THE past has flown away,
The coming month and year do not exist;
Ours only is the present's tiny point.
Time is but a fancied dot ever moving on
Which you have called a flowing river-stream.
I am alone in a wide desert,
Listening to the echo of strange noises.
You have heard much of this world,
Yet what have you seen of this world?
What is its form and substance?
What is Simurgh, and what is Mount Kaf?
What is Hades and what is Heaven and Hell?
What is that unseen world
A day of which equals a year of this?
Come and hear the meaning.
You are asleep, and your vision is a dream,
All you are seeing is a mirage.
When you wake up on the morn of the last day
You will know all this to be Fancy's illusion;
When you have ceased to see double,
Earth and Heaven will become transformed;
When the real sun unveils his face to you,
The moon, the stars, and Venus will disappear;
If a ray shines on the hard rock
Like wool of many colours, it drops to pieces.
THE world is an imaginary figure,
A diffused shadow of the Infinite;
One breath created the worlds of command
And all living things.
As they appear to come forth, so they appear to go.
Though there is no real coming and going.
For what is going but coming?
. . . All are one, both the visible and the invisible.
God most high, the Eternal One,
Creates and destroys both worlds.
. . . The varied forms you see are but phantoms of your fancy,
And by revolving quickly in a circle
Appear as one.
THE imagination produces phenomenal objects
Which have no real existence,
So this world has no substantial reality,
But exists as a shadowy pageant or a play.
All is pervaded by Absolute Being
In its utter perfection.
There are many numbers, but only One is counted.
THE house is left empty, save for the Truth,
For in a moment the world has passed away;
Then you, rid of self, fly upwards
And are united to the Beloved.
Union is yours when this dream-world
Fades and dies away.