Proem. The Reed-Flute.
Project Gutenberg EPUB edition
Jalal al-Din Rumi, Maulana and Redhouse, James W. (James William), Sir
From reed-flute55 hear what tale it tells;
What plaint it makes of absence’ ills:
“From jungle-bed since me they tore,
Men’s, women’s, eyes have wept right sore.
My breast I tear and rend in twain,
To give, through sighs, vent to my pain.
Who’s from his home snatched far away,
Longs to return some future day.
I sob and sigh in each retreat,
Be’t joy or grief for which men meet.5
They fancy they can read my heart;
Grief’s secrets I to none impart.
My throes and moans form but one chain,
Men’s eyes and ears catch not their train.
Though soul and body be as one,
Sight of his soul hath no man won.
A flame’s the flute’s wail; not a breath,
That flame who feels not, doom him death.
The flame of love, ’tis, prompts the flute,
Wine’s ferment, love; its tongue not mute.10
The absent lover’s flute’s no toy;
Its trills proclaim his grief, his joy.
Or bane, or cure, the flute is still;
Content, complaining, as you will.
It tells its tale of burning grief;
Recounts how love is mad, in brief.
The lover lover’s pangs best knows;
As ear receives tongue’s plaint of woes.
Through grief, his day is but a dawn;
Each day of sorrow, torment’s pawn.15
My days are waste; take thou no heed,
Thou still are left; my joy, indeed.
Whole seas a fish will never drown;
A poor man’s day seems all one frown.
What boot from counsel to a fool?
Waste not thy words; thy wrath let cool.
Cast off lust’s bonds; stand free from all.
Slave not for pelf; be not greed’s thrall.
Pour rivers into one small gill,
It can but hold its little fill.20