Enter This Door with Bismillah: A Persian Inscription at the Shrine of Shaykh Hamza

 بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

There are inscriptions that do not merely record a date. They teach a way of entering.

At the shrine of Shaykh Hamza Makhdoomi in Kashmir, there is a short Persian inscription carved in stone. It is brief, but it carries the fragrance of an older adab. The stone does not simply say: come in. It tells the visitor how to come in.

 The text appears to read:

بَا اَدَب، زَائِرِ عَقِیدَت‌کِیش
اَنْدَرِین دَر دَرآ بِه بِسْمِ ٱللّٰهِ
هَم بِسَالِ بِنَاش مَا هَم گُفْت
دَرْگَهِ شَیْخ حَمْزَه، بِسْمِ ٱللّٰهِ

A cautious translation would be:

With adab, O pilgrim of devotion,

enter this door with Bismillah.

Concerning the year of its construction, it was said:

“The threshold of Shaykh Hamza — Bismillah.”

Starts with a beautiful line:

بَا اَدَب، زَائِرِ عَقِیدَت‌کِیش

With adab, O pilgrim of devotion.

The visitor is not addressed merely as a passer-by. He is called زائرِ عقیدت‌کیش — a pilgrim whose way is reverence, whose path is devotion. This is not the language of tourism. It is the language of inward posture.

Then comes the instruction:

اَنْدَرِین دَر دَرآ بِه بِسْمِ ٱللّٰهِ

Enter this door with Bismillah.

This is more than a phrase said before entering a building. It is a reminder that the body should not cross a sacred threshold before the heart has lowered itself in seeking the help, blessings and permission of God. A shrine is not entered like a market, a courtyard, or an ordinary room. It is entered with remembrance. It is entered with humility. It is entered in the name of Allah.

Adab is not only in the tongue. It is in the way we approach. It is in how we stand at a door. It is in whether we enter as owners or as servants.

The third line is the most difficult part of the inscription. The visible reading seems to be:

هَم بِسَالِ بِنَاش مَا هَم گُفْت

This line is not straightforward Persian if read literally as ما هم گفت, because “we also said” would normally be ما هم گفتیم, not ما هم گفت. It is possible that the word is a worn personal name, or a compressed epigraphic form, or that part of the carving has become unclear with time. For this reason, I would not build the meaning of the inscription on that uncertain phrase. Its function is clear: it introduces the chronogram that follows.

The final line gives the date:

دَرْگَهِ شَیْخ حَمْزَه، بِسْمِ ٱللّٰهِ

The dargah of Shaykh Hamza — Bismillah.

This is a مادّهٔ تاریخ, a chronogram. The letters themselves carry the date through their abjad values. The phrase is not only devotional. It is also numerical. Hidden inside the words درگه شیخ حمزه بسم الله is the year 1367 Hijri.

There is something very fitting in that. The date is not written as bare information. It is concealed inside a phrase of reverence: the threshold of Shaykh Hamza, in the name of Allah. The year is carried by the same words that teach the visitor how to enter.

The inscription begins with adab and ends with Bismillah. Between the two is the whole path of a seeker.

Before entering, remember.

Before asking, lower yourself.

Before stepping through the door, say the Name.

Abjad check

The chronogram is the final phrase:

دَرْگَهِ شَیْخ حَمْزَه، بِسْمِ ٱللّٰهِ

Word	Abjad value
دَرْگَه	د 4 + ر 200 + گ/ک 20 + ه 5 =                          229
شَیْخ	ش 300 + ی 10 + خ 600 = 910
حَمْزَه	ح 8 + م 40 + ز 7 + ه 5 = 60
بِسْم	ب 2 + س 60 + م 40 = 102
ٱللّٰه	ا 1 + ل 30 + ل 30 + ه 5 = 66
Total	1367

So the chronogram reads:

دَرْگَهِ شَیْخ حَمْزَه، بِسْمِ ٱللّٰهِ = ۱۳۶۷

The spelling درگه is important. If the word were read as درگاه, the extra alif would add 1, making the total 1368. But درگه gives 1367, matching the Hijri date of the inscription.  

