O heart, what did you find in all of your lootings,
in those pillagings where you spread out all of your belongings?
What did you find before you closed the door?
In this ruined building, you still keep making webs with your own saliva
in order to catch flies like the spider of greed.
Just because there is the sweet taste and drunkenness of this earthly grain,
do you think your heart is out of the trap?
Who builds a mud house in front of the Torrent?
What happens to the one who eats the grain in the trap?
While there is still time, jump out of this trap.
Fly to the garden of Soul where you can stroll.
O soul which resembles a peacock, open the wings of your mind.
Don’t you remember the time when you flew in the presence of the throne of God?
You flew away from that throne, and by accident,
you dropped to the Earth.
There, you gave up your wings in exchange for a few pieces of bread.
You have become so fond of food!
It’s as if you have just come from a period of famine.
You are either biting your lips or hurting your hands.
Where is that Sultan’s zeal?
Didn’t you drink the milk of that glorious morning
from that stately Nanny?
The Sultan-like disposition which that milk adds to your soul
cannot be mixed with dirt and blood.
God is the One who kneaded our clay.
That taste, that zeal, that gift comes from His hand.
Once you heard the words, “Am I not your God?”
the Sultan taught you to be a master as well as a disciple.
He taught you that the heart and the Beloved are the same.
He taught you that you are sometimes a lock, sometimes a key.
Sometimes He is advice. Sometimes He is a constraint and a burden.
Sometimes He is poison. Sometimes He is sweet.
Sometimes He is rejuvenated and grows.
Sometimes He is dried up and worn out.
O Torrent, in this same way,
sometimes You pour from above, and
sometimes You flow down the stream.
But, once You reach the sea, Your colors don’t change any more.
O soil, haven’t you been torn to pieces by this constant wounding?
O sky, hasn’t your back been broken by this heavy stone?
O Sea of Truth, this Earth is Your wave, Your foam.
You are hidden.
Sometimes You are busy with work. Sometimes you are tranquil.
You are not in the open and You are not inapparent.
O Source of the Sun, Your exuberance from that sea
has pierced the curtain of darkness with light.
Any dirt You pick up becomes gold.
Any stone You choose becomes a ruby or an emerald.
Whose student are you then?
You came into this world as a master.
Where did You learn this trade without tools?
Remember how many times you have left this world, these thoughts
and flown through the door.
Divan-i Kebir, Volume 20, Ghazal 70, verses 772-794, pages 147-150.