The Masnavi, Book One (Oxford World's Classics)

The Old Harpist
132

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Consider this path –– it’s irrational,
And yet to wise men it’s acceptable,
While demons, fearing Adam, chose to 
flee
To far o
ff islands, filled with jealousy:
Likewise when prophets’ miracles appear
The sceptics hide their heads in sand through fear
So they can act like Muslims in deceit,
Without you knowing that they only cheat;
They rub on silver, fake insignias
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To make seem real their worthless replicas,
They falsely speak of laws, God’s unity
Like loaves which hide within impurity.
Philosophers don’t dare to breathe a word
Because true faith will show them they’re absurd:
Their hands and feet do what their spirits say,
Since they’re inanimate and must obey ––
Although they spread doubts and they falsify,
Against them their own limbs still testify.
The manifestation of a miracle of the Prophet through the
speech of gravel in the hand of Abu Jahl, as it bears witness
to the truth of Mohammad’s status
While holding gravel Abu Jahl came near
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To ask the Prophet, ‘What do I have here?
If you’re a prophet, tell me what I’ve brought,
Since heaven’s secrets you must have been taught.’
‘Would you prefer it if I answer you
Or if the stones speak up to tell what’s true?’
He said, ‘The latter’s more incredible.’
‘Of course, though of much more God’s capable.’
Within his 
fist each stone began to say
That it had Muslim faith: without delay
Each said, ‘
There is no God except Allah,’
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And joined, ‘
Mohammad is His Messenger.’
On hearing this, he threw them on the 
floor,
Much angrier than he had been before.
The Old Harpist
133

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The remainder of the story about the musician: the Commander
of the Faithful Omar conveys to him the message that the unseen
voice had uttered
Let’s go back to that old musician’s tale:
With waiting he became so weak and pale,
Omar was then told: ‘Free him from his need,
He’s been our servant in both word and deed,
He’s a much-valued slave for whom we care ––
You’ll
find him in the graveyard deep in prayer;
Arise, and from the public treasury
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Take seven hundred dinars rightfully,
Tell him: “God’s chosen you among us all,
Take this amount, forgive me that it’s small;
It’s for those silk harp strings we know you lack ––
Once it is spent, if you want more, come back.” ’
That awesome voice thus shook Omar awake
To then exert himself just for God’s sake ––
Towards the graveyard quickly now he ran,
Clutching his purse and searching for that man.
He ran around it for a while, but found
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Apart from some old codger none around;
‘This can’t be him,’ he thought, and searched again.
He tired and still had not seen other men;
He thought, ‘God said: “A slave, immaculate,
A pure man, worthy, blest and fortunate” ––
Can some old harpist be this venerable?
Mysterious secret, you’re incredible!’
He went around the graveyard once again
Just like a lion prowling round his den,
When he knew there was no one else in sight,
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He thought, ‘In darkness hearts can still burn bright!’
He sat down next to him with utmost care,
But then he sneezed –– the man jumped in the air!
He saw Omar –– confused, he scratched his head;
He felt like leaving, but just shook instead.
The Old Harpist
134

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‘God help me please!’ the old man prayed inside,
‘It’s the police for me, and I can’t hide!’
Omar glanced at his face and it was clear
The old man was ashamed and pale with fear.
He told him, ‘Don’t be scared, don’t run away,
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I’ve brought good news from God for you today:
God praised your nature, so that I, Omar,
Came to admire and love you from afar ––
So sit back down beside me, and stay near
So I can whisper secrets in your ear:
God sends his greetings, and He asks you this:
“How are you with your pain that’s limitless?”
Here’s cash ––
first buy your silk harp strings, and then
Once you have spent it all come back again.’
The old man shook on hearing what was planned,
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His heart throbbed wildly and he bit his hand,
He screamed, ‘My Peerless Lord who’s free from blame,
Please stop! You make this old man burn with shame!’
Due to abundant pain he wept in 
fits,
Then slammed his harp down, smashing it to bits:
‘You veiled me from my Lord, you stupid thing,
And chased me o
ff the highway to the King!
You sucked my blood to make me a disgrace
For my whole life before God’s perfect grace!
Have mercy, God, supreme in loyalty,
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Upon a life spent in iniquity:
The value of each day God’s given you
Exceeds all things, but no man has a clue ––
Throughout my life I was a waste of space,
I spent my days with treble notes and bass!
Immersed forever in my 
fickle art
I thus forgot the pain of being apart,
The freshness in my minor keys instead
Has shrivelled up my heart and left it dead!
Due to my hours spent on each melody
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The caravan moved on too soon for me.
Against my self, please God, come to my aid:
Of no one else complaints have I now made;
The Old Harpist
135

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I can’t receive such help from any source
But God, who’s closer than my self, of course ––
My being comes each breath from Him to me ––
Once this declines, I’ll see His Unity,
Like when near someone counting out your gold ––
Your whole attention soon this man will hold.’
Omar turns the old man’s gaze from the station of weeping, which
requires self-existence, to the station of absorption
Omar then told him, ‘Your acute distress
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Points also to your own self-consciousness,
Annihilation has a di
fference––
Self-consciousness is there a gross o
ffence:
It’s thinking of the past to no avail,
From God the past and future both will veil ––
Set
fire to these two now, and please take heed,
Don’t stay blocked up with knots like a bad reed;
While it’s blocked up it can’t be intimate,
No lips count it as an associate.
While walking, all your thoughts are wandering,
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Back home about yourself you’re pondering:
You’ve knowledge, but you’re heedless of its source ––
It’s worse than sin, your kind of blind remorse!
Why still repent about a state that’s passed?
Repent of your repentance now at last!
You thought then just of music in your ears,
Now you prefer to weep your salty tears!’
Omar, discerning mirror of God’s light,
Woke up the old man’s soul from its dark night:
He stopped his weeping and his laughing too,
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His old soul died, but he was born anew;
Then he was 
filled with such bewilderment
He rose beyond the earth and 
firmament:
A search beyond all searches thus began,
Not that I understand –– perhaps you can?
Such states and words beyond what’s known to us,
Drowned in the beauty of the Glorious,
The Old Harpist
136

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A drowning, neither meaning his deliverance,
Nor that the Sea and he still show a di
fference:
Your intellect can’t know the Whole unless
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You keep on pleading and show neediness ––
When such demands are made repeatedly
At last a wave will come from that Pure Sea.
Now that we’ve reached the ending of this tale,
The old man and his states have drawn the veil;
He’s shaken words o
ff just like crumbs of bread
Though half of this long tale is left unsaid.
For such delights, to gamble is the cost,
A hundred thousand souls may thus be lost ––
Be like a hunting falcon in your soul,
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Risk your life like the sun –– let the dice roll!
The sun which radiates life to all men
Each moment empties, then 
fills up again,
Sun of Reality, di
ffuse life too!
Make this old world shine bright as though it’s new!
Spirit and life arrive here from beyond,
Like water pouring non-stop in a pond.