The Curl

by Mahmud Shabistari

If you ask me of the long story

Of the Beloved’s curl,

I cannot answer, for it contains a mystery

Which only true lovers understand,

And they, maddened by its beauty,

Are held captive as by a golden chain.

I spoke too openly of that graceful form,

But the end of the curl told me to hide its glory,

So that the path to it should be twisted

And crooked and difficult.

That curl enchains lovers’ hearts,

And bears their soul to and fro

 In the sea of desire. A hundred thousand hearts

Are tightly bound, not one escapes, alas!

No single infidel would remain in the world

If he could see the shaking aside

Of those black curls,

And on the earth there would not remain a faithful soul

If they were always in their place.

Suppose they were shorn…No matter,

Day would increase and the night disappear. 

As a spider spreads its nets to ensnare,

So does the Beloved in wantonness

Shake His locks from off His face.

Behold His hands plundering Reason’s caravan

And with knots binding it right.

Never at rest is that curl,

Every moving to and fro

Making now night, making now morning,

Playing with the seasons in wonder.

Adam was created when the perfume of that

amber-scented curl

Was blown by the wind on his clay.

And I too possess an ensample;

I cannot wait for a moment,

But breathlessly start working anew

To tear my heart out of my breast.

…Sore troubled am I by that curl

Which veils my longing soul from His face.

By Mahmud Shabistari, tr. Florence Lederer, material excerpted from The Secret Rose Garden by Mahmud Shabistari © 2002, used with permission from Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC Newburyport, MA www.redwheelweiser.com