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.

 

   بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Have Mercy, O Most Merciful

In Kashmir, people recite a refrain-based devotional poem where “تو رحم کن رحیما” is repeated every line. It’s very commonly attributed online to سعدی, but the exact text oes not match S'adi's authenticated “مناجات”. His well-known munājāt in بوستان، باب دهم (در مناجات و ختم کتاب) includes lines like:

خدایا به عزّت که خوارم مکن / به ذلّ گنه شرمسارم مکن

That “شرمسارم” line could be one reason people later connected this circulating poem to سعدی. This seems like the composition of a Kashmiri Farsi scholar. The refrain ‘تو رحم کن رحیما’ is credibly documented with an identified Urdu poet Abr, which I have translated at the end of this page.  But first, let me share the devotional poem and it's translation:

 

من بنده شرمسارم، تو رحم کن رحیما

I am a servant, ashamed—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

 در فسق بی‌شمارم، تو رحم کن رحیما

Lost in sins beyond counting—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

اندر سرای فانی کردم گناه، تو دانی

In this perishing world I sinned—you know it all.

درمانده را بخوانی، تو رحم کن رحیما

Call back the helpless one—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

شرمنده‌رویِ زردم، جرمِ عظیم کردم

My face is pale with shame; I have committed a great wrong.

خود را به تو سپردم، تو رحم کن رحیما

I have placed myself in Your hands—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

غیبت، دروغ گفتم، غافل بسی بخفتم

I backbit; I lied; I slept in heedlessness for so long.

توبه بسی شکستم، تو رحم کن رحیما

I broke my repentance time and again—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

در وقتِ نزعِ جانم، گویا بکن زبانم

At the hour my soul is taken, make my tongue speak clearly,

تا کلمه را بخوانم، تو رحم کن رحیما

so I may recite the sacred words—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

از تن رود چو جانم، بسته شود زبانم

When my soul leaves my body, and my tongue is bound,

بیچاره چون بِجانم، تو رحم کن رحیما

what will become of me, helpless, in that moment?—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

در گور چون بمانم، تنها چو بی‌کسانم

When I remain in the grave, alone like one with no one,

هر دم همین بخوانم، تو رحم کن رحیما

with every breath I will still cry: have mercy, O Most Merciful.

یارب، بحقِ مردان، گورم فراخ گردان

O Lord, for the sake of the righteous, make my grave spacious;

از فضل تا قیامت، تو رحم کن رحیما

by Your grace, until the Resurrection—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

یا رب، گنهکارم، پُرعیب، شرمسارم

O Lord, I am a sinner—full of faults, full of shame.

جز تو کسی ندانم، تو رحم کن رحیما

I know no refuge but You—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

جنت بده مکانم، با جمله مؤمنانم

Grant me Paradise as my dwelling, among all the faithful,

 تا جاودان بمانم، تو رحم کن رحیما

so I may remain forever—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

عمرم گذشت باطل، کرده گناه حاصل

My life has passed in vain; all I have harvested is sin.

بر این فقیرِ غافل، تو رحم کن رحیما

On this poor, heedless one—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

 

 

 

The poem by Abr Mirzapuri

شرم و گنہ میں ڈوبا تو رحم کن رحیما
ابرؔ مرزاپوری

 

شرم و گنہ میں ڈوبا تو رحم کن رحیما

Steeped in shame and sin—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

شرم و گنہ میں ڈوبا تو رحم کن رحیما

Steeped in shame and sin—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

عاصی ہوں میں سراپا تو رحم کن رحیما

I am disobedience from head to toe—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

انی ظلمت نفسی ہے تیری ذات رحماں

 I tortured myself with sin, yet Your very being is Mercy.

تو لطف کن کریما تو رحم کن رحیما

Show me Your kindness, O Generous One—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

بیحد ہیں جرم و عصیاں فاغفرلی یا الٰہی

My crimes and rebellions are beyond count—so forgive me, my God.

لا تقنطوا ہوں سنتا تو رحم کن رحیما

I keep hearing, “Do not despair”—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

میں تو نہیں ہوں موسیٰ پھر کیسی لن ترانی

I am no Moses—so why should I face “You shall not see Me”?

جلوہ دکھا دے اپنا تو رحم کن رحیما

Show me a glimpse of Your radiance—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

عاصی ہوں گو کہ لیکن بہرِ رسول اکرم

Though I am a sinner, yet for the sake of the Noble Messenger—

امید میری برلا تو رحم کن رحیما

my hope still shines clear—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

ہوں خاص میں بھی بندہ دعوا نہیں یہ مجھ کو

I do not claim to be a “chosen” servant—no such claim is mine.

ہوں تیرا نام لیوا تو رحم کن رحیما

I am one who calls Your Name—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

شاہد ہوں میں خدایا معبود ہے تو یکتا

I bear witness, my God: You alone are the One to be worshipped.

تیرا ہی ہے بھروسا تو رحم کن رحیما

My trust is only in You—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

گو من گناہ گارم غفاریٔ تو دانم

Yes, I am a sinner—yet I know You as the Great Forgiver.

تو رحم کن خدایا تو رحم کن رحیما

Have mercy, O God—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

یا رب بروز محشر پیشِ جمیع مرداں

O Lord, on the Day of Gathering, before all people—

رسوانہ مجھ کو کرنا تو رحم کن رحیما

do not let me be disgraced—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

یا رب بحقِ مرداں گورم فراخ گرداں

O Lord, for the sake of the righteous—make my grave wide and open.

