Friday, March 20, 2026

Somewhere/Something else

 


بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ
 
Some lines in poetry and spiritual literature seem to outgrow the page where they first appear. They pass from book to memory, from prose to recitation, and in that movement they begin to live more than one literary life. The famous couplet: 
کُشْتِگانِ خَنْجَرِ تَسْلیم را
هَرْ زَمان اَز غَیْب جانی دیگَرَسْت


is one of those. 
 
This couplet has extra significance in South Asia, which has been blessed with Sufi saints, mystics, dervishes, scholars and other holy people. The dominant silsilah is the Chistiyyah or Chisti silsilah, founded by the great South Asian Sufi shaykh Khwaja Muʿīn al-Dīn Chisti and developed, among others, by his famous disciple, Sufi scholar and poet,  Khwaja Qutbuddin Bakhtiar Kaki (May Allah bless them all).

It is made extra famous by an incident in which Khwaja Qutbuddin Bakhtiar Kaki,  was listening to a poetry recital (qawwali) and upon hearing these lines swooned and lost consciousness. Staying unconscious for three days, he gave up his soul on the fourth day and came to be known as a "Martyr of Love".

To this day, these verses are now considered taboo in qawwali performances, although on a separate note the modern qawwalis are a far cry from the original poetry recitations and have become song and dance numbers.
 
 
It is securely present in chapter 148 of ʿAyn al-Quḍāt Hamadānī’s Lavāyeḥ, where it appears as part of a brief two-bayt passage inside a prose anecdote. The same line also appears in a longer ghazal transmitted under Shaykh Aḥmad Jām; the Sufinama text presents that fuller poem under his name and cites Dīvān-e Ḥaẓrat Aḥmad Jām Zinda Pīl, p. 41 among its printed sources. The careful thing, then, is not to collapse the two witnesses into one, but to let each text speak in its own setting.

What gives these lines their force is the severity of the image. “Surrender” is not described as the easy way out. It is a dagger. Something in the nafs must be cut. Yet the poem immediately overturns the fear: those struck down by that blade are given another life, perpetually, from the unseen. What looks like loss from the side of the self becomes enlargement from the side of the unseen. Reason stands outside the experience and asks where such a mystery could come from. The poem answers, quietly but firmly, that there are states of the heart reason alone cannot measure.

This is  mystical language, not  doctrinal formula. I feel that it will resonate with many readers who have a proclivity towards spirituality, and who will immediately recognize this truth: when we surrender ourselves to the Divine, a different kind of life begins. 
 
From the Dīvān-e Ḥażrat Aḥmad Jām Zinda Pīl:

مَنْزِلِ عِشْق اَز مَکانی دیگَرَسْت
مَرْدِ مَعْنی را نِشانی دیگَرَسْت
Love has its dwelling somewhere else;
the person of inward meaning bears another sign.
عَقْل کِی دانَد کِه این رَمْز اَز کُجاست
کاین جَماعَت را نِشانی(
زَبانی) دیگَرَسْت
Reason cannot know where this mystery comes from;
this company is marked (the language of this group is identified) in another way.
آن فَقیرانی کِه این‌جا می‌رَوَند
هَرْ یِکی صاحِب‌قِرانی دیگَرَسْت
Those poor dervishes passing through here—
each one carries a different royal destiny.
دِل چِه می‌بَنْدی دَر این فانی جَهان
کاین جَهان را هَم جَهانی دیگَرَسْت
Why bind your heart to this passing world?
This world too has another world beyond it.
دَر دِلِ مِسْکینِ هَر بی‌چارَه‌ای
شاه را گَنْجِ نِهانی دیگَرَسْت
In the poor heart of every helpless soul
the King has another hidden treasure.
بَر سَرِ بازارِ صَرّافانِ عِشْق
زیرِ هَر داری جَوانی دیگَرَسْت
At the head of the bazaar of love’s money-changers,
beneath every gallows stands another young man.
کُشْتِگانِ خَنْجَرِ تَسْلیم را
هَر زَمان اَز غَیْب جانی دیگَرَسْت
Those slain by the dagger of surrender
receive another life from the unseen at every moment.
دِل خُورَد زَخْمی زِ دیدَه خون چَکَد
این چِنین زَخْم اَز کَمانی دیگَرَسْت
The heart takes a wound; blood drips from the eye.
A wound like this is shot from another bow.
عِشْق را دَر مَدْرَسَه تَعْلیم نیست
کان چِنان عِلْم اَز بَیانی دیگَرَسْت
Love is not taught in the madrasa;
that kind of knowledge comes by another kind of speech.
اَحْمَدا تا گُم نَکَرْدی هُوش دار
کِین جَرَس اَز کارَوانی دیگَرَسْت
Ahmad, stay awake before you lose yourself:
this bell belongs to another caravan.
 
 
 
 
From Lavāyeḥ of ʿAyn al-Qużāt Hamadānī, chapter 148,
 
کُشْتِگانِ خَنْجَرِ تَسْلیم را
هَرْ زَمان اَز غَیْب جانی دیگَرَسْت

عَقْل کِی دانَد کِه این رَمْز اَز کُجاست
کِین جَماعَت را زَبانی دیگَرَسْت
Those slain by the dagger of surrender
receive another life from the unseen at every moment.

How could reason know where this mystery comes from?
These people speak a different language.
 
 
My take: the poem is insisting on an “otherness” that keeps returning in almost every couplet. Another place. Another sign. Another world. Another treasure. Another bow. Another caravan. The repeated word dīgar is doing real work here. The poem is teaching the reader not merely to feel more deeply, but to see differently. It is asking us to admit that the spiritual life cannot always be read by the surface meanings of ordinary success, safety, and explanation.

That is also why this line matters: “
عِشْق را دَر مَدْرَسَه تَعْلیم نیست”. 
This is not an attack on learning. It is a reminder that there are kinds of knowing that do not come through formal instruction alone. One may study definitions, categories, and doctrines, and still remain outside the lived taste of surrender. The poem’s world is not anti-intellectual. It is simply refusing to let reason claim total jurisdiction over the heart. 