Saʿdī on Need, Mercy, and the Only Door

  بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ 

There are some poems that do not simply explain an idea. They stay with you, waiting until life gives you the right wound, and then suddenly their meaning becomes abundantly clear and serves as the appropriate healing for that wound.

This short anecdote from Saʿdī’s Būstān is one of them.

It begins with an old man who spends the night awake in worship:

شنیدم که پیری شبی زنده داشت

سحر دست حاجت به حق بر فراشت

“I heard of an old man who kept vigil through the night;
at dawn he raised the hands of need toward God.”

The scene is simple, still and quiet. An old man, a night of wakefulness, the early light of dawn, and two hands lifted in need. There is no spectacle here. No audience. No performance. Just a human being at the threshold of God.

But then the story becomes difficult.

A voice from the unseen says to him:

که «بی‌حاصلی، رو سر خویش گیر

بر این در دعای تو مقبول نیست»

“You are getting nowhere. Go, mind your own affair.
At this door, your prayer is not accepted.”

This is a hard line to read, let alone to hear.

Many of us can bear delay. We can bear uncertainty. We can even bear silence for a time. But to be told, “Your prayer is not accepted”—that wounds deep. It raises the painful question that almost every sincere believer has felt at some point: What do I do when I have prayed, waited, wept, and still the door seems closed?

Saʿdī does not rush to make the pain easy. He does not give us quick consolation. The next night, the old man returns again to worship. He does not sleep. He continues in ذکر and طاعت, remembrance and obedience.

A disciple notices this and says, in effect: Why are you still doing this?

چو دیدی کز آن روی بسته‌ست در

به بی‌حاصلی سعی چندین مبر

“When you have seen that the door is shut from that side,
do not keep wearing yourself out in fruitless effort.”

This is the voice of ordinary reasoning. It is not even a cruel voice. It sounds sensible. If a door is closed, why stand there? If a path is blocked, why continue? If the answer is no, why persist?

But the old man’s reply opens another kind of wisdom.

به نومیدی آنگه بگردیدمی

از این ره، که راهی دگر دیدمی

“I would only turn away from this path in despair
if I had seen another road.”

Bedil explains in his own words:

تُو کَریمِ مُطلَق و مَن گَدا،

چِه کُنی جُز این‌کِه بِخوانی‌اَم؟

دَرِ دیگَری بِنُما کِه مَن

بِه کُجا رَوَم چُو بِرانی‌اَم؟

 

Meaning:

You are the Epitome of Generosity and I am a beggar 

What else can You do but invite me to Your door?

Or show me another door that I can head for

That I can go to, if you shoo me away 

This, for me, is the fulcrum of the whole story.

The old man does not say, “I deserve acceptance.” He does not say, “My worship must count for something.” He does not present his record, his piety, his age, his tears, or his years of devotion. He has no spiritual résumé to put before God.

Instead, he says something far more honest, that underlines one of the greatest truths there is: Which road is there other than this?

He continues:

شنیدم که راهم در این کوی نیست

ولی هیچ راه دگر روی نیست

“I have heard that there is no way for me into this lane,
but there is no other road toward which I can turn.”

This is not stubbornness. It is not a bargaining tactic. It is not the ego trying to force heaven’s hand. It is spirituality in its purest form.

The old man has realized that both the beginning as well as the end of all alternatives is with God. He has reached the point where the soul understands, not as a doctrine only, but as lived truth: there is no power, nor refuge but God.

In Persian mystical language, the door is never merely architectural. It is the threshold of mercy. The kūy, the lane or quarter of the Beloved, is the place of nearness. To be told that one has no way into that lane is devastating. But Saʿdī’s old man remains there because his heart knows something that argument cannot overturn: even a closed divine door is still better than every open door elsewhere.