بر ابر روز فردا تو رحم کن رحیما

And for Abr, on the coming day—have mercy, O Most Merciful.

 A couple of quick phrase-notes (so the English lands right):

 فاغفرلی: “forgive me” (a direct plea to God).
 لا تقنطوا: “do not despair” (echoing a Qur’anic reassurance).
 لن ترانی: “You shall not see Me” (linked to the Musa/Moses episode).
 جلوہ: not just “light,” but a flash/manifestation—a mystical “unveiling.”

 

 

Salawat Al-Dardiriyah

 بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Across modern and older compilations, the following ṣalawāt is commonly linked to the Egyptian Mālikī/Azharī scholar and Sufi, Shaykh Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Dardīr al-ʿAdawī (d. 1201 AH). One clear place where the formula appears inside a collection of “Ṣalawāt of Sīdī Aḥmad al-Dardīr” . This aligns with manuscript/catalog descriptions that treat “الصلوات الدرديرية” as a known corpus attributed to al‑Dardīr (with later commentarial tradition). Academic/bibliographic listings commonly mention a Dardīr ṣalawāt compilation under titles such as الصلوات الدرديرية and also المورد البارق في الصلاة على أفضل الخلائق . This is what is found in the compilation:

اللَّهُمَّ صَلِّ عَلَى سَيِّدِنَا مُحَمَّدٍ طِبِّ الْقُلُوبِ وَدَوَائِهَا،

وَعَافِيَةِ الْأَبْدَانِ وَشِفَائِهَا،

وَنُورِ الْأَبْصَارِ وَضِيَائِهَا،

وَعَلَى آلِهِ وَصَحْبِهِ وَسَلِّمْ.

O Allah, send blessings upon our master Muḥammad ﷺ—
the healing remedy of hearts and their cure,
the well-being of bodies and their recovery,
the light of eyes and their radiance—
and upon his family and his companions; and grant him peace.

 In many Indonesian masajid, it is recited with ardent fervor , as in these two videos:

 

 In some Rifāʿī transmission lines (للرفاعي), it is found in an expanded form, as follows: 

اللَّهُمَّ صَلِّ عَلَى سَيِّدِنَا مُحَمَّدٍ

طِبِّ الْقُلُوبِ وَدَوَائِهَا،

وَعَافِيَةِ الْأَبْدَانِ وَشِفَائِهَا،

وَنُورِ الْأَبْصَارِ وَضِيَائِهَا،

 وَقُوتِ الْأَرْوَاحِ وَغِذَائِهَا،

وَرُوحِ الْأَرْوَاحِ وَسِرِّ بَقَائِهَا،

وَعَلَى آلِهِ وَصَحْبِهِ وَسَلِّمْ. 

 O Allah, send blessings upon our master Muḥammadﷺ—

the medicine of hearts and their remedy,
the well-being of bodies and their healing,
the light of eyes and their radiance,
the sustenance of souls and their nourishment,
the spirit of spirits and the secret of their abiding—

and upon his family and his companions; and grant him peace.

And this:

اللَّهُمَّ صَلِّ وَسَلِّمْ وَبَارِكْ عَلَى سَيِّدِنَا مُحَمَّدٍ طِبِّ الْقُلُوبِ وَدَوَائِهَا، وَعَافِيَةِ الْأَبْدَانِ وَشِفَائِهَا، وَنُورِ الْأَبْصَارِ وَضِيَائِهَا، وَقُوتِ الْأَرْوَاحِ وَغِذَائِهَا، وَرُوحِ الْأَرْوَاحِ وَسِرِّ بَقَائِهَا، وَعَلَى آلِهِ وَصَحْبِهِ فِي كُلِّ لَمْحَةٍ وَنَفَسٍ عَدَدَ مَا وَسِعَهُ عِلْمُ اللَّهِ.

O Allah, bless, grant peace, and pour Your barakah upon our master Muḥammad ﷺ—
healing for hearts and their cure;
wholeness for bodies and their recovery;
light for eyes and their brightness;
food for souls and their nourishment;
life for spirits, and the secret by which they endure—
and upon his Family and Companions,
with every blink and every breath—beyond all counting, as Your knowledge contains. 

My version:

اللَّهُمَّ صَلِّ عَلَى سَيِّدِنَا مُحَمَّدٍ

طِبِّ الْقُلُوبِ وَدَوَائِهَا،

وَعَافِيَةِ الْأَبْدَانِ وَشِفَائِهَا،

وَنُورِ الْأَبْصَارِ وَضِيَائِهَا،

وَنُورِ الْبَصَائِرِ وَضِيَائِهَا ،

 وَقُوتِ الْأَرْوَاحِ وَغِذَائِهَا،

وَرُوحِ الْأَرْوَاحِ وَسِرِّ بَقَائِهَا،

وَعَلَى آلِهِ وَصَحْبِهِ وَسَلِّمْ. 

O Allah, send blessings upon our master Muḥammadﷺ—

the medicine of hearts and their remedy,
the well-being of bodies and their healing,
the light of eyes and their radiance, 

and the light of inner insights and their radiance.
the sustenance of souls and their nourishment,
the spirit of spirits and the secret of their abiding—
and upon his ﷺ family and his ﷺ companions; and grant himﷺ  peace.

