Compare it to the video below, which is an example of music that brims with beauty. You will see young and old bask in music that is soothing and lyrics that are simply sublime. Watch the child from 1:15-1:25, and try to call to mind a song you heard on the radio that could elicit a similar experience in a child.

I have translated the lyrics below, but I recommend watching it twice: first, without reading the lyrics; second, after knowing what the words mean. As one can never entirely shed their childhood melodies, I have left an easter egg in my translation for those who remember 90s music.

یه شبی زار و پریشان؛ در میخانه زدم
ز غم هجر و فراقش؛ میسوزد جان و تنم

One night, distraught and dishevelled,
I knocked on the tavern door,
My body and soul burning in the
Sorrow of separation from He.


گفتمش باز کن ساقی من! منم آن مطرب خوش
که شکسته ساز دلم
!گفتمش می بده؛ جام پیاپی بده

I said: O cupbearer of mine, open!
I am that merry minstrel
Whose heart's instrument has shattered.
I said to him: Pass the wine
and the goblets without pause!


!ز قرار رفته از دست ؛ آمده است جان به لبم
تو ببین کاسه چشمم؛ بنگر سرخی اشکم

All resoluteness eludes me
My soul hovers on the brink!
Look upon my hollow eyes
Gaze upon my searing tears.


بنگربنگر بنگر ز حال مستم؛ ز غم هجر و فراقت
!چاک چاک است پیرهنم

Look, look, look upon my drunken state,
For in the sorrow of separation from You,
My garments are torn to shreds,
Yes, torn to shreds indeed!


گفتمش ساقی من؛ بنواز این دل من
!به سرم شور نماند؛ به فدایت جان و سرم

I said to him: O cupbearer of mine,
Strum my heart with your fingers,
For fervour abides in my mind no more.
May my soul be sacrificed for you!

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Such an incident would have passed without notice, until the recording of the soldier singing the Lori ballad was found a few years back in an abandoned house in Iraq. Last year, it finally reached his family. And a few days ago, it reached me via my brother, who requested its translation.

‘Daye Daye’ was composed in Lori, which is an Iranian language that bears some similarities to Persian. I could understand about 50%, so I had to find a translation from Lori to Persian. Below, I have translated the Persian into English.

O Mother! O Mother!

Strap my saddle and provisions
To my sturdy mare
Send any and all news of me 
To my beloved uncles 

O mother! O mother! 
It is the time of war
The bandolier slung over my shoulder
Is replete with ammunition!

Seal the trenches shut  
And haul out my body
Bring my corpse before 
My mother so that she may 
Weep and wail over me!

O carrier of my coffin!
Amble on gently, so that perhaps
I may glimpse my mother
Perhaps she will forgive me
And bless me, so that I may
Find peace in death

O beloved of mine!
Don your black garments
For now your valiant lion
Lies in his grave

O mother! O mother!
It is the time of war
The bandolier slung over my shoulder
Is replete with ammunition

Search every house from wall-to-wall
Lift my corpse in such a way
That the enemy cannot
Cast their gaze upon me 

O carrier of my coffin!
Amble on gently, so that perhaps
I may glimpse my mother 
Perhaps she will forgive me
And bless me, so that I may
Find peace in death

Send a letter to my daughters
So that after me they 
Shall not wed my enemies

O mother! O mother!
It is the time of war
The bandolier slung over my shoulder
Is replete with ammunition

O beloved of mine!
Don your black garments
For now your valiant lion
Lies in his grave

O carrier of my coffin!
Amble on gently, so that perhaps
I may glimpse my mother 
Perhaps she will forgive me
And bless me, so that I may
Find peace in death

Below is the famous rendition of ‘Daye Daye’ by Reza Saqayi. His is a voice crafted by God to sing folkloric songs. I urge you to listen to it, for truly beautiful music transcends language barriers.

On a final note, I distinguish between love of the homeland and nationalism. Nationalism is a disease that erects borders between brothers and constructs identities on flimsy boundaries that bend and break through the centuries. This is entirely absent in Daye Daye and the Lori love of the homeland.