That is the paradox of the story.

The old man is not free because the door opens immediately. He is free because he no longer belongs anywhere else and understands where he truly belongs.

There is also a beautiful line in which he says:

مپندار گر وی عنان بر شکست

که من باز دارم ز فتراک دست

“Do not imagine that because He has pulled away the reins,
I will take my hand off the saddle-strap.”

The image is earthy and intimate. Someone is clinging to the saddle-strap even while the rider moves away. This is love without leverage. Love and devotion without guarantee. Love and devotion that says: even if I am not received in the way I hoped, I cannot release my hold. The love and devotion that Hasan Basri learnt from the fifth and sixth lessons from a dog.

This is where Saʿdī’s spiritual psychology is so subtle and elevated. He knows that the human being often worships with hidden expectations. We may pray sincerely, but somewhere inside us there can still be a quiet quid pro quo: I worship, therefore I should receive. I ask, therefore I should be answered as I wish. I suffer, therefore God should now remove the suffering.

But the path of the heart is never linear. In the words of Khusro:

ख़ुसरो दरिया प्रेम का, उलटी वा की धार,

जो उभरा सो डूब गया, जो डूबा सो पार.

Khusro dariya prem ka, ulṭī vā kī dhār,

Jo ubhrā so ḍūb gayā, jo ḍūbā so pār.

Khusro! the river of love has an opposite (unusual) flow

He who floats up will drown (will be lost), and he who drowns will get across (be successful).

It is the unconditional surrender of this drowning that brings forth the true love and devotion.

There are moments when worship becomes ascesis—a formative discipline that purifies the soul. There are moments when prayer is no longer only about receiving what we asked for. Prayer becomes the place where our false claims are softened, where our self-importance is attenuated, where our soul is re-taught its true orientation.

This is why the story feels so human to me. It does not deny devotion. The old man does pray. He does keep vigil. He does remain awake in remembrance. His effort is real. His tears are real.

But Saʿdī does not elevate effort as the final cause of acceptance, but the realization of exclusive, devotional surrender without desire reciprocation.

The final voice says:

قبول است اگر چه هنر نیستش

که جز ما پناهی دگر نیستش

“Accepted, though he has no merit,
for he has no refuge other than Us.”

This is the coda that changes everything.

The word هنر here does not mean “art” in the modern sense. It means worth, virtue, merit, some inner qualification by which one might claim to be deserving. The old man is accepted not because he possesses such merit, but because he has no other shelter.

That is a severe mercy, but it is mercy nonetheless.

It reminds me that the deepest form of prayer is not always eloquence. It is not always emotional intensity. It is not even always confidence. Sometimes the deepest prayer is simply remaining at the door because the heart has learned that no other door can save it.

There is a kind of kenosis here: an emptying. The old man is emptied of entitlement. He is emptied of spiritual vanity. He is emptied even of the comfort of knowing that his prayer has been accepted. What remains is need.

And that need becomes luminous.

This is one of Saʿdī’s great insights: need itself can become a form of nearness. Not every need, of course. Need can make us bitter, restless, and demanding. But purified need—need that no longer looks for substitutes—has a different valence. It carries the soul toward God with a force that cleverness cannot produce.

In that sense, the old man undergoes a quiet metanoia, a transformation of the heart. He begins as one who asks. He becomes one who belongs. The gift is not merely that his prayer is accepted. The gift is that he discovers the truth of his own poverty before God.

This is also why the story resists a shallow reading. It is not saying: persist long enough and God will give you exactly what you want. That would be too easy, and also untrue to life. Saʿdī is saying something subtler: when the servant has no refuge but God, even refusal can become part of the pedagogy of mercy.

The door may appear closed, but the remaining at the door is already doing something to the soul.

It is teaching attunement.

It is teaching fidelity.

It is teaching the difference between wanting God’s gifts and wanting God.

