The Parliament of Birds

Dear hoopoe, welcome! You will be our guide;
It was on you King Solomon relied
To carry secret messages between
His court and distant Sheba's lovely queen.
He knew your language and you knew his heart --
As his close confidant you learnt the art
Of holding demons captive underground,
And for these valiant exploits you were crowned.

And you are welcome, finch! Rise up and play
Those liquid notes that steal men's hearts away;
Like Moses you have seen the flames burn high
On Sinai's slopes and there you long to fly,
Like him avoid cruel Pharaoh's hand, and seek
Your promised home on Sinai's mountain peak.
There you will understand unspoken words
Too subtle for the ears of mortal birds.

And welcome, parrot, perched in paradise!
Your splendid plumage bears a strange device,
A necklace of bright fire about the throat;
Though heaven's bliss is promised by your coat,
This circle stands for hell; if you can flee
Like Abraham from Nimrod's enmity,
Despise these flames -- uninjured will you tread
Through fire if first you cut off Nimrod's head,
And when the fear of him has died put on
Your gorgeous coat; your collar's strength has gone!

Welcome, dear partridge -- how you strut with pride
Along the slopes of wisdom's mountain-side;
Let laughter ring out where your feet have trod,
Then strike with all your strength the door of God;
Destroy the mountain of the Self, and here,
From ruined rocks a camel will appear;
Beside its new-born noble hooves, a stream
Of honey mingled with white milk will gleam --
Drive on this beast and at your journey's end
Saleh will greet you as a long-lost friend.

Rare falcon, welcome! How long will you be
So fiercely jealous of your liberty?
Your lure is love, and when the jess is tied,
Submit, and be for ever satisfied.
Give up the intellect for love and see
In one brief moment all eternity;
Break nature's frame, be resolute and brave,
Then rest at peace in Unity's black cave.
Rejoice in that close, undisturbed dark air --
The Prophet will be your companion there.*

And welcome, francolin! Since once you heard
And answered God's first all-commanding word,
Since love has spoken in your soul, reject
The Self, that whirlpool where our lives are wrecked;
As Jesus rode his donkey, ride on it;
Your stubborn Self must bear you and submit --
Then burn this Self and purify your soul;
Let Jesus' spotless spirit be your goal.
Destroy this burden, and before your eyes
The Holy Ghost in glory will arise.

Welcome, dear nightingale -- from your sweet throat
Pour out the pain of lovers note by note.
Like David in love's garden gently sigh;
There sing the songs that make men long to die,
O, sing as David did, and with your song
Guide home man's suffering and deluded throng.
The Self is like a mail coat -- melt this steel
To pliant wax with David's holy zeal,
And when its metal melts, like David you
Will melt with love and bid the Self adieu.

And welcome, peacock -- once of paradise,
Who let the venomous, smooth snake entice
Your instincts to its master's evil way,
And suffered exile for that fateful day;
He blackened your untutored heart and made
A tangled darkness of the orchard's shade --
Until you crush this snake, how can you be
A pilgrim worthy of our mystery?
Destroy its ugly charm and Adam then
Will welcome you to paradise again.

Cock pheasant, welcome! With your piercing sight,
Look up and see the heart's source drowned in light;
You are imprisoned in your filthy well,
A dark and noisome, unremitting hell --
Rise from this well as Joseph did and gain
The throne of Egypt's fabulous domain,
Where you and Joseph will together reign.

Dear pigeon, welcome -- with what joy you yearn
To fly away, how sadly you return!
Your heart is wrung with grief, you share the gaol
That Jonah knew, the belly of a whale --
The Self has swallowed you for its delight;
How long will you endure its mindless spite?
Cut off its head, seek out the moon, and fly
Beyond the utmost limits of the sky;
Escape this monster and become the friend
Of Jonah in that ocean without end.

Welcome, sweet turtle-dove, and softly coo
Until the heavens scatter jewels on you --
But what ingratitude you show!
Around Your neck a ring of loyalty is bound,
But while you live you blithely acquiesce
From head to claw in smug ungratefulness;
Abandon such self-love and you will see
The Way that leads us to Reality.
There knowledge is your guide, and Khezr will bring
Clear water drawn from life's eternal spring.

