The Parliament of Birds

Shebli would disappear at times; no one
In all Baghdad could guess where he had gone --
At last they found him where the town enjoys
The sexual services of men and boys,
Sitting among the catamites; his eye
Was moist and humid, and his lips bone-dry.
One asked: 'What brings you here, to such a place?
Is this where pilgrims come to look for grace?'
He answered: 'In the world's way these you see
Aren't men or women; so it is with me --
For in the way of Faith I'm neither man
Nor woman, but ambiguous courtesan --
Unmanliness reproaches me, then blame
For my virility fills me with shame.'
The man of understanding puts aside,
To travel on this path, all outward pride
(The courage of his choice will honour those
Who taught this pilgrim everything he knows).
If you seem more substantial than a hair,
You've made an idol of yourself -- take care,
Whatever praise or blame may say of you,
You're an idolater in all you do.
As truth's sworn slave, beware of Azar's ways
Who carved the stone to which he offered praise --
Devotion is the crown of all mankind;
Leave Uzza* and such idols far behind.
You seem a sufi to the common folk
But hide a hundred idols with your cloak --
If you're a eunuch underneath, don't dress
In clothes of high heroic manliness!

One day two dressed as wandering sufis came
Before the courts to lodge a legal claim.
The judge took them aside. 'This can't be right,
For sufis to provoke a lawyers' fight,'
He said. 'You wear the robes of resignation,
So what have you to do with litigation?
If you're the men to pay a lawyer's fee,
Off with your sufi clothes immediately!
And if you're sufis as at first I thought,
It's ignorance that brings you to this court.
I'm just a judge, unversed in your affair,
But I'm ashamed to see the clothes you wear;
You should wear women's veils -- that would be less
Dishonest than your present holy dress.'

How will you solve love's secret lore if you --
Not man, not woman -- glide between the two?
If on its path loves forces you to yield,
Then do so gladly, throw away your shield;
Resist and you will die, your soul is dead --
To ward off your defeat bow down your head!

A poor man fell in love with Egypt's king,
Who heard the news and ordered guards to bring
The wretch to him. 'You love the king,' he said;
'Now choose: give up your home here or your head --
You must make up your mind between these two,
Exile or death. Well, which seems best to you?'
For all his love this pauper wasn't brave;
His choice was exile rather than the grave.
He left; the king's command came loud and clear:
'Cut off his head at once and bring it here.'
The porter said: 'But he is innocent;
Why should my lord command this punishment?'
'He did not really love,' the king replied.
'Though he pretended love for me, he lied:
If he were valiant in love he would
Have chosen death here as the highest good.
If one prefers his head to love, then he
Must pay to love the traitor's penalty --
Had he required my head, at his command
There would have been no lord to rule this land;
I would have worn his livery, a king
Would have become his slave in everything --
But he resisted love, and it is right
That he should lose his head in such a fight.
The man who leaves me, though he rave and cry,
Is an impostor and his love's a lie --
I say this as a warning to that crowd
Whose boasts of love for me ring long and loud.' "

One of the birds then said: "My enemy's
That veteran of highway robberies,
My Self; how can I travel on the Way
With such a follower? The dog won't pay
The least attention to a word I say --
The dog I knew is gone and in his place
A slavering wolf stalks by me, pace for pace."

The hoopoe said: "How has this dog betrayed
And brought to dust whatever plans you made!
The Self's squint-eyed and cannot guide you well,
Part dog, part parasite, part infidel.
When you are praised your Self swells up with pride
(Aware that praise is quite unjustified);
There's no hope for the Self -- the dog grows fatter
The more it hears men fawn, deceive and flatter.
What is your childhood but a negligence,
A time of carelessness and ignorance?
What is your youth but madness, strife and danger,
Knowledge that in this world you are a stranger?
What is your age but torpid helplessness,
The flesh and spirit sapped by long distress?
Until this dog, the Self, can be subdued,
Our life is folly, endlessly renewed;
If all of life from birth to death is vain,
Blank nothingness will be our only gain --
Such slaves the Self owns! What a catalogue!
How many rush to worship this foul dog!
The Self is hell -- a furnace belching fire,
An icy pit as Price succeeds Desire,
And though a hundred thousand die of grief,
That this same dog should die is past belief.

A man who lived by digging graves survived
To ripe old age. A neighbour said: 'You've thrived
For years, digging away in one routine --
Tell us the strangest thing you've ever seen.'
He said: 'All things considered, what's most strange
Is that for seventy years without a change
That dog, my Self, has seen me digging graves,
Yet neither dies, nor alters, nor behaves!'