Thursday, March 19, 2026

My take on the Islamic concept of Love

بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Islamic Concept of Love

There is perhaps no word more flattened in modern speech than the word love. It is used for desire, preference, tenderness, obsession, loyalty, comfort, mercy, and even self-worship, as though all these were one and the same thing. The Qur’an does not speak this way. Nor does the Sunnah. Instead, revelation educates the heart by naming its attachments carefully. What English often compresses into one word opens, in classical Islamic writing, into a family of words: حب (hubb), ود (wudd), مودة (mawaddah), رحمة (rahmah), رأفة (ra’fah), حنان (hanan), خلة (khullah), سكن (sakan), ولاية (wilayah), رفق (rifq), نصيحة (nasihah), صحبة (suhbah), صلة (silah), and then, in later literary and Sufi writing, terms such as شوق (shawq), أنس (uns), وجد (wajd), غرام (gharam), and عشق (‘ishq).  

It seems to me that one of the great beauties of the Islamic tradition is that it does not deny the heart, but it does not flatter it either. It neither reduces love to appetite, nor strips religion of tenderness. Rather, it asks: What does the heart love? In what way does it love? What fruit does that love bear? And does that attachment draw the servant nearer to Allah, or deeper into his own nafs? 

The subject becomes much clearer if we approach it in three circles. The first circle is the Qur’an. It gives the foundational vocabulary. The second circle is the sahih Sunnah. It turns that vocabulary into conduct. The third circle is later classical Arabic: lexicography, adab, poetry, and Sufi reflection. That third circle is often rich and illuminating, but it is not on the same level as revealed speech. This order matters, especially when later poetic language becomes more excessive than the measured language of the Qur’an and the Sunnah.  

The Qur’an: love as appropriately ordered/measured attachment

The broadest and most central Qur’anic word for love is حب.

وَالَّذِينَ آمَنُوا أَشَدُّ حُبًّا لِلَّهِ 

“Those who believe are stronger in love for Allah.”
(al-Baqarah 2:165)

And Allah says:

يُحِبُّهُمْ وَيُحِبُّونَهُ 

“He loves them, and they love Him.”
(al-Ma’idah 5:54)

Classical lexicographers note that the root ح ب ب carries the sense of لزوم and ثبات: adhesion, abiding, remaining with something. This is very deep. Love in the Qur’an is not merely a passing mood. It is what the heart cleaves to, settles upon, and prefers. In this sense, hubb is not only affection. It is valuation. It shows what the soul honors, what it holds dear, and what it is unwilling to leave. 

Closely related to this is ود and مودة.

 إِنَّ الَّذِينَ آمَنُوا وَعَمِلُوا الصَّالِحَاتِ سَيَجْعَلُ لَهُمُ الرَّحْمَنُ وُدًّا 

“Surely those who believe and do righteous deeds, the Most Merciful will place for them love.”
(Maryam 19:96)

And in the famous verse of marriage:

 وَمِنْ آيَاتِهِ أَنْ خَلَقَ لَكُمْ مِنْ أَنْفُسِكُمْ أَزْوَاجًا لِتَسْكُنُوا إِلَيْهَا وَجَعَلَ بَيْنَكُمْ مَوَدَّةً وَرَحْمَةً


“And among His signs is that He created for you, from yourselves, spouses, that you may find repose in them, and He placed between you affection and mercy.”
(al-Rum 30:21)

If hubb is the broader canopy, then wudd and mawaddah feel warmer and more relational. They are love as affectionate warmth placed between hearts. This is reinforced by the Divine Name الودود. It seems to me that the Qur’an is teaching us that not all love is of one kind: some love is broad devotion, while some is tenderness shared in relationship and made visible in how hearts are joined. 

Then there is the mercy-family: رحمة، رأفة، and حنان.

وَجَعَلْنَا فِي قُلُوبِ الَّذِينَ اتَّبَعُوهُ رَأْفَةً وَرَحْمَةً  

“And We placed in the hearts of those who followed him tenderness and mercy.”
(al-Hadid 57:27)

And regarding Yahya عليه السلام:

وَحَنَانًا مِنْ لَدُنَّا وَزَكَاةً 

“And tenderness from Us, and purity.”
(Maryam 19:13)

Ibn Faris says the root ر ح م points to الرقة والعطف والرأفة: tenderness, inclined care, and compassion. He also links رحم to kinship and to the womb. That connection is not ornamental. It suggests that mercy, in the Qur’anic sense, is intimate, sheltering, and life-bearing. This is why the marital verse does not say only مودة. It says مودة ورحمة. Affection alone is not yet the whole of love. Love, if it is to endure and be true, must also take responsibility for the good of the other.

The commentators then make finer distinctions. رأفة is explained as a more delicate and intensified softness. حنان is glossed by classical tafsir as رحمة and تعطف. So one might put it this way: mawaddah is warm affection, rahmah is caring mercy, ra’fah is tender sparing compassion, and hanan is tenderness warmed by nearness.  

The Qur’an also teaches that love is not only warmth. It is also nearness, loyalty, and rest.

 وَاتَّخَذَ اللَّهُ إِبْرَاهِيمَ خَلِيلًا

“And Allah took Ibrahim as a khalil.”
(al-Nisa’ 4:125)

The commentators treat خلة as one of the highest ranks of love. Ibn Kathir explicitly says that it is among the loftiest stations of محبة

Khalīl suggests deep intimacy and special friendship. The “inner cavity” associated with this meaning is
خَلَ (khalal) and by extension
خِلَال / خُلَّة (khilāl / khullah)
خَلَلُ الشَّيْءِ : the interstices, inner spaces, gaps within something
تَخَلُّلُ الشَّيْءِ : something entering into and permeating those inner spaces
when classical scholars explain
الخُلَّة, they say: 
هي المودّة التي تخلّلت القلب
“It is a love that has permeated the heart.”

So khalil is a more powerful expression of endearment, and it would have been problematic that Ibrahim - may peace be upon him- be the only one named khalil but for a hadith.

Al-Tabari explains the verse through meanings that include love, loyalty, and divine support. Beside this stands ولاية. The root و ل ي, according to Ibn Faris, revolves around قرب, nearness. So wilayah is not simply emotional fondness. It is protective nearness, support, allegiance, and standing with the beloved. In this sense, khullah is inward intimacy, while wilayah is love translated into guardianship and loyalty. 

Another beautiful Qur’anic word is سكن.