Spring Theme

 

 بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

نیسانِ/نیسان

نیسانِ (Nīsān-e): a spring word that traveled from Mesopotamia into Persian—and kept gathering meanings. In Persian, the form نیسانِ is not a separate “mystery word” so much as a familiar grammatical shape: نیسان + ـِ (ezāfe). That tiny vowel sign ـِ (spoken as -e) links a noun to what follows it—like “of / relating to.” So بارانِ نیسان is literally “the rain of Nīsān,” and نسیمِ نیسان is “the breeze of Nīsān.” Persian also forms the adjective نیسانی (“Nisan-like / Nisan-related”), as in ابرِ نیسانی and بارانِ نیسانی—“Nisan cloud/rain,” i.e., spring rain that freshens gardens and fields.What makes نیسان special is that it carries two lives at once:

• as a calendar-month name (a loanword tied to spring), and
• as a poetic/ritual shorthand for spring rain, renewal, blessing.

1) The deep etymology: from “first fruits” to “first month”

The long linguistic trail behind Persian نیسان runs through the great calendar cultures of the ancient Near East. A widely cited etymology is:
Sumerian nisag “first fruits” -> Akkadian nisānu (name of the first month, spring) -> Aramaic/Syriac nīsān -> Hebrew nîsān -> later spread into neighboring languages (including Ottoman Turkish “Nisan,” and into Persian lexicography as a Syriac/Rūmī month-name).
A modern dictionary etymology makes this explicit: English Nisan is from Hebrew nîsān, from Akkadian nisānu, ultimately from Sumerian nisag, glossed as “first fruits.”
A 19th‑century scholarly discussion of Assyro‑Babylonian months also anchors Nisan/Nisin in spring timing: it associates the month with the vernal equinox period and places it around the latter part of March and the beginning of April—exactly the seasonal threshold where “first fruits” and “first rains” become culturally charged.
My opinion  etymologically is that a word like Nīsān survives across empires because it does more than label time. It collects seasonal meaning—harvest beginnings, new year rites, rain, fertility, release from hardship. When a month-name carries that much symbolism, it becomes portable. 

 2) Persian usage: a Syriac/Rūmī month-name that becomes a metaphor for rain and rejuvenation

Classical Persian calendars don’t have a native “Nisan” month the way Hebrew or Syriac do. Yet Persian dictionaries record نیسان specifically as a Syriac/Rūmī month-name, identifying it as a spring month and aligning it roughly with April and (by another alignment) with Ordibehesht. They also note a key semantic extension: “the rain of this month is also (figuratively) called Nisan.”
And Persian doesn’t stop at the month-name. It spins a whole spring lexicon:
نیسانی: “of Nisan,” especially ابر نیسانی / باران نیسانی—spring cloud and rain that bring greenness and freshness.
Even in poetry, the phrase works because it’s instantly seasonal: Nisan reads as “April-springness,” not as an abstract calendar label.
A small but useful caution: Persian lexicography also preserves a different “نیسان” meaning “contrary/opposition,” treated as unrelated and explained as a shortening linked to انیسان in some sources.  

3) Nisan as “new beginnings” in Hebrew tradition—and the question of “urs” and the departed

In the Talmud (Rosh Hashanah 10b–11a), a famous passage debates whether the world was created in Tishrei or Nisan. In that discussion, Rabbi Yehoshua states a sweeping “Nisan-centered” symmetry: in Nisan the world was created; in Nisan the Patriarchs were born; in Nisan the Patriarchs died; … and in Nisan Israel was redeemed, and in Nisan they will be redeemed in the future.
That is a direct “new beginnings + holy endings” linkage: Nisan holds creation, redemption, and also the completion of the lives of the Patriarchs (at least in that opinion).
Other traditional lists associate specific death commemorations with dates in Nisan—e.g., Miriam (a prophetess in the biblical sense) and Joshua—though these operate more like remembered anniversaries than the central “calendar pillars” that Passover represents.
In Sufi vocabulary, ʿurs (lit. “wedding”) reframes a saint’s death as a union with the Divine, and the anniversary becomes a celebration saturated with longing, music, and blessing.
Judaism does not use the category “ʿurs,” and Nisan’s strong anti-mourning tendency (no public mourning/fasting) actually pulls in the opposite direction: even when deaths are remembered, the month leans toward life and freedom.
My opinion: the productive comparison is not “Judaism has urs,” but rather: both traditions wrestle with how to remember holy deaths without letting grief dominate the season of renewal. In Nisan, the Jewish calendar “votes” for renewal; in ʿurs, Sufism “votes” for transfiguration.

4) The “rain of Nisan”: from Persian metaphor to Turkish ritual technology

First rain of the season becomes a synonym for spring’s first mercy, it practically invites ritual.
Persian lexicography already hints at this by treating “Nisan” as a name for the rain of that month and by normalizing phrases like آب نیسان / باران نیسانی.
In the wider Ottoman–Turkish cultural world, this takes a concrete, museum-grade form: the Nisan Tası (“April bowl”). Scholarly descriptions of the Nisan Tası at Konya (Mevlana Museum) emphasize three things:

• Material form and craftsmanship: it is a large metal basin (described in Turkish scholarship as cast metal; often rendered “brass/bronze” in English discussion) with gold and silver inlay and inscription bands.
• Historical patronage: it is associated with the Ilkhanid period and is linked in scholarship to Abu Saʿid Bahadur Khan (early 14th century).
• Ritual function: it was used to gather the April/Nisan rains—rain believed to carry blessing—and the collected water was then distributed (or used in blessing practices) for healing and baraka in Mevlevi/Ottoman folklore.

In the Mevlevi  tradition,  the bowl was placed to catch April rain, after which the water was treated as beneficial and shared.
My opinion: this is one of those moments where language becomes architecture. A month-name (“Nisan”) hardens into an artifact that literally captures the month—rain as time made drinkable. 