And welcome, hawk! Your flight is high and proud,
But you return with head politely bowed --
In blood and in affliction you must drown,
And I suggest you keep your head bent down!
What are you here? Mere carrion, rotten flesh,
Withheld from Truth by this world's clumsy mesh;
Outsoar both this world and the next, and there,
Released from both, take off the hood you wear --
When you have turned from both worlds you will land
On Zulgharnin's outstretched and welcome hand.

And little goldfinch, welcome! May your fire
Be an external sign of fierce desire.
Whatever happens, burn in those bright flames,
And shut your eyes and soul to earthly claims.
Then, as you burn, whatever pain you feel,
Remember God will recompense your zeal;
When you perceive His hidden secrets, give
Your life to God's affairs and truly live --
At last, made perfect in Reality,
You will be gone, and only God will be.

The world's birds gathered for their conference
And said: "Our constitution makes no sense.
All nations in the world require a king;
How is it we alone have no such thing?
Only a kingdom can be justly run;
We need a king and must inquire for one."

They argued how to set about their quest.
The hoopoe fluttered forward; on his breast
There shone the symbol of the Spirit's Way
And on his head Truth's crown, a feathered spray.
Discerning, righteous and intelligent,
He spoke: "My purposes are heaven-sent;
I keep God's secrets, mundane and divine,
In proof of which behold the holy sign
Bisillah* etched for ever on my beak.
No one can share the grief with which I seek
Our longed-for Lord, and quickened by my haste
My wits find water in the trackless waste.
I come as Solomon's close friend and claim
The matchless wisdom of that mighty name
(He never asked for those who quit his court,
But when I left him once alone he sought
With anxious vigilance for my return --
Measure my worth by this great king's concern!).
I bore his letters -- back again I flew --
Whatever secrets he divined I knew;
A prophet loved me; God has trusted me;
What other bird has won such dignity?
For years I travelled over many lands,
Past oceans, mountains, valleys, desert sands,
And when the Deluge rose I flew around
The world itself and never glimpsed dry ground;
With Solomon I set out to explore
The limits of the earth from shore to shore.
I know our king -- but how can I alone
Endure the journey to His distant throne?
Join me, and when at last we end our quest
Our king will greet you as His honoured guest.
How long will you persist in blasphemy?
Escape your self-hood's vicious tyranny --
Whoever can evade the Self transcends
This world and as a lover he ascends.
Set free your soul; impatient of delay,
Step out along our sovereign's royal Way:
We have a king; beyond Kaf's mountain peak
The Simorgh lives, the sovereign whom you seek,
And He is always near to us, though we
Live far from His transcendent majesty.
A hundred thousand veils of dark and light
Withdraw His presence from our mortal sight,
And in both worlds no being shares the throne
That marks the Simorgh's power and His alone --
He reigns in undisturbed omnipotence,
Bathed in the light of His magnificence --
No mind, no intellect can penetrate
The mystery of his unending state:
How many countless hundred thousands pray
For patience and true knowledge of the Way
That leads to Him whom reason cannot claim,
Nor mortal purity describe or name;
There soul and mind bewildered miss the mark
And, faced by Him, like dazzled eyes, are dark --
No sage could understand His perfect grace,
Nor seer discern the beauty of His face.
His creatures strive to find a path to Him,
Deluded by each new, deceitful whim,
But fancy cannot work as she would wish;
You cannot weigh the moon like so much fish!
How many search for Him whose heads are sent
Like polo-balls in some great tournament
From side to giddy side -- how many cries,
How many countless groans assail the skies!
Do not imagine that the Way is short;
Vast seas and deserts lie before His court.
Consider carefully before you start;
The journey asks of you a lion's heart.
The road is long, the sea is deep -- one flies
First buffeted by joy and then by sighs;
If you desire this quest, give up your soul
And make our sovereign's court your only goal.
First wash your hands of life if you would say:
'I am a pilgrim of our sovereign's Way';
Renounce your soul for love; He you pursue
Will sacrifice His inmost soul for you.

It was in China, late one moonless night,
The Simorgh first appeared to mortal sight --
He let a feather float down through the air,
And rumours of its fame spread everywhere;
Throughout the world men separately conceived
An image of its shape, and all believed
Their private fantasies uniquely true!
(In China still this feather is on view,
Whence comes the saying you have heard, no doubt,
'Seek knowledge, unto China seek it out.')
If this same feather had not floated down,
The world would not be filled with His renown --
It is a sign of Him, and in each heart
There lies this feather's hidden counterpart.
But since no words suffice, what use are mine
To represent or to describe this sign?
Whoever wishes to explore the Way,
Let him set out -- what more is there to say?"

