Another bird said to the hoopoe: “I fear death; yet this valley is far away, and I have not the least provision for the journey. I dread death so much that I shall lose my life at the very first stage. Even were I a mighty emir, when the hour of my death comes, I must nonetheless die sorrowfully. He who would seek to drive death back, sword in hand, would have his hand broken like a reed; for, alas! the strength displayed by hand and sword brings nothing but sorrow.”
The hoopoe answered that bird: “O thou who art weak and powerless! wouldst thou remain a mere framework formed of a few bones furnished with marrow? Knowest thou not that life, whether long or short, consists of no more than a few breaths? Understandest thou not that whoever is born dies, that he goes into the earth, and that the wind scatters the elements of which his body was composed? Thou wast nourished to die; thou wast brought into this world to be carried out of it. The sky is like an overturned dish, submerged in blood each evening by the effect of twilight. One would say that the sun, armed with a sword, is charged with severing all the heads beneath this dish. Whether thou be pure or impure, thou art but a drop of water kneaded with earth. How wouldst thou contend with the Ocean over this drop of water, which is nothing but sorrow? Even if thou hadst commanded in the world throughout thy life, thou wilt yield up thy soul in affliction and groans.”
The phoenix is an admirable and charming bird that dwells in Hindustan. It has an extraordinarily long and very hard beak, pierced, like a flute, with holes, nearly a hundred in number. It has no mate, and lives alone. Each of these holes gives forth a sound, and each sound holds a particular secret. When it utters these plaintive notes through every hole, the birds and fishes are stirred; the fiercest animals fall silent and are beside themselves upon hearing these sweet notes. Now, a philosopher spent time with this bird and learned the science of music from its song. The phoenix lives for about a thousand years, and knows exactly when its death will come. At that time, it gathers around itself a quantity of mucl leaves, and, distraught amid these leaves, gives forth plaintive cries. Through each opening of its beak, it painfully draws plaintive and varied notes from the depths of its pure heart, for they differ with each opening. Amid these groans, wrung from it by the grief of dying, it trembles like a leaf, without ceasing. All the birds are drawn by its song, and the fierce animals by the sound it makes; all come near to witness the spectacle of its death, and all at once, following its example, resign themselves to die. On this day, indeed, many animals die, their hearts bleeding before the phoenix, because of the sorrow in which they see it consumed. They are overcome with stupor by the effect of its groans, and many lose their lives through lack of strength. The day on which the phoenix’s blood flows, and its heart-rending lamentations are heard, is an extraordinary day. When it has but a breath of life left, it beats its wings and stirs its feathers, before and behind. This movement produces fire, which brings about a change in the phoenix’s state. The fire quickly catches the wood, and the wood burns pleasantly. Soon, wood and bird alike are reduced to embers, and then to ashes. But when not a spark is to be seen, a new phoenix rises from the midst of the ashes. It is after the fire has reduced the wood to ashes that a little phoenix appears.
Has anyone ever in the world returned to life after death? Were you granted a life as long as the phoenix’s, you would nevertheless die when you had filled the measure of your life. The phoenix, distraught for a thousand years, laments a hundred times over itself. For many years it remained alone in grief and sorrow, without a mate or offspring; it formed no bond with anyone in the world; it had neither the burden of a mate nor that of children. At the end of its life, when it had to cease to exist, it came and scattered its ashes to the wind, so that you might know that no one can escape death, whatever stratagem he employs. In the whole world, there is no one who does not die. Learn from the phoenix’s miracle that no one is safe from death. Though death is harsh and tyrannical, one must learn to accustom one’s neck to it; yet, though we have much to endure, dying is the most painful thing.
A son was weeping before his father’s coffin and said: “O my father! Never in my life have I felt a sorrow like the one I feel today.” A Sufi who heard him remarked that his father, too, had felt for the first time a far more poignant sorrow.
Indeed, what befell this son is nothing compared with what befell his father, a thing far more grievous. O Thou who camest into this world stripped of all, thy head covered with dust and Thy hand full of wind! Even were Thou to sit in the place of honour of the empire, Thou shalt leave this world with naught but wind in thy hand.
When death threatened Tâi, someone asked him: “Thou who art in the very essence of the secret! how dost Thou fare in this grievous moment?” He replied: “I can say nothing of My state; all my life I have measured the wind, and in the end I go into the earth—and good night.”
Indeed, what befell this son is nothing compared with what befell his father, a thing far more grievous. O Thou who camest into this world stripped of all, thy head covered with dust and Thy hand full of wind! Even were Thou to sit in the place of honour of the empire, Thou shalt leave this world with naught but wind in thy hand.
When death threatened Tâi, someone asked him: “Thou who art in the very essence of the secret! how dost Thou fare in this grievous moment?” He replied: “I can say nothing of My state; all my life I have measured the wind, and in the end I go into the earth—and good night.”
There is no other remedy for death than to behold the face of death; its countenance vanishes amid the groans. We are all born to die; life will not remain with us; we must submit. He who held the world beneath the bezel of His ring is now like a mineral beneath the earth. The warrior who with his lance touches the vault of heaven is soon buried in the dust of the tomb. All the dead sleep beneath the earth; but, though asleep, they are troubled. See how difficult is the road of death; for on this road the first station is the tomb. If thou knewest the bitterness of death, thy sweet soul would be turned upside down.
CHRIST AND THE WATER JAR.
CHRIST AND THE WATER JAR.
Jesus drank from a clear stream whose water was more agreeable in taste than rose water. Meanwhile, someone filled his pitcher at this stream and went away. Jesus then took a sip of the water from this pitcher and continued on His way; but this time He found the water bitter and stopped, utterly astonished. “My God,” He said, “the water of this stream and the water in this pitcher are alike; reveal to me, then, the mystery of this difference in taste. Why is the water in the pitcher so bitter, and the other sweeter than honey?” Then the pitcher made these words heard by Jesus: “I am old,” it said to Him. “A thousand times have I been fashioned beneath the nine-domed firmament, now as a vessel, now as a pitcher, now as a ewer. Though I were fashioned yet again into a thousand shapes, I would still have within me the bitterness of death. It is so deeply within me that the water I contain cannot be sweet.”
O heedless man! at last penetrate the mystery of this jug, and henceforth do not yourself become a jug through negligence. You have lost yourself, you who seek the mystery! Strive to discover it before life is taken from you! For if, while alive, you do not find yourself, how, when you die, will you know the secret of your existence? During your life you cannot know yourself, and at your death there is no trace of your existence. Alive, you have lagged behind; dead, you have gone astray. You have shared in the life of men, and yet you have not truly been a man. Thousands of veils cover this dervish’s eyes: how, then, shall he find himself?
HIPPOCRATES’ COUNSEL TO HIS DISCIPLES.
When Hippocrates was at the point of death, one of his disciples said to him: “O my master! when we have washed and buried your body, where should we bury you?” — “If you find me,” he replied, “bury me, my dear disciple, wherever you will, and good night. Since, during the long years I have lived, I have not found myself, how will you find me when I am dead? I have lived in such a way that, at the moment of my dissolution, I know nothing about myself.”
HIPPOCRATES’ COUNSEL TO HIS DISCIPLES.
When Hippocrates was at the point of death, one of his disciples said to him: “O my master! when we have washed and buried your body, where should we bury you?” — “If you find me,” he replied, “bury me, my dear disciple, wherever you will, and good night. Since, during the long years I have lived, I have not found myself, how will you find me when I am dead? I have lived in such a way that, at the moment of my dissolution, I know nothing about myself.”