5) Basant in India: Chishti Sufis, yellow, and the politics of spring joy
The Sufi Basant at Nizamuddin

In Delhi, at the dargah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya (a leading saint of the Chishti order), Basant Panchami is observed in a distinctly Sufi idiom: yellow clothing, mustard flowers, qawwali, and a celebratory procession into the shrine.

A widely told origin story—reported in detail in contemporary accounts of the shrine’s practice—says that Amir Khusrau, the saint’s beloved disciple, adopted the yellow-and-mustard symbolism of local spring celebrations to lift his grieving master’s spirits; the master smiled, and the act became a recurring tradition.

These reports explicitly locate the practice inside the Chishti silsila history of Delhi and connect it to the shrine culture around Nizamuddin.
 

Amir Khusrau is not just a name in the legend; he is a genuine cultural bridge figure: an Indo-Persian poet and musician (1253–1325) who wrote extensively in Persian and is closely associated with the Sufi milieu of Delhi.
Encyclopaedia Iranica notes his long attachment to Neẓām-al-Dīn Awlīāʾ and situates him within that Chishti world.

So when Basant at Nizamuddin is explained through Khusrau, it is also—quietly—a story about Persianate literary culture learning the grammar of an Indian spring festival and translating it into Sufi devotion.

My opinion: the yellow of Basant functions like the “rain of Nisan.” Both are compressed symbols of spring’s arrival—one liquid, one color—and both get ritualized by Sufi communities as visible mercy.

7) My opinion on what “Nisan” means to me
If we step back, نیسانِ becomes more than “of Nisan.” It becomes a hinge phrase that lets Persian speak across three symbolic registers:

Calendar time (a month-name with ancient Mesopotamian roots).

Sacred history and remembered endings (rabbinic tradition placing creation/redemption—and even patriarchal death—within Nisan’s orbit, while also limiting public mourning).

Seasonal blessing practices (April rain captured in the Nisan Tası; spring joy sung as Basant at a Chishti shrine).

Spring is the one season that religions rarely leave “neutral.”
They either:

• mark it as cosmic beginning (creation/new year),
• frame it as social beginning (liberation/redemption),
• or collect it as material blessing (rain-water, flowers, color).

And the genius of words like Nisan is that they carry all three possibilities at once—so that نیسانِ can mean, depending on context: the month’s… the rain’s… the beginning’s… the remembered life-and-death turning point’s…

 

 

Moses and the Shepherd

 

 

  بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Moses and the Shepherd: Rumi’s Famous Lesson  

There’s a reason one particular scene from Rumi’s Masnavi keeps showing up everywhere—on social media, in sermons, in interfaith conversations, in classrooms, and in quiet moments when someone is trying to find words for the Divine. I’m not convinced by William Chittick’s neat split that casts Rumi as the voice of Love and Ibn ʿArabī as the voice of Knowledge, but the contrast can still be useful: this episode shows how insistently Rumi privileges love as a way of approach—one that refuses to shame sincerity.

A prophet overhears a shepherd praying in a way that sounds almost shocking: intimate, earthy, full of images that feel far too human. The prophet corrects him. The shepherd breaks. And then—Rumi flips the whole moment on its head. God responds, and the response is not what the “proper” listener would expect.

This is the story often titled “Moses and the Shepherd.” In the Masnavi, it appears in Book II, a cluster of verses that readers return to again and again.

 

Rumi, the Masnavi, and why this passage travels so far

 

Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī (1207–1273) is a towering figure in Persian literature and Sufi spirituality—both poet and teacher—whose work shaped mystical thought across the Muslim world and far beyond it.

His Masnavi-ye Maʿnavi (“Spiritual Couplets”) is immense—around 26,000 couplets—and has been treated by many Persian-reading Sufi communities as second in importance only to the Qur’an. It isn’t a single linear epic; it’s more like a vast teaching-text made of stories, arguments, jokes, parables, and sudden turns of illumination.

And in that ocean of teaching, “Moses and the Shepherd” has become one of the most shared and remembered episodes because it dramatizes a tension almost everyone recognizes:

•  the language of love versus the language of correctness
•  outer form versus inner sincerity
• the heart’s impulse versus the mind’s policing

It’s also famous because it refuses to let the reader rest in easy superiority. The “educated” character (Moses) is not mocked—but he is corrected. The “simple” character (the shepherd) is not romanticized—but he is defended.

In modern English-speaking culture, Rumi’s popularity has exploded—sometimes through faithful translations, sometimes through looser adaptations, and sometimes through quotations wrongly attributed to him. Writers have pointed out how often popular versions smooth away the Islamic texture of the original, even though the Masnavi is threaded with Qur’anic references and Arabic passages.

That matters here, because this story is not “religion-free.” It’s a spiritual argument inside a religious world: Rumi is critiquing spiritual arrogance, not throwing devotion away. 

The story, retold in prose

1) A prayer on the road

Moses is traveling when he hears a shepherd speaking aloud to God.

The shepherd’s prayer is tender, even playful—full of daily-life images. He speaks as if God were a beloved guest: Let me serve You. Let me care for You. Let me bring You comfort. He offers the kind of love he knows how to offer, shaped by the world he lives in—milk, bedding, mending, touch, nearness. In some Kashmiri retellings, the devotion even takes on a maternal tone—as though the devotee is mothering the Divine.

It isn’t the language of theology; it’s the language of longing—love, devotion, and service.