لِتَسْكُنُوا إِلَيْهَا 

“That you may find repose in them.”
(al-Rum 30:21)

Ibn Faris says the root س ك ن denotes the opposite of agitation and movement, and he adds that السكن is anything beloved to which one comes to rest. This is one of the most beautiful correctives to shallow ideas of love. Mature love is not only flame. It is also repose. It is a quieting of disturbance. Related to this is ألفة and تأليف. Allah says:

 فَأَلَّفَ بَيْنَ قُلُوبِكُمْ

“Then He brought your hearts together.”
(Āl ‘Imran 3:103)

and:

وَأَلَّفَ بَيْنَ قُلُوبِهِمْ 


“And He joined their hearts together.”
(al-Anfal 8:63)

So the Qur’anic concept of love includes concord after enmity, fraternity after division, and repose after unrest. 

But the Qur’an does not praise every intensity. It distinguishes noble love from disordered attachment.

قَدْ شَغَفَهَا حُبًّا 

“He has penetrated her with love.”
(Yusuf 12:30)

Al-Tabari records explanations that this love reached the inner sheath of the heart. This is not serene, disciplined affection. It is overpowering fixation. Likewise, the Qur’an censures هوى when desire becomes master:

 أَفَرَأَيْتَ مَنِ اتَّخَذَ إِلَٰهَهُ هَوَاهُ

“Have you seen the one who has taken his desire as his god?”
(al-Jathiyah 45:23)

This seems to me one of the deepest Qur’anic lessons on the subject. Not everything intense is noble. Love is not praised merely because it is strong. It is praised when it is truthful, rightly ordered, and governed by remembrance of Allah rather than by the tyranny of appetite.  

The Sunnah: love becoming conduct

If the Qur’an gives us the main vocabulary, the Sunnah shows what that vocabulary looks like when it lives among people.

One of the most comprehensive prophetic descriptions is this:

 مَثَلُ الْمُؤْمِنِينَ فِي تَوَادِّهِمْ وَتَرَاحُمِهِمْ وَتَعَاطُفِهِمْ مَثَلُ الْجَسَدِ

“The likeness of the believers in their mutual affection, mutual mercy, and mutual sympathy is that of one body.”

This hadith is remarkable. It does not use one word only. It uses three: توادّ، تراحم، and تعاطف. Their combination matters. Tawadd is mutual affection, tarahum is mutual mercy, and ta‘atuf is sympathetic inward leaning toward another’s pain. In other words, Prophetic love is not a vague feeling. It is a shared moral life in which one believer does not remain untouched by the hurt of another.  

The same movement appears in the famous hadith:

لا يُؤْمِنُ أَحَدُكُمْ حَتَّى يُحِبَّ لأَخِيهِ مَا يُحِبُّ لِنَفْسِهِ 

“None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself.”

This is one of the most searching definitions of love in the entire tradition. It makes love a test of sincerity and freedom from envy. It takes love out of the language of private sentiment and places it inside justice of the heart. One has not fully learned love if one still wants goodness to remain private. 

The Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم also teaches that love can be cultivated through outward acts:

لا تَدْخُلُونَ الْجَنَّةَ حَتَّى تُؤْمِنُوا، وَلَا تُؤْمِنُوا حَتَّى تَحَابُّوا... أَفْشُوا السَّلَامَ بَيْنَكُمْ 

“You will not enter Paradise until you believe, and you will not believe until you love one another... Spread salam among yourselves.”

This is profoundly practical. Love is not only awaited as a feeling. It is also grown through acts of recognition, safety, courtesy, and goodwill. 

The hadith literature then gives us not only direct love-words, but also the textures of love.

Among the most important of these is رفق. The Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم said:

إِنَّ اللَّهَ رَفِيقٌ يُحِبُّ الرِّفْقَ 

“Indeed Allah is Gentle and He loves gentleness.”

Ibn Faris says the root ر ف ق points to موافقة ومقاربة بلا عنف: accord and approach without harshness. This is very important. Love is not only about what one wants for another person. It is also about the manner in which one handles them. A heart may claim mercy, while the tongue and hand remain rough. Rifq corrects this. It is love in its manner. 

Another great hadith word is نصيحة.

 إِنَّ الدِّينَ النَّصِيحَةُ

“The religion is nasihah.”

Ibn Faris says the root ن ص ح points to fittingness and repair. He links it to sewing, mending, and to purity free from adulteration. This is why nasihah is much larger than “advice.” It is sincere goodwill, moral repair, and wanting another person’s condition to be made sound. It is love purified of self-display.  

Then there is صحبة. A man asked the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم who was most deserving of his best companionship, and the answer came: your mother, then your mother, then your mother, then your father. Here love is not romantic intensity. It is lived companionship, repeated care, and sustained presence. Likewise, the hadith البِرُّ حُسْنُ الْخُلُقِ shows that birr is love translated into character. It is not merely what is felt inwardly; it is what becomes visible in conduct. 

Even صلة الرحم belongs to this field of love. The bond of kinship is not treated as a cold social arrangement. It is linked, in Prophetic language, to the very root of رحمة itself:

الرَّحِمُ شَجْنَةٌ مِنَ الرَّحْمَنِ 

“The womb-bond is a branch woven from the All-Merciful.”

This is one of the most arresting formulations in the hadith literature. Family ties are not presented merely as custom. They are woven into mercy. To maintain them is not only etiquette. It is fidelity to a mercy-shaped order. 

Later classical Arabic: finer gradations of love

Once we move beyond the Qur’an and sahih hadith into later classical Arabic writing, especially lexicography, adab, poetry, and Sufi reflection, the vocabulary becomes much more finely shaded.

Ibn al-Qayyim, in Rawdat al-Muhibbin, says Arabic gave love many names, then proceeds to list a long series: العلاقة، الهوى، الصبوة، الصبابة، الشغف، الوجد، الكلف، التتيم، العشق، الجوى، الشوق، الغرام، الهيام، الوله and more. This by itself tells us something important: later Arabic reflection did not treat love as one flat emotion, but as a spectrum of states, intensities, wounds, and nearnesses. 

Some of these later terms are especially useful.