Theirs is the same love that flows in Palestine and South Lebanon, a symbiotic love forged between a people and their homeland over centuries and millennia: in life, the people till the land with their hands and enjoy its fruits; in death, they find peaceful slumber in its bosom; and in martyrdom for the land, they imbue it with life renewed. There is no other love like this.

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My translation of the verse is as follows:

در عین وصالت، به تواَم نیســت وصـولی

In the midst of union with You
I did not reach You  

همچون شترِ تشنه که بارَش همه آب است

Like the parched camel whose
entire load is water

I have sat here for a while trying to gather the words that can describe the existential ache of divine union. But I cannot surpass Niyaz. So I will leave you to ponder and reflect on his words.

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But what is often overlooked is that Imam Husayn had an older brother. And his older brother, Imam Hassan, was just as great. It is a shame then, that Muslims — both Shi’a and Sunni — have neglected him. He, too, deserves to be known more widely.

Below is my translation of a poem composed by Mohammed Sohrabi in honour of Imam Hassan. Here I must thank my good friend Dr. Hassan Lami for his assistance in translating this poem. Any shortcomings are mine alone.

The Sultan of Karbala is Hassan

دعای زنده‌دلان صبح و شام «یاحسن» است
که موی تیره و روی سفید با حسن است

From awakened hearts the plea of
'O Hassan' abounds morn and night
For to Hassan belongs beauty,
Grace, and youthful might


حسین می‌شنوم هرچه یا حسن گویم
دو کوه هست ولی کوه بی‌صدا حسن است

Whenever I call out to Hassan
I hear the name of Husayn
Two mountains they be, but Hassan
Ever silent remains


به کفر گفت که دست حسن دوایی نیست
درست گفت برادر، خود دوا حسن است

The ingrate cried "In Hassan's hand
No remedy there be"
You spoke well, brother, for Hassan
Himself is the remedy!


مبین ز نسل حسن هیچ‌کس امام نشد
به حسن بینی اگر هر امام را، حسن است

Look not into Hassan's descendants
Of Imams there are none
Gaze well upon every Imam
And there you'll find Hassan 


حسین نهی به قاسم دهد حسن دستور
ز من بپرس که سلطان کربلا حسن است

Husayn forbade Qasim from combat, 
But Hassan ordered his son
Ask of me and I shall tell you: 
The Sultan of Karbala is Hassan!


بخوان به نام پسر تا پدر دهد راهت
بیا که کنیه شیرخدا اباحسن است

Call upon the son's name until
The father guides the way
Harken! For Abu'l Hassan is
The Lion of God's sobriquet

As you can see in the video below, Mohammed Sohrabi recited this poem in a gathering organised by the martyred Leader of the Islamic Revolution, Ayatollah Khamenei. Ayatollah Khamenei organised many such assemblies of poets and littérateurs, and on this occasion offered Mohammed Sohrabi corrections and suggestions for the 4th stanza.

There is much to be said about Ayatollah Khamenei and his relationship to poetry, but that is a post (or book) for another time.

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Since that terrible day, the bodies of all the victims have been recovered and identified by forensic experts — except one. Only a single shoe — and reportedly a blue sweater — belonging to Makan was found by his uncle, 38 days after his murder. Still, the people of Minab rummage through the ruins every night, seeking the smallest part of Makan to hold a burial for him.

The people of Minab also gather every night at the local cemetery to mourn their beloved children. But what of the parents who cannot find the remains of their child? How is closure attained without a burial? Where does repressed grief go? For Makan’s mother, his body’s absence is perhaps a blessing in disguise:

“I was terrified by the idea of having to place Makan in the grave, I couldn’t stand that. I prayed to God for help, and it may explain why we couldn’t find him.”