2) The rebuke

Moses is stunned.

He confronts the shepherd: Who are you talking to? What kind of speech is this?

To Moses, this is more than clumsy; it’s dangerous. God is not a body. God does not need shoes or hair-combing. This kind of talk sounds, to him, like disrespect—like dragging the Holy into the smallness of human need.

So Moses corrects him sharply. He insists on proper understanding, proper words, proper reverence.

And the shepherd—who was only trying to love—collapses inward. Shame floods him. He tears at himself with regret. Then he turns away and disappears into the desert.

The road goes quiet.

3) God’s response

Then comes the turning point that makes this story unforgettable: God speaks to Moses.

And the message is not, Well done for defending My honor.

The message is closer to: You separated My servant from Me. Why?

God’s reply reframes everything. It isn’t that knowledge is worthless or that theology is evil. It’s that Moses used knowledge like a weapon—without tenderness, without wisdom, without reading the human heart in front of him.

God’s correction insists on something radical:

• People speak from their capacity.

• Devotion wears many dialects.

• God looks past phrasing and hears intention.

In other words: Do not confuse spiritual refinement with spiritual reality.

4) The search

Moses is shaken. He goes after the shepherd across the wilderness.

Rumi makes this pursuit vivid: Moses follows footprints that wander strangely—because the shepherd is not walking in tidy lines anymore. He’s broken open. His grief and love have made him erratic, raw.

Finally, Moses finds him.

5) Permission, and something beyond permission

Moses brings a new message: Speak freely. Don’t strain for etiquette. Say what your heart needs to say.

But the shepherd surprises Moses again.

He says, in essence: That version of me is gone. Your rebuke burned through my words. I’m not where I was.

He has moved beyond his earlier, image-filled prayer—not because Moses was “right,” but because the shock cracked something open inside him. He is no longer merely speaking about love; he is living inside its wound and its fire.

And the story leaves us with a quiet paradox:

• The shepherd needed to be protected from humiliation.

• And yet the shepherd’s path still passes through heartbreak into a deeper kind of speechlessness.

Rumi doesn’t tie it all up with a neat moral. He leaves it alive, unfinished, and burning.

This story has survived for centuries because it targets a temptation that never dies: the urge to correct someone’s devotion instead of understanding it.

Rumi is not saying, “All speech about God is equally accurate.” He’s saying something more challenging:

God is not small enough to be defended by your ego.
And a human heart is too precious to be crushed in the name of correctness.

It’s also a story about spiritual maturity. Early on, many of us think faith means “getting the words right.” Later, we start to sense that faith also means “not breaking the bruised reed.” And deeper still, we learn that love sometimes outgrows both speech and argument.

 

 Moses objects to the shepherd’s prayer

 دید موسی یک شبانی را به راه
 
کو همی‌گفت ای گزیننده اله

Translation:
Moses saw a shepherd on the road one night,
who kept calling, “O God—O Chooser, O Electing One!”

تو کجایی تا شوم من چاکرت
 
چارقت دوزم کنم شانه سرت

Translation:
“Where are You, so I can be Your servant?
I’ll stitch Your sandals; I’ll comb Your hair.

جامه‌ات شویم شپشهاات کُشم
 
شیر پیشت آورم ای محتشم

Translation:
I’ll wash Your clothes, I’ll pick off Your lice;
I’ll bring You milk, my honored Lord.

دستکت بوسم بمالم پایکت
 
وقت خواب آید بروبم جایکت

Translation:
I’ll kiss Your hand; I’ll rub Your feet;
when sleep comes, I’ll sweep Your sleeping-place.”

ای فدای تو همه بزهای من
 
ای بیادت هیهی و هیهای من

Translation:
“All my goats—every one—are Yours to take;
and every ‘hey!’ and ‘ho!’ I cry out is for You.”

این نمط بیهوده می‌گفت آن شبان
 
گفت موسی با کی است این ای فلان

Translation:
In this way the shepherd spoke—so simply, so unaware.
Moses said, “Hey you—who are you talking to?”

گفت با آنکس که ما را آفرید
 
این زمین و چرخ ازو آمد پدید

Translation:
He said, “To the One who created us—
from Him this earth and turning sky appeared.”

گفت موسی های بس مُدبِر شدی
 
خود مسلمان ناشده کافر شدی

Translation:
Moses said, “Ah—you’ve gone terribly astray;
you haven’t even become a Muslim, and you’ve already fallen into unbelief."

این چه ژاژست این چه کفرست و فُشار
 
پنبه‌ای اندر دهان خود فشار

Translation:
What is this babble—this disbelief, this filth?
Stuff some cotton in your mouth and stop!”

گند کفر تو جهان را گنده کرد
 
کفر تو دیبای دین را ژنده کرد

Translation:
The stink of your unbelief has fouled the world;
your unbelief has frayed religion’s brocade.

چارق و پاتابه لایق مر تراست
 
آفتابی را چنینها کی رواست

Translation:
Sandals and foot-wraps are fit for you—
but how could such things suit the Sun?

گر نبندی زین سخن تو حلق را
 
آتشی آید بسوزد خلق را

Translation:
If you don’t close your throat to talk like this,
a fire will come and burn the people.

آتشی گر نامدست این دود چیست
 
جان سیه گشته روان مردود چیست

Translation:
If Ino fire has come, what is this smoke?
What is this blackened soul—this rejected spirit?

گر همی‌دانی که یزدان داورست
 
ژاژ و گستاخی ترا چون باورست 

Translation:
If you know God is the Judge,
how can you hold to such nonsense and insolence?