العلاقة is attachment: the first fastening of the heart.
الصبابة is melted longing: the soft, heated pouring out of the heart.
الشغف is love reaching the inner layers of the heart.
الوجد in broader literary usage can mean powerful inward disturbance, but in later technical Sufi usage it becomes more specific.
الكلف is burdened infatuation, love that becomes costly to carry.
التتيم is enthrallment, love becoming a kind of inward servitude.
الجوى is inner burning.
الغرام is clinging, adhesive passion that does not easily depart.
الهيام is wandering, destabilizing love.
الوله is bewildered love, love that shakes composure. 

Among all these later terms, عشق is perhaps the most discussed.

Ibn al-Qayyim quotes the old lexicographers:

العشق فرط الحب
“‘Ishq is love in excess.”

This is why many later Sunni writers are cautious with the term, especially when speaking about Allah. The Qur’an and the Sunnah teach us حب، مودة، رحمة، and خلة. But ‘ishq in much later Arabic carries the sense of overgrowth, excess, and fixation. My own view is that this caution is sound. The revealed vocabulary has balance, gravity, and proportion, whereas some later poetic terms carry a fever that is not always suitable for theological speech. 

Sufi usage: yearning, intimacy, awe

The Sufi tradition, at its best, adds another layer to this subject. It often uses terms that are more inward and more disciplined than the language of romance.

One of the most important of these is شوق. Ibn al-Qayyim says:

الشوق سفر القلب إلى المحبوب
“Longing is the journey of the heart toward the beloved.”

This is a beautiful definition. Shawq is not merely wanting. It is love under the condition of distance. It is the heart moving toward what it knows, but has not yet fully attained. 

Then there is أنس and هيبة. Al-Qushayri places them together and says they stand above lower emotional states: haybah is awe before majesty, and uns is intimacy, ease, and sweetness in nearness. This pairing is very important. Intimacy without awe can become irreverence. Awe without intimacy can become coldness. The more balanced Sufi writers refuse both distortions.  

And then there is وجد and تواجد. Al-Jurjani defines wajd as:

الوجد: ما يصادف القلب ويرد عليه بلا تكلف وتصنع
“Wajd is what meets the heart and comes upon it without contrivance or affectation.”

Whereas tawajud is:

التواجد: استدعاء الوجد تكلفًا
“Tawajud is the summoning of wajd by effort and affectation.”

This distinction is subtle, but very telling. Mature mystical writing does not worship emotion for its own sake. It distinguishes between what is granted and what is staged, between visitation and performance. 

What, then, is the Islamic concept of love?

If I had to state it simply, I would say this:

The Islamic concept of love is not one emotion, and it is not one word. It is an ordered vocabulary of attachment.

At its center stands حب الله: loving Allah, and being loved by Him. Around it come مودة as affectionate warmth, رحمة as caring mercy, رأفة as tender compassion, حنان as tenderness, خلة as intimate fidelity, ولاية as protective nearness, سكن as repose, and ألفة as concord. The Sunnah then turns these into daily character through تواد، تراحم، تعاطف، رفق، نصيحة، صحبة، بر، and صلة الرحم. Later Arabic literature adds more delicate shades of longing, intimacy, awe, and excess, but revelation remains the criterion by which those later shades are judged. 

This, in my view, is the central correction that Islamic writing offers to modern speech about love. Islam does not ask the human being to become loveless in order to become pious. It asks that his loves be purified, ranked, disciplined, and returned to their rightful center. When love is severed from truth, it becomes هوى. When it is joined to mercy, loyalty, and remembrance of Allah, it becomes one of the most luminous realities in the believer’s life. 

Notes

  1. On حب as the broad Qur’anic canopy of love, and the lexical note that the root carries لزوم and ثبات, see Ibn Faris, Maqayis al-Lughah, root حب; and the Qur’anic uses in 2:165 and 5:54. (Islamweb)

  2. On ود / مودة as affectionate love, see Ibn Faris, root ود; Qur’an 30:21 and 19:96; al-Tabari and al-Baghawi on 19:96; and the Divine Name الودود in 85:14. (Islamweb)

  3. On رحمة and its root meaning of tenderness and inclined care, see Ibn Faris, root رحم. On حنان as mercy / tenderness, see Ibn Kathir, al-Baghawi, and al-Qurtubi on 19:13. On رأفة and رحمة together, and the explanation that رأفة is a more delicate or intensified softness, see the tafsir on 57:27. (Islamweb)

  4. On خلة as a high rank of love and ولاية as nearness, support, and protective closeness, see Qur’an 4:125; Ibn Kathir and al-Tabari on that verse; and Ibn Faris, root ولي. (Quran.com)

  5. On سكن as repose and rest in what is beloved, see Ibn Faris, root سكن; on ألفة / تأليف as hearts being joined together, see Ibn Faris, root ألف; and Qur’an 30:21, 3:103, and 8:63. (Islamweb)

  6. On شغف as love penetrating the heart in 12:30, see the verse and al-Tabari’s tafsir there. On هوى as desire enthroned, see 45:23 and Ibn Kathir’s explanation of the verse. (Quran.com)

  7. On the hadith vocabulary of love in action, see: “the believers in their mutual affection, mercy, and sympathy are like one body” (Bukhari/Muslim); “none of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself”; “you will not believe until you love one another … spread salam among yourselves”; “Allah is Gentle and He loves gentleness”; “the religion is nasihah”; “who is most deserving of my best companionship?”; and “al-birr is good character.” For the lexical roots of رفق and نصيحة, see Ibn Faris on roots رفق and نصح. (dorar.net)

  8. On صلة الرحم and the prophetic image الرحم شجنة من الرحمن, see the hadith reports gathered in Dorar; and compare with Ibn Faris on the root رحم linking mercy, kinship, and the womb. (dorar.net)

  9. On later classical Arabic and Sufi vocabulary: see Ibn al-Qayyim’s Rawdat al-Muhibbin for the many names of love and the statement العشق فرط الحب; his definition الشوق سفر القلب إلى المحبوب; al-Qushayri on الهيبة and الأنس; and al-Jurjani on الوجد and التواجد. (Shamela)

 


Sunday, March 15, 2026

Reclaiming a Life of Heedlessness

 بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

 
Across the centuries, Muslim scholars often expressed moral reflection not only through sermons and prose but also through brief, powerful poems The poem beginning *“Tawallā al-ʿumru fī sahwin wa fī lahwin wa fī khusr”* (“My life has slipped away in heedlessness, diversion, and loss”) is one such piece of reflective poetry. It appears in the classical work *Lata'if al-Ma'arif fima li Mawasim al-Aam min al-Wadha'if* by the 8th/14th-century scholar Ibn Rajab al-Ḥanbalī, where it introduces a reflection on Ramadan and the search for Laylat al-Qadr.