This distinction matters. Many of us discover, usually through some painful vicissitude, that we are attached not only to God but also to our own imagined version of how God should respond. We carry a private script. We think mercy must arrive in a form we can immediately recognize.

Saʿdī unsettles that assumption.

The old man receives the first voice as rejection. Yet that very rejection becomes the crucible in which his sincerity is revealed. Had he walked away, perhaps his devotion would have remained mixed with calculation. By staying, he shows that his prayer is not merely instrumental. He is not using God as a means to some other end. God Himself is the end.

That is the soteriological depth of the anecdote: salvation lies not in acquiring a second option, but in being gathered back to the One before whom all second options fall away.

I also find it moving that the final acceptance is spoken “in the ear of his soul”:

که گفتند در گوش جانش ندا

This is not merely external approval. It is an inward address. A noetic recognition. The soul hears what the outer ear could not have known: you are accepted, not because you proved yourself worthy, but because your need has become single.

There is comfort here, but not cheap comfort.

Saʿdī is not offering a panacea for every grief. He is not saying pain is imaginary, or that the closed door does not hurt. It does hurt. The old man weeps. His tears are compared to rubies. His longing is embodied. His sorrow is not abstract.

But the sorrow is not wasted.

The wound becomes a threshold.

The closed door becomes a place of wayfinding.

The apparent refusal becomes a hidden form of mercy.

My own reading is this: Saʿdī is teaching us that the most truthful prayer may begin when we have nothing left to recommend ourselves. No polished virtue. No claim. No spiritual performance. No bargaining power. Only the bare confession: I have nowhere else to go. 

And perhaps that is why the final couplet so enduring as well as endearing:

قبول است اگر چه هنر نیستش

که جز ما پناهی دگر نیستش

“Accepted, though he has no merit,
for he has no refuge other than Us.”

A hand outstretched in need and a heart tested indeed

 بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

There is a saying often quoted in the books of adab, zuhd, and spiritual counsel:

لَوْ صَدَقَ السَّائِلُ مَا أَفْلَحَ مَنْ رَدَّهُ

“If the one who asks were truthful, the one who turned him away would not prosper.”

And in another wording:

لَوْلَا أَنَّ السُّؤَّالَ يَكْذِبُونَ مَا أَفْلَحَ مَنْ رَدَّهُمْ

“Were it not that beggars sometimes lie, the one who turned them away would not prosper.”

The first thing to say is the careful thing: this is not a sound hadith. Al-Zabīdī, in his discussion of the report, cites the judgments of earlier hadith critics: al-ʿIrāqī notes that al-ʿUqaylī said nothing sound is established in this chapter; Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr said its chains are not strong; Ibn al-Madīnī counted it among reports with no firm basis; and the variant about beggars lying is also transmitted through weak routes. So we should not quote it as a firm prophetic statement. It belongs more safely to the literature of moral warning, spiritual reflection, and adab. (Islam Web)

But a weak report may still preserve a true moral concern when its meaning is weighed by the Qur’an and the sound Sunnah. And here the meaning is not strange. It stands very close to the Qur’anic command:

وَأَمَّا السَّائِلَ فَلَا تَنْهَرْ

“And as for the one who asks, do not repel him harshly.”

What strikes me is that the verse does not first ask us to investigate the hidden state of the asker. It does not say: “As for the verified poor person, do not rebuke him.” It says السائل — the one who asks. The asker may be poor in money. He may be poor in knowledge. He may be poor in dignity. He may even be poor in truthfulness. But the command begins by disciplining the one who is being asked.

Al-Baghawī explains the verse by saying: do not rebuke him and do not drive him away harshly; either feed him or return him with a gentle response. He also transmits from Qatādah: “Return the poor person with mercy and softness.” This is a very important detail. The Qur’an does not say that every asker must receive money. But it does forbid a certain kind of hardness. (Quran.com)

That distinction matters.