 دوستی بی‌خرد خود دشمنیست
 
حق تعالی زین چنین خدمت غنیست 

Translation:
Love without understanding becomes its own enemy;
God has no need of service like this.

با کی می‌گویی تو این با عم و خال
 
جسم و حاجت در صفات ذوالجلال

Translation:
Who are you speaking to—your uncle, your aunt?
Do you pin body and need onto the Lord of Majesty?

شیر او نوشد که در نشو و نماست
 
چارق او پوشد که او محتاج پاست

Translation:
Milk is for one who grows and develops;
shoes are for one who needs feet.

ور برای بنده‌شست این گفت تو
 
آنک حق گفت او منست و من خود او

Translation:
And if you mean these words for God’s servant—
the one of whom God said, “He is Me, and I am he”—

آنک گفت انی مرضت لم تعد
 
من شدم رنجور او تنها نشد

Translation:
the one about whom He said, “I was sick and you did not visit Me”—
“I became ill; it wasn’t only him.”

آنک بی یسمع و بی یبصر شده‌ست
 
در حق آن بنده این هم بیهده‌ست

Translation:
the one in whom “he hears” and “he sees” are no longer his own—
even toward such a servant, this talk is still misplaced.

بی ادب گفتن سخن با خاص حق
 
دل بمیراند سیه دارد ورق

Translation:
To speak without reverence to God’s intimates
kills the heart, and blackens the page (of deeds).

گر تو مردی را بخوانی فاطمه
 
گرچه یک جنس‌اند مرد و زن همه

Translation:
If you call a man “Fatimah,”
even though man and woman are one human kind,

قصد خون تو کند تا ممکنست
 
گرچه خوش‌خو و حلیم و ساکنست

Translation:
he’ll go for your blood if he can—
even if he’s gentle, patient, and calm.

فاطمه مدحست در حق زنان
 
مرد را گویی بود زخم سنان

Translation:
“Fatimah” is praise when said of women;
say it to a man—it lands like a spear-wound.

دست و پا در حق ما استایش است
 
در حق پاکی حق آلایش است

Translation:
Hands and feet, for us, are fitting praise;
for God’s pure Being, such words are a stain.

لم یلد لم یولد او را لایق است
 
والد و مولود را او خالق است

Translation:
“He neither begets nor is begotten” suits Him;
He is the Creator of parent and child.

هرچه جسم آمد ولادت وصف اوست
 
هرچه مولودست او زین سوی جوست

Translation:
Whatever is bodily bears the mark of birth;
whatever is born belongs on this (our) side of things.

زانک از کون و فساد است و مهین
 
حادثست و محدثی خواهد یقین

Translation:
For it belongs to coming-to-be and passing-away, and it is lowly;
it is created—and surely needs a Creator.

گفت ای موسی دهانم دوختی
 
وز پشیمانی تو جانم سوختی

Translation:
The shepherd said, “Moses—you sewed my mouth shut;
your rebuke has burned my soul with regret.”

 جامه را بدرید و آهی کرد تفت
 
سر نهاد اندر بیابانی و رفت

Translation:
He tore his cloak and let out a scorching sigh,
bowed his head, and went off into the desert.

God reproaches Moses for the shepherd 

 وحی آمد سوی موسی از خدا
 
بندهٔ ما را ز ما کردی جدا

Translation:
A revelation came to Moses from God:
“You have torn Our servant away from Us.”

تو برای وصل کردن آمدی
 
یا برای فَصل کردن آمدی؟

Translation:
Did you come to join (hearts) together—
or did you come to split them apart?

 تا توانی پا مَنِه اندر فَراق
 
اَبْغَضُ الْاَشْیاء عِندي الطَّلاق

Translation:
As far as you can, do not step into separation;
the most detested thing to Me is divorce.

  هر کسی را سیرتی بنهاده‌ام
 
هر کسی را اصطلاحی داده‌ام 

Translation:
I have placed a particular nature in each soul;
I have given each one their own way of speaking.

در حقِ او مَدح و در حقِّ تو ذَم
 
در حقِ او شَهد و در حقِّ تو سَم

Translation:
For him it was praise, but for you it was blame;
for him it was honey, but for you it was poison.

ما بَری از پاک و ناپاکی همه
 
از گِرانجانی و چالاکی همه

Translation:
We are beyond all “pure” and “impure,”
beyond “heavy” and “quick,” beyond every such measure.

من نکردم امر تا سودی کنم
 
بَلک تا بر بندگان جودی کنم

Translation:
I do not command in order to profit—
I command to pour generosity upon My servants.

 هندوان را اصطلاحِ هند مدح
 
سندیان را اصطلاحِ سِند مدح

Translation:
To Indians, the Indian idiom is fitting praise;
to Sindhis, the Sindhi idiom is fitting praise.

من نگردم پاک از تسبیحِشان
 
پاک هم ایشان شوند و دُرفِشان

Translation:
Their glorifying does not cleanse Me—
it cleanses them, and what is precious within them.

ما زبان را نَنْگریم و قال را
 
ما روان را بنگریم و حال را

Translation:
We do not look at language and talk;
We look at the spirit, and the living state.

ناظرِ قلبیم اگر خاشِع بوَد
 
گرچه گفتِ لَفظ، ناخاضِع رُوَد 

Translation:
We watch the heart—if it is humbled;
even if the phrasing sounds unmannered.