Though no trace of Makan has been found, his tragic tale has travelled far and wide, inspiring rage, grief, and art. Afshin Ala, a renowned contemporary Iranian poet, composed a poem dedicated to Makan Nasiri, titled For The Lost Joseph of Minab. I have translated the poem and present it below, in dedication to Makan and the martyrs of Minab:

For The Lost Joseph of Minab


غمت تاب و طاقت ز پاکان گرفت
قرار از دل سینه‌چاکان گرفت

Your sorrow stripped from pure folk
All endurance that they knew
And snatched from wounded hearts 
All serene composure too


نه تنها ز مادر نه تنها پدر
توان، هفت پشت از نیاکان گرفت

Your mother and father lost you,
But what is even more
Strength was sapped from your forefathers
That came so long before


هلاکو نبرد این قراری که غرب
ز ما خیل از غم‌هلاکان گرفت

Hulagu wrought not the crimes 
That the West did ordain
When it callously seized from us
Multitudes of grief-slain


از آن روز خلقی مداوم گریست
چو باران که هرشب کماکان گرفت

Since that day a people
Have cried forevermore
Like the rain that billows tonight
As every night before


نشانت ندیدند زان رو که اشک
ره دیده‌ی شرمناکان گرفت

They saw no sign of you, for upon
the eye of the ashamed
A flood of tears lingered and
Hindered sight’s wayward aim


نشان تو باید در آئینه‌ها
نه از خفته در خون و خاکان گرفت

A sign of you must be sought
In gilded mirrors hanging high
Not from those lying amidst
Pools of blood and dirt nearby


سراغ تو را باید از دشت‌ها
میان بلوطان و تاکان گرفت

A trace of you must be sought
In vast and verdant plains
Among the groves where winding vines 
And chestnut trees do reign


تو پنهان شدی از نظرها ولی
تمام وطن، عطر ماکان گرفت

You remain hidden from our sight
But even so we understand
That the fragrant scent of Makan
Envelopes the entire motherland

Please recite a fatiha for the soul of Makan Nasiri and all the martyrs of Minab. But beyond that, please consider offering a donation. There are difficulties donating to Iran due to sanctions and political entanglements, but I’ve found one recognised charity that does great work in Iran.

https://momsagainstpoverty.org/country/iran/

Please donate generously, and feel free to share links to other charity organisations in the Comments section.

The endearing, elderly woman with the charming voice was singing ‘The Journey For The Homeland’, a poem composed by Nader Ibrahimi and made famous in song by Mohammad Noori. I’ve translated the entire poem below.

The Journey For The Homeland

For the sake of seeking the name
Of an unacquainted flower,
Oh, the journeys we have traversed!
Oh, the journeys we have traversed!

For the sake of planting a kiss 
Upon the summit’s soil,
Oh, the dangers we have braved!
Oh, the dangers we have braved!

So that Iran shall become 
The abode of the good,
For many an age we have suffered!
For many an age we have suffered!

So that Iran shall become 
A glimmering jewel,
Our heart’s blood we’ve devoured!
Our heart’s blood we’ve devoured!

For the sake of catching the
Scent of the narcissus,
Oh, the journeys we have traversed!
Oh, the journeys we have traversed!

For the sake of tasting a trickle 
Of the desert's brine,
Oh, the dangers we have braved!
Oh, the dangers we have braved!

For the sake of telling this tale  
Of the love of the homeland,
For many an age we have suffered!
For many an age we have suffered!

So that this pure love 
shall abide eternally,
Our heart’s blood we’ve devoured!
Our heart’s blood we’ve devoured!

For those that want to hear the famous musical rendition of Mohammad Noori:

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But all of this is pointless. Iran cannot lose this war. Not ‘will not’ or ‘should not’. They cannot, and a poem from four decades ago — amidst the crucible of the Iran-Iraq war — will tell you why.

In 1980, Saddam Hussein launched an invasion of Iran, boasting to reporters that in the following week he would answer their questions in Tehran. The real goal, however, was annexing Khuzestan and gaining access to the Persian Gulf. He sought to achieve this with the financial and military support of the collective West and the Gulf countries, all of whom turned a blind eye as he used chemical weapons on Iranian civilians. Sounds familiar.

But Saddam Hussein made a crucial blunder: the nation he attacked was Iran, an ancient civilization boasting an intelligent and fiercely proud population. Now add to it a popular revolution inspired by religious fervour and imbued with the martyrdom ethos of Shi’ism. What you get is a people who do not see death as defeat, but as the final hurdle to overcome before they can be reunited with their Beloved.