A person may not have anything to give. A person may have reason to fear that money will be misused. A person may decide that food, water, a referral, or a kind word is better than cash. But even refusal has an adab. Even refusal must not become humiliation.

The Qur’an gives another related instruction:

فَقُلْ لَهُمْ قَوْلًا مَيْسُورًا

“Then say to them a gentle word.”

Al-Ṭabarī records from Ibn Zayd that even when one fears that money may be used in disobedience, and therefore withholds it, the person should still be answered with a beautiful word: “May Allah provide for you; may Allah bless you.” So the question is not only whether the hand gives. It is also what happens to the face, the tongue, and the heart at the moment of being asked. (Quran KSU)

This is where the saying becomes piercing.

Our first instinct is often to protect ourselves from being deceived. We say: what if he is lying? What if she is acting? What if this has become a business? What if my charity is being exploited? What if I am only feeding a system of manipulation?

These questions are not always baseless. Islam is not naïve about false begging. In a sound hadith in Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim, the Prophet ﷺ warned:

مَنْ سَأَلَ النَّاسَ تَكَثُّرًا فَإِنَّمَا يَسْأَلُ جَمْرًا؛ فَلْيَسْتَقِلَّ أَوْ لِيَسْتَكْثِرْ

“Whoever asks people in order to increase his wealth is only asking for burning coals; so let him ask for little or much.” (Sunnah)

So the liar is not praised. Fraud is not sanctified. False need is not piety.

But the sin of the false beggar belongs to him.

The hardening of my heart belongs to me.

This is the moral line we easily lose. A dishonest asker may carry his own burden before Allah, but he does not give me permission to become cruel. His lie is not a license for my contempt. His manipulation is not a proof that all need is performance. His falsehood should not become the counterstory by which I excuse myself from mercy altogether.

In fact, there is a strange and almost frightening mercy in the presence of false beggars.

Were every asker truthful, every refusal would become far more dangerous. If every stretched-out hand were certainly the hand of real hunger, if every request made in the name of Allah were certainly genuine, then our refusal would stand naked before Allah. No ambiguity. No excuse. No “perhaps.” No veil.

This is why the second wording has such force:

لَوْلَا أَنَّ السُّؤَّالَ يَكْذِبُونَ مَا أَفْلَحَ مَنْ رَدَّهُمْ

“Were it not that beggars sometimes lie, the one who turned them away would not prosper.”

Al-Zabīdī explains the first wording to mean that if the asker were truthful in his necessity and need, the one who rejected him would not attain falāḥ. He then explains the second wording as a “lightening of the matter of refusal,” because the threat is not certain in every case, due to the possibility that the asker may be truthful or lying. (Islam Web)

This is a subtle point.

The dishonest beggar may be, in one sense, a protection for the rest of us. Not because lying is good, but because his existence introduces ambiguity into the moral situation. Perhaps we refused because we genuinely feared deception. Perhaps we had seen false performances of poverty. Perhaps the spread of such people became, before Allah, part of our excuse.

Without them, our refusals might incur Divine wrath.

But this excuse is dangerous if we turn it into a habit.

Ambiguity is not permission for a miserly life. The possibility that some askers lie does not mean that all askers should be treated as liars. Suspicion can become stinginess wearing the clothes of discernment. It can become a kind of spiritual laziness that says, “I am only being careful,” when in truth the hand has closed because the heart has closed first.

And this happens quietly. One hears one story of fraud, and suddenly every poor face becomes suspect. One sees one staged act of need, and then every trembling hand looks theatrical. The poor become guilty until proven innocent. The beggar at the door is made to carry the sins of every impostor.

This is not moral imagination. It is moral atrophy.

The believer needs discernment, yes. But discernment is not the same thing as hardness. Discernment asks: what is the wisest form of help here? Hardness asks: how can I escape this person as quickly as possible? Discernment may give food instead of money. Hardness gives a look of contempt. Discernment may say, “I am sorry, I cannot help you today.” Hardness says, “Go away,” and feels clean afterward.

