هذه قصيدة كتبها أصلا باللغة الفارسية الإمام الخميني رحمة الله تعالى عليه وترجمت حرفيا ترجمة ركيكة في مجلة التضامن الصادرة بتاريخ 26/6/89م العدد (224) ونشرت ضمن مقال مطول عن شاعرية وفلسفة الخميني وهناك كان أول لقائي بها فاستهوتني بمعانيها الفلسفية والصوفية فحاولت ترجمة معانيها شعرا كما كانت في أصلها الفارسي مبديا جهدي في أن أفي بالمقصود منها متفاديا الزيادات التي قد تكون حشوا يذهب بجمالها.
براوة – الصومال
1989م
The Lover’s Kaaba
This poem was written originally in Persian by Imam Khomeini, may God Almighty have mercy on him. A literal and clumsy translation of it appeared in the magazine Al-Tadamun, issue 224, dated 26 June 1989, within a long article on Khomeini’s poetry and philosophy1. That was where I first met it, and it captivated me with its philosophical and Sufi meanings. So I tried to render its meanings in verse, as it was in the Persian original, doing my best to convey what it intends while avoiding additions that might be mere padding and rob it of its beauty.
- Who’ll give me a rosary of truth to seek my guidance by2,
its beads the fruit of grape and vine, - to choose for me which tavern3 I should seek,
and slake my heart with fellowship and bubbling wine? - I left my heart in pledge within her eyes,
in hope that she would save the wasted lover in distress. - And here she is now, cold to me, forsaking me,
and still my heart goes with her at each turn, nonetheless. - As a child I set my face4 toward my school,
there to be taught to spell her wondrous name. - And now, four decades gone and cut away,
a man of middle years, whose grief and joy have both grown tame, - I still know nothing, nothing, of how to speak it,
nor do I know how I should call her in my pain5. - O Love, you turn me into a Mansur6,
who hastens to the rope with smiles, and not a doubt remains. - O Love, you’ve lit a blaze of passion in my flesh,
and my love is one7: it does not branch or split in two. - So look upon my body, look upon my last faint breath,
and look upon my gaze, seared by the flame through and through! - My beloved: I shall hasten8 to her dwelling,
head bowed, weeping, and yet with all my rapture plain. - I’ll circle round the House as pilgrims do:
O Kaaba of love! O lover, wasted with his pain! - I’ll knock upon the door, knock with the humbleness of one
in love, who never has repented love, nor those he holds most dear. - I’ll knock upon the door, in hope that she will open it,
she whose love dwells in my heart, no stranger, ever near. - I weep at the door, seeking the one within;
my heart has nothing that it wants from the door9. - She said, in a voice soft and quiet in its tone:
“What do you want? You are stricken with the mange10.” - I said: “If you would kindly grant a kiss,
then all the ruin in my body would go away.” - The love-crazed lover spoke, enraptured, to his disciples,
and love is full of wonders: - “For a dirham I sold my paradise; and there I entered
the hell of her eyes, and did not come away the loser11.”
Barawa, Somalia, 1989
Notes
- Al-Tadamun (‘Solidarity’) was an Arabic weekly news magazine. Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini died on 3 June 1989, so the article appeared some three weeks after his death. Khomeini wrote mystical poetry in Persian in the manner of the classical Sufi poets, with its wine, tavern and beloved, and it became widely known only after he died. ↩
- Istikhāra is the practice of seeking God’s guidance in a choice; in Iran and elsewhere it is often done with a rosary (subḥa), by counting off beads at random and reading the result as a sign. Subḥat ḥaqq, ‘a rosary of truth’, can also be read as ‘a rosary of the Real’ (al-Ḥaqq, a Sufi name for God). The paradox is deliberate and belongs to the Persian Sufi tradition: the ascetic’s rosary is to be strung from grapes, the stuff of wine, which in this poetry is the symbol of divine love and ecstasy. ↩
- The ḥān, the tavern, is a central symbol of Persian mystical poetry: the place of the ‘wine’ of love and ecstasy, where the seeker abandons outward piety and reputation. Ḥabab are the bubbles that rise on the surface of wine. ↩
- Wajjahtu wajhiya, ‘I set my face’, echoes the Qur’anic words of Abraham (6:79): ‘I have set my face toward Him who created the heavens and the earth.’ Even the schoolboy’s first steps are thus framed as a turning of the whole self toward the Beloved. ↩
- After forty years of study the lover still cannot pronounce her name. The Sufi sense is that the true Beloved is beyond speech: the name can be spelled out letter by letter, but not truly uttered, and no form of address is adequate to call on Her. ↩
- Mansur is al-Husayn ibn Mansur al-Hallaj, the Sufi mystic executed in Baghdad in 922, famous for his ecstatic cry ‘I am the Real’ (anā al-ḥaqq). Tradition relates that he went to his execution exulting. To become ‘a Mansur’ is to love so completely that one goes gladly to death for that love. The name also means ‘the one granted victory’, so the lover’s death is at the same time his triumph. ↩
- Munshaʿib means branching, split into several paths. His love is single and undivided, directed to one Beloved alone, which in Sufi terms is also an expression of tawḥīd, the oneness of God. ↩
- The verb asʿā, ‘I hasten’, is also the word for the saʿy, the pilgrims’ ritual walk between Safa and Marwa, and al-Bayt, ‘the House’, in the next verse is the usual name of the Kaaba in Mecca, which pilgrims circle seven times (ṭawāf). The lover’s visit to the beloved’s house is thus cast as a pilgrimage and her house as his Kaaba. The double exclamation with yā la- in the next verse is a cry of wonder and of pain at once: wonder at this Kaaba, pity for the lover who circles it. ↩
- The contrast between the door and the one within is a Sufi commonplace: the true seeker wants the Lord of the house, not the house itself, the Beloved and not the outward forms and rituals that lead to Her. ↩
- Jarab is mange or scabies, the contagious skin disease for which a camel was driven away from the herd; the pre-Islamic poet Ṭarafa describes himself shunned by his clan like a tarred, mangy camel. The beloved’s mild words cast the lover as an outcast whom everyone avoids; he answers that her kiss alone would cure him. ↩
- Lam akhib, ‘I did not fail, did not come away the loser’. The lover has sold paradise for next to nothing and taken in exchange the ‘hell’ of her eyes, the burning of her glance, and yet he counts himself the winner. In the Sufi sense the lover seeks the Beloved herself, not the reward of paradise, and would rather burn near Her than be rewarded far from Her. ↩
English translation prepared by artificial intelligence and reviewed against the Arabic for accuracy of meaning and rhetoric.