The hoopoe finished, and at once the birds
Effusively responded to his words.
All praised the splendour of their distant king;
All rose impatient to be on the wing;
Each would renounce the Self and be the friend
Of his companions till the journey's end.
But when they pondered on the journey's length,
They hesitated; their ambitious strength
Dissolved: each bird, according to his kind,
Felt flattered but reluctantly declined.

The nightingale made his excuses first.
His pleading notes described the lover's thirst,
And through the crowd hushed silence spread as he
Descanted on love's scope and mystery.
"The secrets of all love are known to me,"
He crooned. "Throughout the darkest night my song
Resounds, and to my retinue belong
The sweet notes of the melancholy lute,
The plaintive wailing of the love-sick flute;
When love speaks in the soul my voice replies
In accents plangent as the ocean's sighs.
The man who hears this song spurns reason's rule;
Grey wisdom is content to be love's fool.
My love is for the rose; I bow to her;
From her dear presence I could never stir.
If she should disappear the nightingale
Would lose his reason and his song would fail,
And though my grief is one that no bird knows,
One being understands my heart -- the rose.
I am so drowned in love that I can find
No thought of my existence in my mind.
Her worship is sufficient life for me;
The quest for her is my reality
(And nightingales are not robust or strong;
The path to find the Simorgh is too long).
My love is here; the journey you propose
Cannot beguile me from my life -- the rose.
It is for me she flowers; what greater bliss
Could life provide me -- anywhere -- than this?
Her buds are mine; she blossoms in my sight --
How could I leave her for a single night?"

The hoopoe answered him: "Dear nightingale,
This superficial love which makes you quail
Is only for the outward show of things.
Renounce delusion and prepare your wings
For our great quest; sharp thorns defend the rose
And beauty such as hers too quickly goes.
True love will see such empty transience
For what it is -- a fleeting turbulence
That fills your sleepless nights with grief and blame --
Forget the rose's blush and blush for shame!
Each spring she laughs, not for you, as you say,
But at you -- and has faded in a day.

There was a king whose comely daughter's grace
Was such that any many who glimpsed her face
Declared himself in love. Like starless dusk
Her dark hair hung, soft-scented like fine musk;
The charm of her slow humid eyes awoke
The depths of sleeping love, and when she spoke,
No sugar was as sweet as her lips' sweet;
No rubies with their colour could compete.
A dervish saw her, by the will of Fate.
From his arrested hand the crust he ate
Dropped unregarded, and the princess smiled.
This glance lived in his heart -- the man grew wild
With ardent love, with restless misery;
For seven years he wept continually
And was content to live alone and wait,
Abject, among stray dogs, outside her gate.
At last, affronted by this fool and tired
Of his despair, her serving-men conspired
To murder him. The princess heard their plan,
Which she divulged to him. 'O wretched man,'
She said, 'how could you hope for love between
A dervish and the daughter of a queen?
You cannot live outside my palace door;
Be off with you and haunt these streets no more.
If you are here tomorrow you will die!'
The dervish answered her: 'That day when I
First saw your beauty I despaired of life;
Why should I fear the hired assassin's knife?
A hundred thousand men adore your face;
No power on earth could make me leave this place.
But since your servants mean to murder me,
Explain the meaning of this mystery:
Why did you smile at me that day?' 'Poor fool,
I smiled from pity, almost ridicule --
Your ignorance provoked that smile.' She spoke,
And vanished like a wisp of strengthless smoke."

The pretty parrot was the next to speak,
Clothed all in green, with sugar in her beak,
And round her neck a circle of pure gold.
Even the falcon cannot boast so bold
A loveliness -- earth's variegated green
Is but the image of her feathers' sheen,
And when she talks the fascinating sound
Seems sweet as costly sugar finely ground;
She trilled: "I have been caged by heartless men,
But my desire is to be free again;
If I could reassert my liberty
I'd find the stream of immortality
Guarded by Khezr -- his cloak is green like mine,
And this shared colour is an open sign
I am his equal or equivalent.
Only the stream Khezr watches could content
My thirsting soul -- I have no wish to seek
This Simorgh's throne of which you love to speak."