The Qur’an forbids that second posture.

فَلَا تَنْهَرْ

Do not scold. Do not snap. Do not humiliate. Do not make the needy person pay with his dignity for the fact that he asked.

There is a sound and terrifying parable in Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī that belongs here. The Prophet ﷺ told of three men from the Children of Israel: a leper, a bald man, and a blind man. Allah tested them. Each was afflicted, each was shunned, and each was poor. Then Allah restored each one: the leper was given beautiful skin, the bald man beautiful hair, and the blind man his sight. Each was also given wealth, until their animals multiplied into valleys. Later, an angel came to each of them in the form of his former affliction, asking for help in the name of the One who had healed and enriched him. The first two refused and denied the truth of their own past, saying, in effect, that they had simply inherited what they possessed. The blind man remembered. He said: I was blind and Allah returned my sight; I was poor and Allah enriched me; take what you wish for Allah’s sake. The angel then told him: “You have only been tested. Allah is pleased with you and angry with your two companions.” (Sunnah)

That hadith is not merely a story about charity. It is about memory.

The leper and the bald man failed before they refused. Their first failure was not miserliness of the hand, but erasure of the past. They no longer recognized themselves in the person standing before them. The sight of need should have awakened gratitude, but instead it awakened inconvenience. The beggar was not only asking for a camel or a cow. He was asking them to remember who they had been before Allah covered them.

The blind man was saved by memory. He saw himself in the asker. He did not treat his wealth as a sealed possession, but as a trust that had passed through Divine mercy before it reached his hand.

This hadith makes the whole matter sharper. Sometimes the asker is not simply an asker. Sometimes he is a mirror. Sometimes he comes in the very form of what we once were: weak, dependent, ashamed, in need of someone not to turn away.

The threshold of the home, the car window, the masjid gate, the marketplace, the traffic light — these are not small places. They are a mirror test. A person appears before us in need, or in claimed need, and something in us is revealed. It may be generosity. It may be irritation. It may be fear. It may be contempt. It may be the old nafs, defending its comfort with very sensible arguments.

To my ear, the saying is not asking us to abolish judgment. It is asking us to fear the quickness with which judgment becomes an excuse for withholding mercy.

There is a world of difference between saying, “I will not give cash in this case,” and saying, “These people are all frauds.”

There is a world of difference between protecting charity from misuse and protecting the ego from inconvenience.

There is a world of difference between refusing money and refusing humanity.

The safest path is not to investigate every poor person as though we are judges on the Day of Judgment. The safest path is to keep something ready for Allah. A little food. A small amount. A bottle of water. A kind word. A duʿā. A direction to help. Something that keeps the soul porous to mercy.

Because the real danger is not only that I may be cheated.

The deeper danger is that I may become the kind of person who would rather risk turning away the truthful poor than risk being fooled by the false one.

That is a terrible trade.

The false beggar may take a little money from me. But suspicion, when it becomes a settled habit, takes something more precious: compassion toward the creation of Allah.

The “lying beggar” is, thus, a bi-directional test.

He is tested by whether he will turn need into theatre.

We are tested by whether his lie will make us unjust to the truthful poor.

He is tested by greed.

We are tested by suspicion.

He may be exposed by his falsehood.

We may be exposed by our refusal.

And certainly, as in the hadith of the leper, the bald man, and the blind man, the asker is sent not because Allah does not know us, but because we do not know ourselves. The request reveals the state of the heart. It shows whether blessing has become gratitude or entitlement. It shows whether we remember our own former poverty before Allah, or whether we have rewritten the story of our lives as though we were always secure, always deserving, always self-made.

So yes, we should not honor falsehood. We should not romanticize fraud. We should not pretend that every request is sincere. But neither should we let the existence of false askers become the theology of our miserliness.