 زانک دل جَوهر بوَد، گفتن عَرَض
 
پس طُفَیل آمد عَرَض، جَوهرْ غَرَض

Translation:
The heart is the substance; speech is only an attribute—
the attribute is incidental; the substance is the aim.

 چند ازین اَلفاظ و اِضْمار و مَجاز؟
 
سوزْ خواهمْ سوز، با آن سوزْ ساز

Translation:
How long with words, hints, and figurative turns?
I want burning—true burning—tuned to that fire.

آتشی از عشق در جانْ بَر فُروز
 
سَر بِسَر فکر و عبارت را بسوز

Translation:
Kindle a fire of love inside the soul;
burn up, completely, thought and expression.

موسیا آداب‌دانان دیگرند
 
سوخته جان و روانان دیگرند

Translation:
Moses—those trained in etiquette are one kind;
those burnt through in soul and spirit are another.

عاشقان را هر نفَسْ سوزیدَنیست
 
بر دِهِ ویران خَراج و عُشْر نیست

Translation:
For lovers, every breath is a new burning;
you don’t demand tax and tithe from a ruined village.

گر خطا گوید، وُرا خاطی مگو
 
گر بوَد پُر خون شهید، او را مشو

Translation:
 If he speaks “wrong,” do not call him guilty;
if a martyr is drenched in blood, do not wash him.

خون، شهیدان را ز آب اَولیٰ تَرَست
 
این خطا، از صد صَواب اَولیٰ ترست

Translation:
A martyr’s blood is better than water;
this “mistake” is better than a hundred “correct” acts.

در درونِ کعبه رسمِ قبله نیست
 
چه غم اَر غَوّاص را پاچیله نیست؟

Translation:
Inside the Kaaba, there is no rule of facing the prayer‑direction;
what sorrow is it if the diver has no shoes?

تو ز سَرمَستان قَلاوُزی مجو
 
جامه‌چاکان را چه فرمایی رَفو؟

Translation:
Don’t ask the ecstatic drunk to be your guide;
what can you tell the garment‑tearers about mending?

ملتِ عشق از همه دینها جداست
 
عاشقان را ملت و مذهب خداست

Translation:
The nation of love is separate from all religions;
for lovers, God alone is creed and path.

 لَعْل را گر مُهر نبوَد باک نیست
 
عشق در دریای غم، غمناک نیست

Translation:
If the ruby has no official seal, it’s no loss;
love, in the sea of grief, does not become grief‑struck.

 

Revelation to Moses in defense of that shepherd

بعد از آن در سِرّ موسی حق نهفت
 
رازهایی گفت کان ناید به گفت

Translation:
Then God hid something deep within Moses,
and spoke secrets no speech can fully carry.

بر دل موسی سخن‌ها ریختند
 
دیدن و گفتن به هم آمیختند

Translation:
Words were poured into Moses’ heart;
seeing and saying became one mingled stream.

چند بی‌خود گشت و چند آمد به خوَد
 
چند پَرّید از ازل سوی ابد

Translation:
For a while he vanished from himself, then came back again;
for a while he flew from “forever” toward “forevermore.”

 بعد از این گر شرح گویم ابلهیست
 
زانک شرح این ورای آگهیست

Translation:
To explain it now would be foolish,
for this is beyond the reach of ordinary knowing.

ور بگویم عقل‌ها را برکَند
 
ور نویسم بس قلم‌ها بشکند

Translation:
If I spoke it, it would tear minds apart;
if I wrote it, it would break a thousand pens.

چون که موسی این عتاب از حق شنید
 
در بیابان در پی چوپان دوید

Translation:
When Moses heard that rebuke from God,
he ran into the desert after the shepherd.

بر نشان پای آن سرگشته راند
 
گرد از پرّهٔ بیابان برفشاند 

Translation:
He followed the tracks of that bewildered soul,
kicking up dust from the desert’s wide face.

گام پای مردم شوریده خوَد
 
هم ز گام دیگران پیدا بوَد

Translation:
The footprints of a person beside themselves
stand out at once from everyone else’s.

یک قدم چون رخ ز بالا تا نشیب
 
یک قدم چون پیل رفته بر وریب

Translation:
One step went straight, like a rook from height to slope;
the next veered sideways, like an elephant on a slant.

گاه چون موجی بر افرازان عَلَم
 
گاه چون ماهی روانه بر شکم

Translation:
Now he surged like a wave, hoisting a flag,
now he slid like a fish, belly to the water.

گاه بر خاکی نبشته حال خْوَد
 
همچو رمالی که رملی بر زند

Translation:
Now he wrote his state upon the dust,
like a geomancer (a type of fortune-teller) casting lines in sand.

عاقبت دریافت او را و بدید
 
گفت مژده ده که دستوری رسید

Translation:
At last he found him and saw him, and said:
“Rejoice—permission has come.”

هیچ آدابی و ترتیبی مجو
 
هرچه می‌خواهد دل تنگت بگو

Translation:
Seek no etiquette, no careful form;
say whatever your tight heart longs to say.

کفر تو دین است و دینت نور جان
 
آمنی وز تو جهانی در امان

Translation:
Your “unbelief” is faith, and your faith is soul-light;
you are safe—and through you, a whole world is safe.

ای معاف یفعل الله ما یشا
 
بی‌محابا رو زبان را برگشا

Translation:
You are excused—God does whatever He wills;
go on: open your tongue without fear.

گفت ای موسی از آن بگذشته‌ام
 
من کنون در خون دل آغشته‌ام

Translation:
He said, “Moses, I’ve gone beyond all that;
now I’m drenched in the heart’s own blood.”