The hoopoe said: "You are a cringing slave --
This is not noble, generous or brave,
To think your being has no other end
Than finding water and a loyal friend.
Think well -- what is it that you hope to gain?
Your coat is beautiful, but where's your brain?
Act as a lover and renounce your soul;
With love's defiance seek the lover's goal.

Khezr sought companionship with one whose mind
Was set on God alone. The man declined
And said to Khezr: 'We two could not be friends,
For our existences have different ends.
The waters of immortal life are yours,
And you must always live; life is your cause
As death is mine -- you wish to live, whilst I
Impatiently prepare myself to die;
I leave you as quick birds avoid a snare,
To soar up in the free, untrammelled air'."

Next came the peacock, splendidly arrayed
In many-coloured pomp; this he displayed
As if he were some proud, self-conscious bride
Turning with haughty looks from side to side.
"The Painter of the world created me,"
He shrieked, "but this celestial wealth you see
Should not excite your hearts to jealousy.
I was a dweller once in paradise;
There the insinuating snake's advice
Deceived me -- I became his friend, disgrace
Was swift and I was banished from that place.
My dearest hope is that some blessèd day
A guide will come to indicate the way
Back to my paradise. The king you praise
Is too unknown a goal; my inward gaze
Is fixed for ever on that lovely land --
There is the goal which I can understand.
How could I seek the Simorgh out when I
Remember paradise?" And in reply
The hoopoe said: "These thoughts have made you stray
Further and further from the proper Way;
You think your monarch's palace of more worth
Than Him who fashioned it and all the earth.
The home we seek is in eternity;
The Truth we seek is like a shoreless sea,
Of which your paradise is but a drop.
This ocean can be yours; why should you stop
Beguiled by dreams of evanescent dew?
The secrets of the sun are yours, but you
Content yourself with motes trapped in its beams.
Turn to what truly lives, reject what seems --
Which matters more, the body or the soul?
Be whole: desire and journey to the Whole.

A novice asked his master to explain
Why Adam was forbidden to remain
In his first undivided happiness.
The master said: 'When he, whose name we bless,
Awoke in paradise a voice declared:
"The man whose mind and vision are ensnared
By heaven's grace must forfeit that same grace,
For only then can he direct his face
To his true Lord".' The lover's live and soul
Are firmly focused on a single goal;
The saints in paradise teach that the start
Of drawing near is to renounce the heart."

The coy duck waddled from her stream and quacked:
"Now none of you can argue with the fact
That both in this world and the next I am
The purest bird that ever flew or swam;
I spread my prayer-mat out, and all the time
I clean myself of every bit of grime
As God commands. There's no doubt in my mind
That purity like mine is hard to find;
Among the birds I'm like an anchorite --
My soul and feathers are a spotless white.
I live in water and I cannot go
To places where no streams or rivers flow;
They wash away a world of discontent --
Why should I leave this perfect element?
Fresh water is my home, my sanctuary;
What use would arid deserts be to me?
I can't leave water -- think what water gives;
It is the source of everything that lives.
Water's the only home I've ever known;
Why should I care about this Simorgh's throne?"

The hoopoe answered her: "Your life is passed
In vague, aquatic dreams which cannot last --
A sudden wave and they are swept away.
You value water's purity, you say,
But is your life as pure as you declare?
A fool described the nature both worlds share:
‘The unseen world and that which we can see
Are like a water-drop which instantly
Is and is not. A water-drop was formed
When time began, and on its surface swarmed
The world's appearances. If they were made
Of all-resisting iron they would fade;
Hard iron is mere water, after all --
Dispersing like a dream, impalpable'."

The pompous partridge was next to speak,
Fresh from his store of pearls. His crimson beak
And ruddy plumage made a splendid show --
A headstrong bird whose small eyes seemed to glow
With angry blood. He clucked: "My one desire
Is jewels; I pick through quarries for their fire.
They kindle in my heart an answering blaze
Which satisfies me -- though my wretchèd days
Are one long turmoil of anxiety.
Consider how I live, and let me be;
You cannot fight with one who sleeps and feeds
On precious stones, who is convinced he needs
No other goal in life. My heart is tied
By bonds of love to this fair mountain-side.
To yearn for something other than a jewel
Is to desire what dies -- to be a fool.
Nothing is precious like a precious stone.
Besides, the journey to the Simorgh's throne
Is hard. I cannot tear myself away;
My feet refuse as if caught fast in clay.
My life is here; I have no wish to fly;
I must discover precious stones or die."