The verses move from regret over wasted time to a reminder of the extraordinary opportunity that Ramadan offers. A life may pass in distraction, the poet warns, yet within the turning of the year God places a night capable of transforming a person’s destiny. In a few compact lines, the poem captures themes that are central to Islamic spirituality: awareness of time, gratitude to God, and the urgency of turning back before opportunities pass.

What follows is a brief reading of the poem—its meaning, its imagery, and the spiritual lessons it conveys about time, repentance, and the search for the Night of Power.
 
 There is a beautiful rendering online albeit with  a minor difference:
 

 
 

 تَوَلَّى العُمْرُ في سَهْوٍ وفي لَهْوٍ وفي خُسْرِ
 
فَيَا ضَيْعَةَ ما أَنْفَقْتُ في الأَيَّامِ مِنْ عُمْرِي

My life has slipped away in heedlessness, diversion, and loss;
what a waste of life I poured into one passing day after another. 
(Note: The sequence rises in force: from heedlessness, to idle diversion, to outright loss) 

وَما لِي في الَّذي ضَيَّعْتُ مِنْ عُمْرِي مِنْ عُذْرِ
 
فَما أغفلنا من واجباتِ الحمدِ والشكرِ
I have no excuse for the years of life I squandered;
how careless we are with the obligations of praise and gratitude.
(Note: The voice shifts from “I” to “we,” widening private remorse into a general human failing. “Praise and gratitude” are owed to God) 


أَمَا قدْ خَصَّنا اللهُ بِشَهْرٍ أَيَّما شَهْرِ
 
بِشَهْرٍ أَنْزَلَ الرَّحْمٰنُ فيه أَشْرَفَ الذِّكْرِ
Has God not favored us with a month—what a month it is—
a month in which the Most Merciful sent down the noblest revelation?
(Note: This is Ramadan. “The noblest revelation” refers to the Qur’an, described here through the Qur’anic term al-dhikr) 


 وَهَلْ يُشْبِهُ شَهْرٌ وفيه لَيْلَةُ القَدْرِ
 
فَكَمْ مِنْ خَبَرٍ صَحَّ بِما فيها مِنَ الخَيْرِ

What month could compare with one that holds the Night of Power?
So many sound reports speak of the blessings found within it.
(Note: “Sound reports” points to authenticated prophetic reports about its virtue) 

 
رَوَيْنا عَنْ ثِقاتٍ أَنَّها تُطْلَبُ في الوِتْرِ
 
فَطُوبى لامْرِئٍ يَطْلُبُها في هٰذِهِ العَشْرِ

We have received from trustworthy transmitters that it is sought on the odd nights;
blessed is the one who seeks it in these last ten.
(Note: The “odd nights” are the odd-numbered nights among the last ten nights of Ramadan. Ṭūbā carries the sense of blessedness and glad tidings.) 


فَفيها تَنْزِلُ الأَمْلاكُ بِالأَنْوارِ والبِرِّ
 
وَقَدْ قالَ: سَلامٌ هِيَ حتّى مَطْلَعِ الفَجْرِ
In it the angels descend with light and blessing,
and God has said, “Peace it is until the break of dawn.”
(Note: This couplet echoes Sūrat al-Qadr. The night is imagined as filled with radiance, mercy, and divine calm.) 

أَلا فادَّخِرْها إِنَّها مِنْ أَنْفَسِ الذُّخْرِ
 
فَكَمْ مِنْ مُعَلَّقٍ فيها مِنَ النّارِ وَلا يَدْرِي
So treasure that night, for it is among the most precious of all treasures;
how many a soul hangs in suspense over the Fire without even knowing it.
(Note: We can take the final image as a warning: a person’s fate may hang in the balance, though he remains unaware. This last line is terse and a bit difficult in this reading, so any English version here involves some interpretation.) 
 
 
The above version follows the reading preserved in the Ibn Ḥazm text on Shamela and the parallel Islam-DB transcription.

The main variants I found are these.
Line 4: من واجبات in the Ibn Ḥazm / Islam-DB line, but عن واجبات in the ʿAwwād Allah edition.
Line 7: وهل يشبه شهر versus وهل يشبهه شهر.
The closing couplet is the biggest split: ألا فادخرها … فكم من معلّق versus ألا فادّخروها … فكم من معتق 
 

Wake upon Wakefulness (Ariqun ʿalā Ariq): Al-Mutanabbi


بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ
 
These famous lines carry a special force in the hearts of believers. In their original literary setting, some scholars may discuss them within the praise tradition of classical Arabic poetry, yet in devotional writing and sermons many of us are naturally drawn to hear them as applying most truly to the Messenger of Allah ﷺ. That is because when the name Muhammad is spoken in words of unmatched praise, mercy, beauty, and incomparability, the believing heart turns first to the Prophet ﷺ, the most beloved of creation and the fullest embodiment of noble character. So when we cite these verses in an article, lesson, or khutbah, we are often not making a narrow historical claim about the poet’s first intention; rather, we are receiving the lines in a living tradition of love, reverence, and spiritual meaning. In that devotional sense, the verses express something deeply true to Muslim faith: that no one in any age can equal the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, and that the soul recognizes in such language a fitting tribute to the one whom Allah sent as a mercy to the worlds.