All of this is palpable in the resistance poetry that emerged in this period, which combined motifs from Shi’ism, Persian mystical poetry, and the brutality of war. Below is a subtitled excerpt from a documentary that depicts this truth in a poignant manner. I urge you to watch it closely. The faces of the young men. The poetry they recite. The tears they shed before they farewell each other and head to the battlefront.

The poem recited by Sadegh Ahangaran in the above video (minute 4:40-6:40) is among the most famous of the resistance poetry genre. I have translated a few more parts of it below so you can get a fuller picture of how it weaves different threads together:

O army of the Lord of the Age, be ready
For this brutal battle bereft of safety, be ready

O soldiers who wield your lives in hand! 
For the day of bravery, get ready
O army of the Spirit of God, the time 
for valour draws nigh, get ready

All hearts are frenzied in their yearning to meet Husayn
The lovers of Karbala have shrouded this plain
A new tumult rages in the warriors hearts
Like a mountain, firm and mighty, be ready

For the sake of attaining honour 
Tie the band of courage 'round my head 
For the sake of my meeting with God, 
perfume my corpse with fragrant scents

The fusion of the Shi’i martyrdom ethos grounded in the tragedy of Karbala, zealous love for the homeland, absolute brotherhood, and the absence of fear. In such a worldview, there is either victory or martyrdom. Loss does not exist.

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Shahriyar is no stranger to enthusiasts of Persian poetry. Often considered the last great classical Persian poet, his influence looms large over not only Persian poetry; his work Haydar Babaya Salam is considered the greatest poem ever composed in the Azerbaijani language. He possessed the attributes that bind together all great poets: a mastery over words, and a heartbreak which hurled him into a deep melancholy.

Ayatollah Mar’ashi Najafi was a religious scholar of the highest calibre. He was recognised as an ‘ayatollah’ - a term that has unfortunately been smeared over the past few decades. Putting politics to one side, the word ayatollah means ‘sign of God’, and is usually conferred upon an individual who has attained a high level of mastery over religious sciences. An ayatollah is an expert in theology, law, philosophy, mysticism, literature, and scripture, amongst other disciplines; a modern day Renaissance man in an age of over-specialisation.

Ayatollah Mar’ashi Najafi was also distinguished by his love of manuscripts; indeed, he managed to gather 25,000 manuscripts, many of which were rare works not found anywhere else. Those manuscripts are now housed in the Ayatollah Mar’ashi Najafi library, one of the largest manuscript libraries in West Asia. As per his wish, Ayatollah Mar’ashi Najafi was buried beside his manuscript library.

How did these two legendary figures, living in different cities, come to meet? Through a dream, of course. The tale is narrated in the video below by Mahmoud Najafi, the son of Ayatollah Mar’ashi Najafi.

What follows is my translation of the above video (or most of it, with a few changes for ease of reading):

My father (Ayatullah Mar’ashi Najafi) said that: For a period of time, I desired from God to see one of His saints in a dream and become acquainted with them. After a while, there was a night in which, however much I tried, I could not sleep. I was awake till late, when suddenly I fell asleep. In my dream, I saw that I was in the vicinity of the Mosque of Kufa, and a vast crowd was rushing towards one of the halls of the masjid.

I asked one of the people from the crowd : What is happening there?

That person responded: Imam Ali is present there at the Masjid.

We saw Imam Ali there, and heard him say: Bring forth the Arab poets. After some time had elapsed, the Imam (as) then said: Bring forth the Persian poets. The first to be brought was Muhtasham Kashani, and after a few others, the Imam proclaimed in a loud voice: Bring forth our Shahriyar!

We saw a skinny man with a moustache come forward. He was brought forth, at which point Imam Ali said: Now recite your ghazal so that I may listen to it.

Shahriyar began to recite the ghazal, which begins with: ‘Ali, O Phoenix of Mercy’.

Imam Ali was effected by the recital, and told him to continue reciting the rest of the ghazal. Shahriyar continued to read the ghazal, shedding tears as he did so.

I woke up, and was greatly astonished, wondering: Who is this Shahriyar?!

***

After he saw this dream, my father sent a message to Shahriyar, asking him to come visit him. One day, he was sitting at the crack of dawn, deep in study — as was his wont — when Shahriyar came and knocked on the door. One of the servants came and opened the door, but they did not recognise him.

