Muntakhab al-tawarikh 22.1

22.1

نه ازین چهار طبعم نه بخار پارگینم

All my writing has become crooked on the page of desire. There is the song of the nightingale, the rose is happy; while I am careless like the lily. Like Alif I have no sense, have I to do with ten tongues? Since I can seize it while thus at rest, why should I pursue? Since I cannot see openly how can I follow a hidden path? stratagem, I can recognize no distinction between earth and heaven, although I am like the heaven in my whirling, and like the earth stationary. I am not like water in freshness, nor like fire in sublimity, nor like the wind in sweetness, nor like the earth in heaviness. I am not made out of these four elements. I am composed of the exuviae of the kennel. The refuse of the sewer water has boasted of piety. My wisdom, as though incarnate, seems to have taken to praise my faults; my avarice, huge as a mountain, has girded its loins for taking presents. I am become fixed in the way of avarice, not a sign of truth remains in me. The oppression of my vices has overwhelmed the mercies of the Sacred Book. My greediness has so deceived me that the dire sensual appetites have taken away from my heart with disgrace the blessings of the readings of the ‘ashars. My inner nature as well as my body is devoid of meditation and recollection. My eye like my ear is inclined to the singing women and their songs. I desire brilliant speeches to fall from my tongue which is like a well-tempered sword. My pen has made me bent like a sickle in the pursuit of my daily bread.