One night Abbasseh said: 'The world could be
Thronged with wild infidels and blasphemy,
Or it could be a place of pious works,
Filled with the faithful, keen as zealous Turks.
Instead the prophets came -- that infidel
The Self must choose between the faith and hell
(One seemed too difficult, one terrified --
How could the indecisive soul decide?).
Beneath the Self's reign we are infidels
And nourish blasphemy in all our cells;
Its life is stubborn, strong, intractable --
To kill it seems well-nigh impossible.
It draws its strength from both alternatives;
No wonder it so obstinately lives.
But if the heart can rule, then day and night
This dog will labour for the heart's delight,
And when the heart rides out he sprints away
Eager to flush his noble master's prey.
Whoever chains this dog will find that he
Commands the lion of eternity;
Whoever binds this dog, his sandals' dust
Surpasses all the councils of the just.'

A ragged pilgrim of the sufis' Way
By chance met with a king, and heard him say:
'Who's better, me or you?' The old man said:
'Silence, your words are empty as your head!
Although self-praise is not our normal rule
(The man who loves himself is still a fool).
I'll tell you, since I must, that one like me
Exceeds a thousand like your majesty.
Since you find no delight in faith -- alas,
Your Self has made of you, my lord, an ass
And sat on you, and set its load on you --
You're just its slave in everything you do;
You wear its halter, follow its commands,
A no-one, left completely in its hands.
My study is to reach Truth's inmost shrine --
And I am not my Self's ass, he is mine;
Now since the beast I ride on rides on you,
That I'm your better is quite plainly true.
You love the Self -- it's lit in you a fire
Of nagging lust, insatiable desire,
A blaze that burns your vigour, wastes your heart,
Leaving infirmity in every part --
Consuming all your strength, till deaf and blind
You're old, forgetful, rambling in your mind.

This man, and hundreds like him, constitute
The mighty phalanx of the Absolute;
When such an army charges you will find
You and your puny Self are left behind.
How you delight in this dog's partnership --
But it's the dog, not you, that cracks the whip!
The forces of the king will separate
This dog and you -- why not anticipate
Their order and forestall the pain? If though
You weep that here on earth you cannot know
Enough of this audacious infidel --
Don't worry; you'll be comrades down in hell.

Two foxes met, and tasted such delight
They could not let each other out of sight.
But then a king came hunting on the plain
And parted them. 'Where shall we meet again?'
She yelped. He barked back as he reached their hole:
'At the furrier's, dear -- hung up as a stole!' "

Another said: "Whenever I decide
To seek His presence, that arch-devil Pride
Obstructs my path. I can't fight back with force;
Against his specious talk I've no recourse.
How can I find salvation from his lies,
Drink down the wine of meaning and be wise?"

The hoopoe said: "This devil never leaves
Until the Self has gone; if he deceives
You now, his cunning is your own deceit --
Your wishes are the devil, you the cheat!
If you accomplish one desire, a shoal
Of struggling demons rises in your soul;
The world's a furnace and a prison cell,
The devil's province, an unending hell --
Draw back your hand from it if you would win
An unmolested life secure from sin.

A sluggard once approached a fasting saint
And, baffled by despair, made this complaint:
'The devil is a highwayman, a thief,
Who's ruined me and robbed me of belief.'
The saint replied: 'Young man, the devil too
Has made his way here to complain -- of you.
'My province is the world,' I heard him say;
'Tell this new pilgrim of God's holy Way
To keep his hands off what is mine -- if I
Attack him it's because his fingers pry
In my affairs; if he will leave me be,
He's no concern of mine and can go free.'

One dear to God addressed Malek Dinar:
'I've lost myself -- but tell me how you are.'
He said: 'I get my bread from God's own hands,
Then carry out the Evil One's commands.'

Your vaunted faith is wordy insolence;
The devil strikes, and you have no defence --
This world's grief clings to you, yet you decide
You're ready for our quest! God damn your pride!
I said 'Give up the world', and now I say
Stand firm to be admitted to the Way;
If you have given Him this earthly show
When will you spread your hands and let it go?
Your sloth has drowned you in a sea of greed;
You don't know why you wait or what you need --
Though earth and heaven weep you seek out sin;
Greed blunts your faith, passion corrupts within.
What is this world, this nest of greed and lust
But leavings of oppression, windswept dust?
Here tyranny intensified its reign,
Here cruelty struck and left an emptied plain.
God calls this world a nothing, but its snare
Has trapped you, and you struggle in despair --
When will you die to such unhappiness
And take the hand that leads you from distress?
Can one who's lost in nothing rightly claim
The attributes of man, much less the name?
The creature who abandons what he sought
For nothing's sake is nought and less than nought.
What is this world's work? -- idle lethargy,
That idleness a long captivity.
What is the world but a consuming pyre,
Where nation follows nation to the fire?
And when its flames turn night to blinding day,
The lion-hearted hero runs away --
To close your eyes and flee is courage here,
Or like some fluttering moth you'll draw too near
And in the blaze be burnt; to worship flame
Is drunken pride, the path to death and shame.
The fire surrounds you, and with every breath
The scorching flames reach out and threaten death;
But they are quenched when we achieve our goal,
And look -- there waits asylum for your soul.