The hoopoe said: "You have the colours of
Those jewels you so inordinately love,
And yet you seem -- like your excuses -- lame.
Your beak and claws are red as blood or flame
Yet those hard gems from which you cannot part
Have only helped you to a hardened heart;
Without their colours they are nothing more
Than stones -- and to the wise not worth a straw.

No jewel surpasses that which Solomon
Wore on his finger. It was just a stone,
A mere half-dang in weight, but as a seal
Set in his ring it brought the world to heel.
When he perceived the nature of his rule --
Dependent on the credit of a jewel --
He vowed that no one after him should reign
With such authority." (Do not again,
Dear God, I pray, create such puissant kings;
My eyes have seen the blight their glory brings.
But criticising courts is not my task;
A basket-weaver's work is all I ask,
And I return to Solomon's great seal.)
"Although the power it brought the king was real,
Possession of this gem meant that delay
Dogged his advance along the spirit's Way --
The other prophets entered paradise
Five hundred years before the king. This price
A jewel extracted from great Solomon,
How would it hinder such a dizzy one
As you, dear partridge? Rise above this greed;
The Simorgh is the only jewel you need."

The homa* next addressed the company.
Because his shadow heralds majesty,
This wandering portent of the royal state
Is known as Homayun, 'The Fortunate'.
He sang: "O birds of land and ocean, I
Am not as other birds, but soar and fly
On lofty aspiration's lordly wings.
I have subdued the dog desire; great kings
Like Feridoun and Jamshid** owe their place
To my dark shadow's influence. Disgrace
And lowly natures are not my concern.
I throw desire its bone; the dog will turn
And let the soul go free. Who can look down
On one whose shadow brings the royal crown?
The world should bask in my magnificence --
Let Khosroe's glory stand in my defence.
What should this haughty Simorgh mean to me?"

The hoopoe said: "Poor slave to vanity,
Your self-importance is ridiculous;
Why should a shadow merit so much fuss?
You are not now the sign of Khosroe's throne,
More like a stray dog squabbling for a bone.
Though it is true that you confer on men
This majesty, kings must sink down again
And bear the punishments of Judgement Day.

There was a man, advanced along the Way,
Who one night spoke to Mahmoud in a dream.
He said: 'Great king, how does existence seem
To one beyond the grave?' Mahmoud replied:
'I have no majesty since I have died;
Your greetings pierce my soul. That majesty
Was only ignorance and vanity;
True majesty belongs to God alone --
How could a heap of dust deserve the throne?
Since I have recognized my impotence,
I blush for my imperial pretence.
Call me "unfortunate", not "king". I should
Have been a wanderer who begged for food,
A crossing-sweeper, any lowly thing
That drags its way through life, but not a king.
Now leave me; I have no more to say;
Hell's devils wait for me; I cannot stay.
I wish to God the earth beneath my feet
Had swallowed me before I heard the beat
Of that accursèd homa's wings; they cast
Their shade, and may they shrivel in hell's blast!' "

The hawk came forward with his head held high;
His boasts of grand connections filled the sky.
His talk was stuffed with armies, glory, kings.
He bragged: "The ecstasy my sovereign brings
Has turned my gaze from vulgar company.
My eyes are hooded and I cannot see,
But I perch proudly on my sovereign's wrist.
I know court etiquette and can persist
In self-control like holy penitents;
When I approach the king, my deference
Correctly keeps to the established rule.
What is this Simorgh? I should be a fool
If I so much as dreamt of him. A seed
From my great sovereign's hand is all I need;
The eminence I have suffices me.
I cannot travel; I would rather be
Perched on the royal wrist than struggling through
Some arid wadi with no end in view.
I am delighted by my life at court,
Waiting on kings or hunting for their sport."

The hoopoe said: "Dear hawk, you set great store
By superficial graces, and ignore
The all-important fact of purity.
A king with rivals in his dignity
Is no true king; the Simorgh rules alone
And entertains no rivals to his throne.
A king is not one of these common fools
Who snatches at a crown and thinks he rules.
The true king reigns in mild humility,
Unrivalled in his firm fidelity.
An earthly king acts righteously at times,
But also stains the earth with hateful crimes,
And then whoever hovers nearest him
Will suffer most from his destructive whim.
A courtier risks destruction every hour --
Distance yourself from kings and worldly power.
A king is like a raging fire, men say;
The wisest conduct is to keep away.