He said to the servant: ‘I am Bahjat from Tabriz, better known as Shahriyar. Your master has asked for me.’

He then welcomed in. Shahriyar came before my father, who respectfully asked him to be seated. My father then began to recite Shahriyar’s ghazal that he heard in his dream. Shahriyar was surprised, and asked him: Who spoke to you of this ghazal?

My father replied: I heard you recite this poem in the blessed presence of Imam Ali.

Shahriyar brought his hands together and exclaimed: God is great! Now I understand why on that night in which I composed this poem, I thought that there was some (divine) inspiration at work, as the words flowed easily. That night, I even performed ablution before composing this poem.

My father said: You are a Sayyed, from a blessed lineage. Take pride in the fact that you received such high regard and favour from the Imam.

What was this poem of Shahriyar that received such favour from Imam Ali, built a friendship across dreams and cities, and became legendary amongst Persian speakers and lovers of Imam Ali? I could not find an English translation, so I went ahead and translated it myself.

This is the first time I have ever tried to maintain the monorhyme of the ghazal in translation, which is a brave (read: stupid) thing to do. I have always been a sucker for rhyme, and have done my best to pull this off whilst trying to be as faithful to the original as possible - with a few tweaks.

مناجات (Intimate Orisons)


علی ای همای رحمت، تو چه آیتی خدا را

که به ماسوا فکندی همه سایه هما را

Ali, O phoenix of mercy, what a sign of God you be!
Your auspicious shadow envelopes all save He


دل اگر خداشناسی، همه در رخ علی بین

به علی شناختم من به خدا قسم خدا را

If a heart knows God, it will see all in the face of Ali
By God, I have come to truly know God through Ali


به خدا که در دو عالم اثر از فنا نماند

چو علی گرفته باشد سر چشمهٔ بقا را

By God, in both worlds no trace remains of mortality
When Ali firmly seizes the spring of eternity


مگر ای سحاب رحمت تو بباری ارنه دوزخ

به شرار قهر سوزد همه جان ماسوا را

If your rain billows down not, O cloud of Mercy
Then hell shall burn all souls in a blazing fury!


برو ای گدای مسکین در خانه علی زن

که نگین پادشاهی دهد از کرم گدا را

Go, o penurious beggar, knock on the door of Ali,
For his grace gifts a pauper the gem of royalty


بجز از علی که گوید به پسر که قاتل من

چو اسیر توست اکنون به اسیر کن مدارا

Of his own killer none would utter the words of Ali:
‘Since he is now your captive, show him clemency’


بجز از علی که آرد پسری ابوالعجائب

که علم کند به عالم شهدای کربلا را

Can any but Ali raise a son of such wondrous majesty
who hoisted the banner of Karbala before all humanity?


چو به دوست عهد بندد ز میان پاکبازان

چو علی که می‌تواند که به سر برد وفا را

When great vows are exchanged among the devotees 
Who like Ali will fulfil them with full fidelity?


نه خدا توانمش خواند نه بشر توانمش گفت

متحیرم چه نامم شه ملک لافتی را

I cannot call him God, nor a human can he be,
I’m perplexed: what shall I call this king of youthful chivalry?


به دو چشم خون‌فشانم هله ای نسیم رحمت

که ز کوی او غباری به من آر توتیا را

For my eyes brimming with tears, O breeze of Mercy
Bring me a speck of eye-curing dust from his alley


به امید آن که شاید برسد به خاک پایت

چه پیامها سپردم همه سوز دل صبا را

With the hope that they’ll reach the dust beneath the feet of thee
I’ve saddled the breeze with letters burning with agony


چو تویی قضای گردان به دعای مستمندان

که ز جان ما بگردان ره آفت قضا را

Hear the prayer of the downtrodden, O turner of destiny,
And from our lives repel the path of calamity!


چه زنم چو نای هر دم ز نوای شوق او دم

که لسان غیب خوشتر بنوازد این نوا را

Why should I, like the reed, sing of my yearning constantly
When the Tongue of the Unseen sweeter still plays this melody?