أرَقٌ عَلى أرَقٍ وَمِثْلي يَأرَقُ

وَجَوًى يَزيدُ وَعَبْرَةٌ تَتَرَقْرَقُ

Wake upon wakefulness (insomnia)—and one like me must wake;
longing swells, and tears shimmer before the fall
 
جُهْدُ الصّبابَةِ أنْ تكونَ كما أُرَى
 

 عَينٌ مُسَهَّدَةٌ وقَلْبٌ يَخْفِقُ
Love at its farthest pitch can make of one no more
than a sleepless eye and a heart forever quick. 
(Note: extreme longing: an eye denied sleep, a heart that cannot settle)
 
مَا لاحَ بَرْقٌ أوْ تَرَنّمَ طائِرٌ

إلاّ انْثَنَيْتُ وَلي فُؤادٌ شَيّقُ
Whenever lightning flares, whenever birds begin, 
I turn at once—my yearning heart pulled after.
(Note: Lightning and birdsong are classic triggers of remembrance in Arabic love poetry)
جَرّبْتُ مِنْ نَارِ الهَوَى ما تَنطَفي
 

نَارُ الغَضَا وَتَكِلُّ عَمّا يُحْرِقُ
I have known in passion such a fire
that ghadā-wood’s blaze would faint and fail before it.
 (Note: Ghadā is a desert tree famous for fierce-burning wood)
وَعَذَلْتُ أهْلَ العِشْقِ حتى ذُقْتُهُ
 

فعجبتُ كيفَ يَموتُ مَن لا يَعشَقُ
I blamed the lovers once, until I tasted love;
then I wondered how the loveless can be said to die.
 
وَعَذَرْتُهُمْ وعَرَفْتُ ذَنْبي أنّني
 

عَيّرْتُهُمْ فَلَقيتُ منهُمْ ما لَقُوا
I pardoned them—and knew my own offense:
I had shamed them, and so I met the fate they met.
 
أبَني أبِينَا نَحْنُ أهْلُ مَنَازِلٍ
 

أبَداً غُرابُ البَينِ فيها يَنْعَقُ
O sons of one father, ours are houses
where the raven of parting cries forever.
 (Note: “The raven of parting” is a stock image in classical poetry: a dark omen of separation, departure, and loss.)
نَبْكي على الدّنْيا وَمَا مِنْ مَعْشَرٍ
 

جَمَعَتْهُمُ الدّنْيا فَلَمْ يَتَفَرّقُوا
We weep for this world; yet never has it gathered a people
without one day scattering them apart.
.
أينَ الأكاسِرَةُ الجَبابِرَةُ الأُلى
 

كَنَزُوا الكُنُوزَ فَما بَقينَ وَلا بَقوا
Where are the Kisrās (Persian Emperors), those old tyrannical kings
who hoarded treasure? Neither hoards nor hoarders stayed.
 
من كلّ مَن ضاقَ الفَضاءُ بجيْشِهِ
 

حتى ثَوَى فَحَواهُ لَحدٌ ضَيّقُ
How many whose armies cramped the breadth of earth—
then a narrow grave was wide enough for them.
 
خُرْسٌ إذا نُودوا كأنْ لم يَعْلَمُوا
 

أنّ الكَلامَ لَهُمْ حَلالٌ مُطلَقُ
Silent when called, as though they had never known
that speech was theirs, lawful and unconfined.
 
فَالمَوْتُ آتٍ وَالنُّفُوسُ نَفائِسٌ
 

وَالمُستَغِرُّ بِما لَدَيهِ الأَحمَقُ
Death is on the way, and souls are the real precious valuables
the fool is the one deceived by what  (material things) he owns.
 
 
وَالمَرْءُ يأمُلُ وَالحَيَاةُ شَهِيّةٌ
 

وَالشّيْبُ أوْقَرُ وَالشّبيبَةُ أنْزَقُ
Man keeps on hoping, for life is sweet;
old age is steadier, youth more rash.
 
وَلَقَدْ بَكَيْتُ على الشَّبابِ وَلمّتي
 

مُسْوَدّةٌ وَلِمَاءِ وَجْهي رَوْنَقُ
I wept for youth while still my hair was black,
while the brightness of my face had not yet dimmed.
 (Note: “The water of my face” in Arabic suggests both physical bloom and something of one’s dignity or social brightness.) 
 
حَذَراً عَلَيْهِ قَبلَ يَوْمِ فِراقِهِ
 

حتى لَكِدْتُ بمَاءِ جَفني أشرَقُ
I feared for it before the day of parting came,
until I almost choked upon the water of my eyes.
 
أمّا بَنُو أوْسِ بنِ مَعْنِ بنِ الرّضَى
 

فأعزُّ مَنْ تُحْدَى إليهِ الأيْنُقُ
But the sons of Aws ibn Maʿn ibn al-Riḍā—
most noble are they to whom the choicest she-camels are driven.
 
كَبّرْتُ حَوْلَ دِيارِهِمْ لمّا بَدَتْ
 

منها الشُّموسُ وَليسَ فيها المَشرِقُ
I cried, “God is greatest,” round their dwellings when they rose in sight:
suns were dawning there, though no east was there.
 
وعَجِبتُ من أرْضٍ سَحابُ أكفّهمْ
 

من فَوْقِها وَصُخورِها لا تُورِقُ
I marveled at a land above which the clouds of their hands hang—
and still its rocks do not leaf.
 
وَتَفُوحُ من طِيبِ الثّنَاءِ رَوَائِحٌ
 

لَهُمُ بكُلّ مكانَةٍ تُسْتَنشَقُ
From the sweetness of praising them there drift such scents
that every station in the world breathes them in.
 
مِسْكِيّةُ النّفَحاتِ إلاّ أنّهَا
 

وَحْشِيّةٌ بِسِواهُمُ لا تَعْبَقُ
Musk-laden are those wafts—yet wild (untamed) and shy:
for none but them do they release their fragrance.
 
أمُريدَ مِثْلِ مُحَمّدٍ في عَصْرِنَا
 

لا تَبْلُنَا بِطِلابِ ما لا يُلْحَقُ
Do you ask for one like Muhammad in our age?
Do not trouble us with pursuit of the unattainable.
  (Note: “Some scholars argue that within this praise sequence, “Muhammad” is a noble figure inside the patronal line, not the Prophet; al-Wāḥidī’s heading identifies the poem as praise for Abū al-Muntaṣir Shujāʿ b. Muḥammad b. Aws, as the qasida itself has already turned to Banū Aws before naming Muḥammad. Although the strongest critique of that is that it is highly unlikely that a practicing Muslim like Al-Mutanabbi would use such praise for anyone other than the Prophet  ﷺ, especially the couplet below) 
لم يَخْلُقِ الرَّحمنُ مثلَ مُحَمّدٍ
 

أحَداً وَظَنّي أنّهُ لا يَخْلُقُ
The Merciful has fashioned no one like Muhammad ;
I do not think He ever will.
 