There was a monarch once who loved a slave.
The youth's pale beauty haunted him; he gave
This favourite the rarest ornaments,
Watched over him with jealous reverence --
But when the king expressed a wish to shoot,
His loved one shook with fear from head to foot.
An apple balanced on his head would be
The target for the royal archery,
And as the mark was split he blenched with fear.
One day a foolish courtier standing near
Asked why his lovely face was drained and wan,
For was he not their monarch's chosen one?
The slave replied: "If I were hit instead
Of that round apple balanced on my head,
I would be then quite worthless to the king --
Injured or dead, lower than anything
The court can show; but when the arrow hits
The trembling target and the apple splits,
That is his skill. The king is highly skilled
If he succeeds -- if not, the slave is killed'."

The heron whimpered next: "My misery
Prefers the empty shoreline of the sea.
There no one hears my desolate, thin cry --
I wait in sorrow there, there mourn and sigh.
My love is for the ocean, but since I --
A bird -- must be excluded from the deep,
I haunt the solitary shore and weep.
My beak is dry -- not one drop can I drink --
But if the level of the sea should sink
By one drop, jealous rage would seize my heart.
This love suffices me; how can I start
A journey like the one that you suggest?
I cannot join you in this arduous quest.
The Simorgh's glory could not comfort me;
My love is fixed entirely on the sea."

The hoopoe answered him: "You do not know
The nature of this sea you love: below
Its surface linger sharks; tempests appear,
Then sudden calms -- its course is never clear,
But turbid, varying, in constant stress;
Its water's taste is salty bitterness.
How many noble ships has it destroyed,
Their crews sucked under in the whirlwind's void:
The diver plunges and in fear of death
Must struggle to conserve his scanty breath;
The failure is cast up, a broken straw.
Who trusts the sea? Lawlessness is her law;
You will be drowned if you cannot decide
To turn away from her inconstant tide.
She seethes with love herself -- that turbulence
Of tumbling waves, that yearning violence,
Are for her Lord, and since she cannot rest,
What peace could you discover in her breast?
She lives for Him -- yet you are satisfied
To hear His invitation and to hide.

A hermit asked the ocean: 'Why are you
Clothed in these mourning robes of darkest blue?*
You seem to boil, and yet I see no fire!'
The ocean said: 'My feverish desire
Is for the absent Friend. I am too base
For Him; my dark robes indicate disgrace
And lonely pain. Love makes my billows rage;
Love is the fire which nothing can assuage.
My salt lips thirst for Kausar's** cleansing stream.'
For those pure waters tens of thousands dream
And are prepared to perish; night and day
They search and fall exhausted by the Way."

The owl approached with his distracted air,
Hooting: "Abandoned ruins are my lair,
Because, wherever mortals congregate,
Strife flourishes and unforgiving hate;
A tranquil mind is only to be found
Away from men, in wild, deserted ground.
These ruins are my melancholy pleasure,
Not least because they harbour buried treasure.
Love for such treasure has directed me
To desolate, waste sites; in secrecy
I hide my hopes that one fine day my foot
Will stumble over unprotected loot.
Love for the Simorgh is a childish story;
My love is solely for gold's buried glory."

The hoopoe answered him: "Besotted fool,
Suppose you get this gold for which you drool --
What could you do but guard it night and day
While life itself -- unnoticed -- slips away?
The love of gold and jewels is blasphemy;
Our faith is wrecked by such idolatry.
To love gold is to be an infidel,
An idol-worshipper who merits hell.
On Judgement Day the miser's secret greed
Stares from his face for everyone to read.

A miser died, leaving a cache of gold;
And in a dream what should the son behold
But his dead father, shaped now like a mouse
That dashed distractedly about the house,
His mouse-eyes filled with tears. The sleeping son
Spoke in his dream: 'Why, father, must you run
About our home like this?' The poor mouse said:
'Who guards my store of gold now I am dead?
Has any thief found out its hiding-place?'
The son asked next about his mouse-like face
And heard his father say: 'Learn from my state;
Whoever worships gold, this is his fate --
To haunt the hidden cache for evermore,
An anxious mouse that darts across the floor'."

