and then slipped away through the one hidden exit none of us can block.

خموش باش مکش رنج گفت و گوی بخسب
که در پناه چنان یار مهربان رفتی

Be quiet—don’t strain yourself with talk; rest.
For into the shelter of such a kind beloved you went.

Explanation
    The poem ends by turning from amazement to counsel: silence, sleep, release.
    “Sleep” echoes the death-metaphor gently: not annihilation as horror, but as being held.
    The last phrase یار مهربان (“kind beloved”) changes the emotional temperature: the departure is not only loss; it is also protection.