همه شب در این امیدم که نسیم صبحگاهی

به پیام آشنایی بنوازد آشنا را

All night I lie in hope that the morning breeze
Will caress the beloved with a message of intimacy


ز نوای مرغ یا حق بشنو که در دل شب

غم دل به دوست گفتن چه خوش است شهریارا

Heed the bird’s song for God that in the depths of night resounds loudly
To sing your sorrows to the Friend — Oh Shahriyar, how sweet that would be!

Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the Comments section below, and please let me know if monorhyme translations are enjoyable, or if I should toss them in the bin and never utter a word about them again :)

For this translation I’ve followed the translation method for ghazals (lyrics) used by Dick Davis.

Final note: If any publishers happen to read this, then I would be more than happy to translate an anthology of ghazals belonging to Saʿdī :)

Ghazal 31 


چه فتنه بود که حسن تو در جهان انداخت

که یک دم از تو نظر بر نمی‌توان انداخت

What boundless strife has your beauty 
hurled into the world?
All eyes upon you, gazes not 
for a moment unfurled


بلای غمزه نامهربان خون‌خوارت

چه خون که در دل یاران مهربان انداخت

Your cruel and blood lusting glances
have torn your lovers apart
Oh, what blood have you poured into 
these gentle lovers hearts?


ز عقل و عافیت آن روز بر کران ماندم

که روزگار حدیث تو در میان انداخت

My good health and sound mind were
cast aside on that day 
When tales of your beauty spread
and upon me took sway


نه باغ ماند و نه بستان که سرو قامت تو

برست و ولوله در باغ و بوستان انداخت

All traces of groves and gardens
were from my mind erased
When your grand cypress sprouted and
caused a clamour upraised


تو دوستی کن و از دیده مفکنم زنهار

که دشمنم ز برای تو در زبان انداخت

Grant me a glint of affection,
and avert not your gaze!
For my rival has for your sake
sullied my name in disgrace 


به چشم‌های تو کان چشم کز تو برگیرند

دریغ باشد بر ماه آسمان انداخت

By your eyes I swear, that naught but
regret will stalk the eyes
That glimpsed you and thereupon sought
the dull moon in the sky


همین حکایت روزی به دوستان برسد

که سعدی از پی جانان برفت و جان انداخت

Someday this story shall reach the 
ears of our good friends
That Saʿdī for his beloved 
his life he did expend

Please share your thoughts on the translation! Was it enjoyable? Did it flow well? Was it so bad that I should rip up all my other drafts?

For Persian speakers, let me know what you think of the translation: Was it good? Was it crap? Or maybe somewhere in the middle? How can it be improved? What modifications would you make?

And finally, if anyone wants to learn more about Saʿdī then have a listen to the latest episode of the Abbasid History podcast where I speak more about the poet and his works :)

https://abbasidhistorypodcast.libsyn.com/ep06-ali-hammoud-on-the-life-and-works-of-saadi-d-1292-ce-the-master

In such a book there are many strange stories, usually accompanied by Ashkivarī’s thoughts on them. I have translated one such story below, and provided my own translations of the Arabic and Persian poetry found therein. (A special thanks is due to Dr. Hassan Lami for sharing his thoughts on the translations and drastically improving them.)

I am certain the Arabic poem has been translated elsewhere, but even more certain that the Persian verse has never been translated before.

So without further ado, here is what Ashkivarī writes in the 3rd volume of Maḥbūb al-Qulūb:

. . . On the road to Hajj, Ibrahim b. Adham made a mutual pledge with his companion: both would not remain silent if they witnessed an ignoble deed from the other. When they reached the glorious city of Mecca, they suddenly saw an adorned building, in which a beautiful young lad was seated. At first Ibrahim glanced at him, and then repeatedly cast his gaze upon the young lad. His companion took him to task for this.

Ibrahim splashed some water over his face, and said: This young lad is my son. He was but a small baby when I separated from him, but now that I have seen him again, I have recognised him.

His friend replied: I will inform him of who you are.

Ibrahim was displeased, and said: I left my son for the sake of God, and I will not return to him.