The timid finch approached. Her feeble frame
Trembled from head to foot, a nervous flame;
She chirped: "I am less sturdy than a hair
And lack the courage that my betters share;
My feathers are too weak to carry me
The distance to the Simorgh's sanctuary.
How could a sickly creature stand alone
Before the glory of the Simorgh's throne?
The world is full of those who seek His grace,
But I do not deserve to see His face.
And cannot join in this delusive race --
Exhaustion would cut short my foolish days,
Or I should turn to ashes in His gaze.
Joseph was hidden in a well and I
Shall seek my loved one in the wells nearby."

The hoopoe said: "You teasing little bird,
This humble ostentation is absurd!
If all of us are destined for the fire,
Then you too must ascend the burning pyre.
Get ready for the road, you can't fool me --
Sew up your beak, I loathe hypocrisy!
Though Jacob mourned for Joseph's absent face,
Do you imagine you could take his place?

When Jacob lost his son his eyes grew blind;
Tears flooded for the child he could not find.
His lips repeatedly formed Joseph's name --
To his despair the angel Gabriel came
And said: 'Renounce this word; if you persist,
Your own name will be cancelled from the list
Of prophets close to God.' Since this command
Came from his God, dear Joseph's name was banned
Henceforth from Jacob's lips; deep in his soul
He hid the passions he could not control.
But as he slept one night the long-lost child
Appeared before him in a dream, and smiled;
He started up to call him to his side --
And then remembered, struck his breast and sighed
When from his vivid dream the old man woke,
The angel Gabriel came to him, and spoke:
'Though you did not pronounce your lost son's name,
You sighed -- the exhalation meant the same
As if you had renounced your vow; a sigh
Reveals the heart as clearly as a cry'."

The other birds in turn received their chance
To show off their loquacious ignorance.
All made excuses -- floods of foolish words
Flowed from these babbling, rumour-loving birds.
Forgive me, reader, if I do not say
All these excuses to avoid the Way;
But in an incoherent rush they came,
And all were inappropriate and lame.
How could they gain the Simorgh? Such a goal
Belongs to those who discipline the soul.
The hoopoe counselled them: "The world holds few
As worthy of the Simorgh's throne as you,
But you must empty this first glass; the wine
That follows it is love's devoted sign.
If petty problems keep you back -- or none --
How will you seek the treasures of the sun?
In drops you lose yourselves, yet you must dive
Through untold fathoms and remain alive.
This is no journey for the indolent --
Our quest is Truth itself, not just its scent!"

When they had understood the hoopoe's words,
A clamour of complaint rose from the birds:
"Although we recognise you as our guide,
You must accept -- it cannot be denied --
We are a wretched, flimsy crew at best,
And lack the bare essentials for this quest.
Our feathers and our wings, our bodies' strength
Are quite unequal to the journey's length;
For one of us to reach the Simorgh's throne
Would be miraculous, a thing unknown.
At least say what relationship obtains
Between His might and ours; who can take pains
To search for mysteries when he is blind?
If there were some connection we could find,
We would be more prepared to take our chance.
He seems like Solomon, and we like ants;
How can mere ants climb from their darkened pit
Up to the Simorgh's realm? And is it fit
That beggars try the glory of a king?
How ever could they manage such a thing?"

The hoopoe answered them: "How can love thrive
In hearts impoverished and half alive?
'Beggars', you say -- such niggling poverty
Will not encourage truth or charity.
A man whose eyes love opens risks his soul --
His dancing breaks beyond the mind's control
When long ago the Simorgh first appeared --
His face like sunlight when the clouds have cleared --
He cast unnumbered shadows on the earth,
On each one fixed his eyes, and each gave birth.
Thus we were born; the birds of every land
Are still his shadows -- think, and understand.
If you had known this secret you would see
The link between yourselves and Majesty;
Do not reveal this truth, and God forfend
That you mistake for God Himself God's friend.
If you become that substance I propound,
You are not God, though in God you are drowned;
Those lost in Him are not the Deity --
This problem can be argued endlessly.
You are His shadow, and cannot be moved
By thoughts of life or death once this is proved.
If He had kept His majesty concealed,
No earthly shadow would have been revealed,
And where that shadow was directly cast
The race of birds sprang up before it passed.
Your heart is not a mirror bright and clear
If there the Simorgh's for does not appear;
No one can bear His beauty face to face,
And for this reason, of His perfect grace,
He makes a mirror in our hearts -- look there
To see Him, search your hearts with anxious care.