يا ذا الذي يَهَبُ الكَثيرَ وَعِنْدَهُ
 

أنّي عَلَيْهِ بأخْذِهِ أتَصَدّقُ
You who give so much, and with such noble ease
that my taking from you seems alms I give to you—
 
أمْطِرْ عَليّ سَحَابَ جُودِكَ ثَرّةً
 

وَانظُرْ إليّ برَحْمَةٍ لا أغْرَقُ
Rain on me from the full clouds of your bounty,
but look on me with mercy, lest I drown.
 
كَذَبَ ابنُ فاعِلَةٍ يَقُولُ بجَهْلِهِ
 

ماتَ الكِرامُ وَأنْتَ حَيٌّ تُرْزَقُ
Lied that son of shame, speaking from sheer ignorance:
“The noble are dead”—while you live and are sustained.

  (Note: Ibn fāʿilah is a euphemistic insult, something like “son of a shameless woman.) 

Sunday, March 1, 2026

Hafez’s Funeral Couplet, Its Modern English Translation, and the Legend Behind It

 

   بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Hafez’s Funeral Couplet, Its Modern English Translation, and the Legend Behind It

 Khājeh Shams-od-Dīn Moḥammad Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī (Persian: خواجه شمس‌‌الدین محمد حافظ شیرازی), known by his pen name Hafez (حافظ Ḥāfeẓ lit. 'the memorizer' or 'the (safe) keeper'; 1325–1390) or Hafiz, is an influential figure in Sufi literature, and himself is known to be a Sufi possessing the gifts of the oracles, as Lisän al-Ghayb/lesān al-ḡayb, tongue of the unseen.
 
A popular—and very old—story ties this verse to Hafez’s funeral in Shiraz. The version summarized in the Daneshnāmeh-ye Farhang-e Mardom-e Irān (Center for the Great Islamic Encyclopedia) says that after Hafez died, some religious figures hesitated to perform the funeral prayer. To settle the dispute, it was agreed to draw an omen from his own words, a practice many people follow until today—by putting slips of his verses in a container and having a child pull one. The verse that came out was this couplet, and the reluctant group then proceeded with the rites.
 
But that same reference adds an important scholarly caution: we don’t actually know for sure that people were taking omens from Hafez during his lifetime, and the tradition is documented in sources compiled after his death; so the funeral-omen tale is best treated as part of his powerful cultural and hagiographic afterlife rather than certain, contemporary biography.
 
What is historically clear is that the Divān very early acquired an oracular status: Encyclopaedia Iranica notes that by the 15th century writers report Sufis calling the Divān “ Lisän al-Ghayb/lesān al-ḡayb” (“Tongue of the Unseen”), a title that later becomes strongly associated with Hafez himself. 
 
And for place: Hafez’s tomb is in Shiraz at the Moṣallā area (Ḵāk-e Moṣallā), the site later developed into today’s Hafeziya complex 
 
قَدَم دَریغ مَدار اَز جِنازِهٔ «حافِظ»
 
کِه گَرچِه غَرْقِ گُناه اَست می‌رَوَد بِه بِهِشْت 
qadam darīgh madār az jenāze-ye Ḥāfeẓ
ke garče ḡarq-e gonāh ast mī-ravad be behešt
 
 “Don’t hold back a step from Hafez’s funeral procession—
for though he’s drowned in sin, he’s on his way to Paradise.”
 
 
This couplet isn’t a stray epigram—it’s the maqṭaʿ (closing couplet, where the poet usually names himself) of a ghazal in Hafez’s Divān, the ghazal that begins:

کنون که می‌دمد از بوستان نسیم بهشت …

In many modern arrangements (including Ganjoor’s widely used ordering) it appears as Ghazal 79, and the lines above are the final couplet of that ghazal. 
 
In the ghazal’s flow, this comes right after Hafez pushes back against moral bookkeeping (“don’t shame me for a dark record—who truly knows what destiny has written?”). Then he lands the paradox: the public sinner, in the eyes of the pious, may still be received by mercy.

My take: it’s classic Hafez—half self-mocking, half a quiet dare. The point isn’t “sins don’t matter.” The point is: your certainty about other people’s final standing is the real spiritual danger.
 

The whole ghazal

کُنُون کِه مِی‌دَمَد اَز بُوسْتان نَسِیمِ بِهِشْت
مَن و شَرابِ فَرَح‌بَخْش و یارِ حُورْسِرِشْت
konūn ke mī-damad az būstān nasīm-e behešt
man o šarāb-e faraḥ-baḵš o yār-e hūr-serešt
 
“Now that the garden breathes the breeze of Paradise,
give me heart‑gladdening wine—and a beloved with an houri’s nature.”
 
 Notes:
“Breeze of Paradise” is spring itself: a sensual, almost sacred air moving through the garden.
Wine + beloved are Hafez’s signature double-language: literal joy on the surface, and (for Sufi ears) a hint of spiritual rapture underneath.

حُورْسِرِشْت (hūr-serešt) = “houri‑natured,” i.e., angelic/otherworldly in temperament.
 
گِدا چِرا نَزَنَد لافِ سَلْطَنَت اَمْرُوز؟
کِه خِیْمِه سَایِهٔ اَبْر اَسْت و بَزْمْگَه لَبِ کِشْت
gedā čerā nazanad lāf-e salṭanat emrūz?
ke ḵeyme sāye-ye abr ast o bazm-gah lab-e kešt
 
“Why shouldn’t a beggar boast of kingship today?
When your tent is the shade of a cloud, and your banquet‑hall is the edge of the fields.”
 
 Notes: 
Hafez flips social rank: in spring’s abundance, even a beggar can play the king.
Cloud‑shade as a “tent”: nature provides the pavilion; you need no palace.
Lab‑e kešt (the field’s edge) suggests a picnic‑banquet right where life is growing.
 
چَمَن حِکایَتِ اُرْدِیبِهِشْت مِی‌گُوید
نَه عاقِل اَسْت کِه نِسْیِه خَرید و نَقْد بِهِشْت
čaman ḥekāyat-e ordībehešt mī-gūyad
na ʿāqel ast ke nesye ḵarīd o naqd behešt
 
“The meadow tells the tale of Ordibehesht (the height of spring);
it isn’t wisdom to buy on credit—while Paradise is cash in hand.”
 