Perhaps they are, in a hidden way, part of Allah’s mercy upon us. Their existence may be one of the reasons our refusals are not immediately counted against us with full severity. Perhaps Allah says, in His knowledge of our weakness: My servant feared deception. My servant had seen liars. My servant did not know.

But what if we did know?

What if the asker was truthful?

What if the hand we dismissed was the hand by which Allah tested us?

What if the poor man at the door was not only asking for help, but returning us to the memory of our own dependence upon Allah?

This is why the verse admonishes and yet remains and so merciful:

وَأَمَّا السَّائِلَ فَلَا تَنْهَرْ

As for the one who asks, do not repel him harshly.

Not every asker must receive what he asks for.

But no asker should receive our contempt.

Where all the beauty and character gathers. A mystical ode to the beloved

  

بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

 

This is a famous poem attributed to Amir Khusrau,  Some verses (in red) are recited as devotional utterances of praise for the Prophet ﷺ in my homeland of Kashmir

   خَطِّ سَبْز و لَبِ لَعْل و رُخِ زِیبا دَارِی
حُسْنِ یُوسُف، دَمِ عِیسىٰ، یَدِ بَیْضا دَارِی 

شِیوَه و شَکْل و شَمائِل، حَرَکات و سَکَنات

آنْچِه خُوبان هَمَه دارند، تُو تَنْها دَارِی        

 

 

خَطِّ سَبْز و لَبِ لَعْل و رُخِ زِیبا دَارِی

حُسْنِ یُوسُف، دَمِ عِیسىٰ، یَدِ بَیْضا دَارِی

You have the soft first down, ruby lips, and a radiant face;

you possess Joseph’s beauty, Jesus’ breath, and Moses’ shining white hand.

Brief explanation:

In classical Persian, خَطِّ سَبْز means the first soft tender facial down on a beautiful face, a conventional sign of youth and beauty, not a literal green line. Then the verse rises from physical beauty to sacred allusion: Joseph stands for unsurpassed beauty, Jesus for life-giving breath, and the “white hand” of Moses for miraculous radiance. 

 

شِیوَه و شَکْل و شَمائِل، حَرَکات و سَکَنات

آنْچِه خُوبان هَمَه دارند، تُو تَنْها دَارِی         

Your bearing, your form, your features, your every movement and stillness

Whatever is distributed among all the beautiful ones ,  is gathered whole in one being (you).

Brief explanation:

 شَمائِل is broader than mere appearance; it also includes traits, qualities, and disposition. So the claim is not only that the addressee looks beautiful, but that every grace of presence, conduct, and character—usually divided among many—is gathered whole in one being.

  تا تَبَسُّم نَکُنی، عَقْل نَگُویَد هَرگِز

کَندَرین آبِ خِضْر، لُؤلُؤِ لالا دَارِی

Until you smile, reason can never say 

that in this Water of Life you conceal a lustrous pearl.

Brief explanation:

To my ear, this is the most delicate couplet. آبِ خِضْر is the Water of Life associated with Khizr, and Persian lexicography also uses the “spring of life” as a figure for the beloved’s mouth. لُؤلُؤِ لالا means a bright, lustrous pearl. The pearl is most naturally the teeth, hidden until the smile reveals them, though the image can also suggest precious speech emerging from a life-giving mouth.

دِل و دِین بُرْدی و هُوش و خِرَد و صَبْر و قَرار

دِیگَر از خُسْرَوِ بی‌دِل چِه تَمَنّا داری

You have taken my heart and faith, my wits, my reason, my patience, and my inner peace; 

what more can you want from Khusro, now left without a heart?

Brief explanation:

This is the closing signature-couplet. The ending of total surrender. The beloved has already taken everything inward and outward, so nothing remains but the poet’s question. I read بِی‌دِل here as an adjective, “heart-lost” or “bereft of heart,”  which gives the closing line its force (not as a reference to the poet Bedil.)