At public prayers a great lord cried: 'O God,
Have mercy on me now and spare the rod!'
A crazy dervish heard his prayer and said:
'You dare to call His mercies on your head
When your behaviour seems to say "The earth
Can hardly hold a person of my worth" --
You've raised a palace up against the sky,
Embellished it with gold to daze the eye;
Ten boys and ten young girls await your whim,
What claim have you on mercy or on Him?
Look on your life, on all that you possess --
There isn't room for mercy in this mess!
If Fate gave you my daily round of bread,
Then you could call down mercies on your head.
Shame on you, man! Until you turn aside
From power and wealth and all your stinking pride,
There's nothing to be done -- turn now, and see
How like a hero you can still break free.'

A true believer said: 'There is a crowd
Who when they come to die will cry aloud
And turn to God. But they are fools; they should
Have spent their lives in seeking what is good.
When leaves are falling it's too late to sow;
Repentance on a death-bed is too slow --
The time to turn aside has flown; be sure
Whoever waits till then will die impure'."

Another bird said: "I love gold alone;
It's life to me, like marrow to a bone --
When I have gold I blossom like a flower;
With restless pride I revel in its power."

The hoopoe said: "Appearances delight
The heart that cannot see Truth's dawning light;
You are as blind by day as in the night --
Your life's a crawling ant's. What essence lies
In surfaces? A void! Direct your eyes
To meaning's core; gold is a stone, and you
Are like a child attracted by its hue.
It is an idol when it holds the soul
Back from its God -- hide it in some dark hole!
And if it is a sovereign remedy
It also has a foul utility
(Men make a ring of it that stops a mule
From being covered). O unhappy fool,
Who's helped by all this gold? And what real pleasure
Can you derive from heaps of glittering treasure?
If you can give a dervish just a grain
You'll nag at him, or wish it back again!
It's true that backed by gold you'll never lack
For friends -- your friendship's brand burns every back!
Each month you count the profits from your trade,
What trade! -- your soul's been sold, the bargain's made.
Life's sweetness passes and you spend your time
Scrabbling for farthings -- isn't this a crime?
You give this All for nothing, while your heart
Is given wholly to the merchant's art;
But underneath your gibbet I shall wait
Until its steps are jerked away by Fate.
How many times you'll hang! Each sliding noose
Will seem a hundred burning flames -- what use
Will your religion, gold, be to you then?
Or when you're drowned, you business acumen?
In that last tumult as you gasp for air
You'll know your doom and shriek in while despair.
Remember the Koran: "You cannot gain
Salvation while the things you love remain."
You must abandon all things that exist;
Even the soul itself must be dismissed --
Renounce its fellowship; it too must go,
Along with all you own and all you know.
If you have made this world a place for sleep,
Your bed's the load that makes the Way so steep --
Burn it! and pass beyond what merely seems;
You can't deceive the Truth with sleepy dreams.
Let fear persuade you, and the fire is lit;
Burn your bed now if you would rise from it.

A novice hid a little store of gold.
His sheikh knew this, although he'd not been told.
There was a journey that they had to make --
The two set out, the young man and his sheikh;
Then night came to the valley where they walked,
And into two the path they followed forked.
The novice trembled for his hidden gold
(Which makes its owners rather less than bold);
'Which way do you advise?' he asked his sheikh.
'There are two paths; which is the best to take?'
The sheikh said: 'Throw out what you cannot hide,
Then either way will do -- as you decide.'
Let gold win someone's heart, and when that's done
Even the Devil, out of fear, will run
(When gold is weighed what arguments ensue:
'One grain too many!' 'No, one grain too few!');
In ways of faith he's like an ass that's lame,
Cast down, preoccupied and full of shame --
A king when cheating people, but a fool
When faith is mentioned -- a bewildered mule.
The man whom shining gold can lead astray
Is captured by the world, he's lost the Way.
Remember Joseph and beware this well;
Tread carefully; it leads to death and hell.

A sheikh of Basra said to Rabe'eh:
'How much have you endured along love's Way!
And all this strength is from yourself -- tell me
The source of your profound ability,
This inward light which you have neither read
Nor learnt nor copied.' Saint Rabe'eh said:
'Great sheikh, I simply spin coarse cotton thread;
I sell this and am satisfied to get
Two grains of silver -- though I never yet
Held both these grains together in my palm,
But one in each hand. I fear the harm
That follows from the clink of coin on coin,
The sleepless nights when sums of money join.'


The worldly man's embroiled in bloody cares,
Laying a hundred thousand different snares
Until unlawfully he gets his gold,
And promptly dies! Before his body's cold,
The eager heir has claimed his property,
His legal right to strife and misery.
You sell the Simorgh for this gold; its light
Has made your heart a candle in the night!
We seek the Way of perfect Unity,
Where no one counts his own prosperity;
But you are like an ant that's led astray
Too easily from our strict, narrow Way --
The strait path offers no deceitful smiles;
What living creature can endure its trials?