IX. The Poor Scenite Arab and his Wife.
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Jalal al-Din Rumi, Maulana and Redhouse, James W. (James William), Sir
Pretenders carry famine in their heart of hearts.
We suffer only want of bread for our repasts.
Why, then, pretender-like, should we our want disguise?
Why, for appearance’ sake, our soul, too, bastardise?
The woman’s husband answered: “Pray now, silence keep!
Our life is most part o’er. What’s left us but to weep?”
“The wise man cares not for a little more or less.
These both will pass away, like torrent’s waywardness.
A torrent may be clear, or muddy, black as ink.
It will not last. Why then should we about it think?”45
“Within this world what millions, living creatures all,
A life of joy still lead, quite free from let or fall.
A dove is always cooing praises to the Lord,
Upon a tree, so long as day may light afford.
A nightingale sings hymns, God’s name to bless alway.
For unto Thee he trusts, Who hearest us when we pray.
A falcon, when he sits upon a royal fist,
No longer stoops to carrion, wherewith to subsist.
And so from gnat to elephant like state we find,
They all depend on God, the best of feeders’ kind.”50
“All those anxieties that fall on us like darts,
Are but the vapours, tempests, of our human hearts.
Those cares are like a sickle, made to cut us down.
This is a fact, though we are slow the truth to own.
Our ev’ry suffering, here, a portion is of death.
This part of death, then, drive away whilst thou hast breath.
If from this part of death thou findst thou canst not run;
Thou’rt sure whole death will follow, as the light the sun.
If thou canst learn to think this part of death is sweet,
Thou knowest that God will make its whole thy tastes to meet.55
Our troubles are the heralds of our death to come.
Turn not thy face away from herald, as do some.”
“Whoever leads a joyous life finds death severe.
And he who’s slave to body, mars his soul’s career.
When sheep come home from pasture in the meadows green,
The fattest ones are slaughtered, soon as they are seen.
The night is spent, the morn is come, my bosom friend,
When wilt thou bring thy grumbling gossip to an end?
Once thou wert young, and more content a hundredfold;
Then covetous becamest, though thyself art gold.60