Notes: 
For  چَمَن see the bottom of the page.
Ordibehesht is the Persian month of lush spring; it literally contains بهشت (behešt, “paradise”) inside its name—Hafez is absolutely enjoying that.
The point is sharply practical: don’t trade the immediate, living ‘paradise’ of spring for a deferred promise (“on credit”).
I read this as Hafez’s gentle mockery of a piety that postpones joy until later.
 
بِه مِی عِمارَتِ دِل کُن کِه این جَهانِ خَراب
بَر آن سَر اَسْت کِه اَز خاکِ ما بِسازَد خِشْت
be mey ʿemārat-e del kon ke īn jahān-e ḵarāb
bar ān sar ast ke az ḵāk-e mā besāzad ḵešt
 
"Build up the heart with wine—because this ruined world
is set on making bricks from our dust.”
 
Notes: 
“Build the heart” is a striking phrase: wine isn’t just indulgence; it’s presented as a tool for inner restoration.
The second line is blunt mortality: the world will recycle us into clay and brick—so don’t live as if you’re permanent.
Sufi hearing: “wine” means the intoxicating remembrance that makes the heart alive.
وَفا مَجوی زِ دُشْمَن کِه پَرتَوِی نَدَهَد
چُو شَمْعِ صَوْمَعِه اَفْروزی اَز چِراغِ کِنِشْت 
vafā majūy ze došman ke partavī nadahad
čo šamʿ-e ṣowmeʿe afrūzī az čerāḡ-e kenisht
 
“Don’t look for loyalty from an enemy—they won’t give you a single gleam,
like trying to light a monastery’s candle from a temple’s lamp.”
 
Notes: 
وفا (vafā) is more than “faithfulness”: it’s loyalty, reliability, keeping the bond.
صومعه (ṣowmeʿe) = monastery/hermitage; کِنِشْت (kenisht) can refer to a non‑Muslim house of worship (often a synagogue/temple/place of assembly in Persian usage.). The contrast underlines incompatibility: don’t expect one source to feed the other.
My opinionated take: Hafez isn’t preaching sectarianism here; he’s using religious imagery to say: don’t demand warmth from what is structurally opposed to you.
 
مَکُن بِه نامِه‌سِیاهِی مَلامَتِ مَنِ مَسْت
کِه آگَه اَسْت کِه تَقْدیر بَر سَرَش چِه نِوِشْت؟   

makon be nāme-siyāhī malāmat-e man-e mast
ke āgah ast ke taqdīr bar saraš če nevesht?
 
“Don’t blame me—the drunk—for my blackened record;
who actually knows what Fate has written over someone’s head?”
 
Notes: 
نامه‌سیاهی (nāme-siyāhī) = the “blackness of the record,” i.e., a dark ledger of deeds.
The pivot is classic Hafez: moral accusation meets humility before the unknown.
“Written over one’s head” is destiny imagery: your final standing isn’t yours to certify.
 
قَدَم دَریغ مَدار اَز جِنازِهٔ «حافِظ»
کِه گَرچِه غَرْقِ گُناه اَسْت مِی‌رَوَد بِه بِهِشْت

qadam darīgh madār az jenāze-ye Ḥāfeẓ
ke garče ḡarq-e gonāh ast mī-ravad be behešt
 
 “Don’t hold back a step from Hafez’s funeral procession—
for though he’s drowned in sin, he’s on his way to Paradise.”
 
 
 
 
 Notes on  چَمَن : 
 
 چَمَن  (čaman) is one of those Persian words that seems simple (“meadow”), but in classical poetry it carries a whole garden-world of associations.

 With diacritics:
چَمَن
 Transliteration: čaman (also commonly romanized chaman)

 Shades of meaning

 1) A designed garden space: a walk / avenue in a garden

In older lexicography (and in descriptions of Persian garden layout),
چمن can mean the cleared, straight “walk” inside a garden, often lined with trees, with a place to sit, and sometimes planted with flowers and herbs—something close to “a garden promenade / avenue.”  

That’s a big clue for poetry:
چمن is not only “nature,” it’s also a human-made pleasure-space.

 2) The lawn / green carpet of a garden (and by extension, the garden itself)

From that “garden-walk” sense, it naturally extends to the greensward of a garden—the green ground itself—and then even to “garden / orchard / flower-garden” more broadly. Dehkhodā explicitly gives senses like “bāgh, bustān, golzār” and “any place where trees, shrubs, flowers are planted.”  

 3) Meadow / green field / pasture

This is the most common general meaning today, and it’s already classical:
زمین سبز و خرم، مرغزار” (“a lush green stretch; meadow/pasture”) is exactly how Moʿīn glosses it.  

 4) “Turf/grass” as a planted ground-cover (modern everyday use)

Dehkhodā also notes the everyday modern sense:
چمن  as the planted grass/turf people sow in parks, boulevards, fields, and gardens for a lasting green view.  

 5) A rarer, secondary meaning: a smooth-gaited horse

Less relevant to Hafez’s line, but interesting: Dehkhodā records
چمن as also said of an easy-paced, smooth-moving horse. 
 
Poetic “color” in classical Persian
Even when it simply means “meadow,”
چمن tends to imply:
 Spring as lived experience: a place to stroll, sit, drink, listen to birds, watch flowers open.
 A near-neighbor of Paradise: poets often yoke
چمن to بهشت in imagery (sometimes outright equating them). Dehkhodā even preserves examples like Saʿdī’s “چمن امروز بهشت است …” (“today the meadow is paradise …”).   The stage where the beloved appears: “سرو در چمن” (cypress in the meadow) becomes a standard picture: the tall beloved standing on the green “carpet.”

My take: in Hafez,
چمن usually feels less like a random field and more like the poetic garden-space where beauty is staged—a place you enter with others, where joy and meaning become visible.

 Etymology

A major scholarly reference (Encyclopaedia Iranica) lists Persian čaman “meadow” as a Turkic loanword, from Turkic čimän.  

So: it’s fully “at home” in Persian by the classical period, but its historical source is generally treated as Turkic in that reference.