من ز سدرهٔ منتهی بگذشته‌ام
 
صد هزاران ساله زان سو رفته‌ام

Translation:
“I have passed beyond the Lote-Tree at the farthest boundary;
I have gone beyond it for hundreds of thousands of years.”

تازیانه بر زدی اسپم بگشت
 
گنبدی کرد و ز گردون بر گذشت

Translation:
“You struck your whip—my mount bolted;
it vaulted like a dome and leapt past the heavens.”

محرم ناسوت ما لاهوت باد
 
آفرین بر دست و بر بازوت باد

Translation:
“May the unseen become intimate with our earthly life;
blessing on your hand, blessing on your arm.”

حال من اکنون برون از گفتن است
 
اینچ می‌گویم نه احوال من است

Translation:
“My state now lies outside of words;
what I’m saying isn’t truly my state.”

 نقش می‌بینی که در آیینه‌ای‌ست
 
نقش توست آن نقش آن آیینه نیست

Translation:
“The image you see inside the mirror—
that image is yours; it isn’t the mirror’s.”

دم که مرد نایی اندر نای کرد
 
درخور نایست نه درخورد مرد

Translation:
“The breath a reed-player blows into the reed
fits the reed—not the man behind it.”

هان و هان گر حمد گویی گر سپاس
 
همچو نافرجام آن چوپان شناس

Translation:
So beware, beware: whether you praise or give thanks,
know yourself like that unlucky shepherd—limited, human.

حمد تو نسبت بدان گر بهترست
 
لیک آن نسبت به حق هم ابترست

Translation:
Even if your praise seems finer than his by comparison,
that comparison still falls short when set beside God.

چند گویی چون غطا برداشتند
 
کاین نبوده‌ست آنک می‌پنداشتند

Translation:
How long will you say—once the veil is lifted—
“It wasn’t what we thought it was”?

این قبول ذکر تو از رحمت است
 
چون نماز مستحاضه رخصت است

Translation:
This acceptance of your remembrance is pure mercy—
like a concession granted for a prayer made under hardship.

با نماز او بیالوده‌ست خون
 
ذکر تو آلودهٔ تشبیه و چون

Translation:
Her prayer is stained with blood;
your remembrance is stained with “likening” and “how.”

خون پلید است و به آبی می‌رود
 
لیک باطن را نجاست‌ها بود

Translation:
Blood is impure—and water can wash it away;
but the inner self has its own filth.

کان به غیر آب لطف کردگار
 
کم نگردد از درون مرد کار

Translation:
And that, except by the water of the Creator’s grace,
does not diminish from within a person.

در سجودت کاش روگردانیی
 
معنی سبحان ربی دانیی

Translation:
If only, in your prostration, you would turn away from yourself,
you would know what “Subḥāna Rabbī” really means. 

کای سجودم چون وجودم ناسزا
 
مر بدی را تو نکویی ده جزا

Translation:
It means: “My bowing—my very being—is unworthy, 
yet You repay my evil with goodness.”

این زمین از حلمِ حق دارد اثر
 
تا نجاست بُرد و گل‌ها داد بَر

Translation:
This earth bears the mark of God’s forbearance:
it carries off filth, and brings forth flowers.

تا بپوشد او پلیدی‌های ما
 
در عوض بر روید از وی غنچه‌ها

Translation:  
It covers our impurities—
and in return, buds rise up from it.

پس چو کافر دید کاو در داد و جود
 
کم‌تر و بی‌مایه‌تر از خاک بود

Translation:
Then the unbeliever saw that in generosity
he was poorer, emptier, less than dust.

از وجود او گل و میوه نَرُست
 
جز فساد جمله پاکی‌ها نجُست 

Translation:
From his existence no flower or fruit would grow;
he sought no purity—only corruption.

 گفت واپس رفته‌ام من در ذهاب
 
حَسْرَتا، یا لَیْتَنی کُنْتُ تُراب

Translation:
He said, “I’ve fallen back on this road I took—
alas—if only I were dust!”

کاش از خاکی سفر نگزیدمی
 
همچو خاکی دانه‌ای می‌چیدمی

Translation:
 If only I hadn’t left the station of dust;
like dust, I would have gathered a seed.”

چون سفر کردم، مرا راه آزمود
 
زین سفرکردن ره‌آوردم چه بود؟

Translation:
“When I set out, the road tested me—
what did I bring back from all this travelling?”

زان همه میلش سوی خاک است کو
 
در سفر سودی نبیند پیش رو

Translation:
That’s why his longing turns toward dust again—
he sees no gain ahead in going on.

روی واپس کردنش آن حرص و آز
 
روی در ره کردنش صدق و نیاز

Translation:
Turning back comes from greed and appetite;
moving forward comes from sincerity and need.

هر گیا را کش بود میلِ عُلا
 
در مَزید است و حیات و در نُما

Translation:
Any plant that yearns upward
lives in increase—life and growth and rising.

چونک گردانید سر سوی زمین
 
در کمی و خشکی و نقص و غبین

Translation:
But when it turns its head toward the ground,
it falls into smallness, dryness, lack, and loss.

میل روحت چون سوی بالا بود
 
در تَزایُد مرجعت آنجا بود

Translation:
When your spirit’s desire is toward what’s above,
your return is there—your increase is there.

ور نگوساری سرت سوی زمین
 

آفِلی، حَق لا یُحِبُّ الْآفِلین

Translation:
And if you bend your head down toward the earth,
you are a “setting one”—and God does not love what sets