Ibrahim then recited the following lines of Arabic poetry:

هجرت الخلق طرّا في هواكا
و ايتمت العيال لكي اراكا
و لو قطّعت اربا ثم اربا
لمل حنّ الفؤاد الى سواكا

I have migrated from all creation
in my passion for You
And I have orphaned my family  
to catch a glimpse of You
And even if I were hacked into pieces
again and again
My inflamed heart would still not pine 
for any other than You

As I (Ashkivarī) read this, a verse of Persian poetry crossed my mind:

به حق پیوند امید از خلق بگسل
تو را یک یار بس چون داری یک دل

Graft yourself to God, and from the
world tear all hope apart
One companion suffices you,  
for you only have one heart

Now, I don’t usually (ever) recommend fathers to leave their children, and tales of Sufi saints should always be taken with a few kilograms of salt. But there is still something to be said for how we should measure our genuine love of God. We read in 33:4 of the Qur’an:

Allah has not made for any man two hearts in his (one) body.

A verse as powerful as this demands that we ask ourselves: at what point does our love for the world and its people hinder our love for Him? Where does God rank in the hierarchy of our hearts?

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Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

- Shakespeare, As You Like It (Act 2, Scene 1)

In all of Shakespeare, the above excerpt is perhaps my favourite. It is what I hope to achieve: to look upon everything and see beyond it; to gaze at nature and recognise it as one of the ayat (signs) of God.

I’m not alone in this. I’m not a gambling man, but I’d wager that 99.83% of poets have turned to nature to find that sacred spark which would ignite the creative flame within them. Sohrab Sepehri (1928-1980) was no different.

Sohrab Sepehri was a true artist in every sense of the world: he learnt multiple languages, traveled to many countries to learn different crafts, and never got married. He was renowned as both a painter and poet, ranking amongst the most influential modernist poets in 20th century Iran.

One of his most famous poems is Water’s Footsteps, which is part autobiography, part spiritual tract, and part ode to nature. I’ve never been a fan of modernist Persian poetry, but reading it induced a kaleidoscope of emotions, and so I thought it would be proper to share it with you.

It is long, so below I will only share some of my favourite parts. The translation belongs to Karim Emami:

I come from Kashan.
I lead a modest life.
I earn a morsel of bread,
I have a bit of intelligence, an iota of taste.
I have a mother, better than the green leaf. 
I have friends, better than the running water.

***

And I have a god nearby:
Somewhere amidst these gillyflowers,
             at the foot of that tall pine. 
On top of water's consciousness, 
           over the law of the plants.

***

I am a Moslem.
My mecca is a rose.
My mosque is a spring, my prayer stone the light. 
Fields make my prayer rug.
I make ablution with the heartbeat of the windows.
Moonlight flows through my prayers, the spectrum too. 
Rocks show through my prayers:
Every particle of my prayers is crystalline. 
I say my prayers
When I hear the wind call out the faithful
           from the top of the minaret which is the cypress tree. 
I say my prayers
When I hear the grass pronounce the takbiratal-ehram. 
I say my prayers
When the wave utters the qad-qamat.

***

My kaaba lies by the water,
My kaaba lies under the acacias. 
My kaaba travels like the breeze, 
           from one garden to the next,
          from one town to another.
My hajar al-asvad is the daylight on the flower beds.

***

Father died before two returns of the swallows, 
          before two snowfalls,
Before our twice sleeping on the terrace. 
Father died before times past.
When Father died the sky was blue; 
Mother awoke unawares,
              causing my sister to become beautiful. 
When Father died, all the policemen were poets. 
"How many pounds of melons would you like?"
           the grocer asked me.
"How much is an ounce of happiness?" I asked in return.

***

I went to a party, the world's party: 
I went to the plain of sorrow,
I went to the garden of mysticism,
To the illuminated arch of science,
Up the stairs of religion,
Down the alleyway of doubt,
As far as the cool air of detachment,
As far as the wet night of affection.
I went to meet someone on the far side of love. 
Then I went on and on to woman,
          to the red light of pleasure, 
To silenced desire,
To the sound of solitude fluttering its wings.

***

A baby's rattle murdered on the siesta mattress. 
A story murdered at the crossroads of sleep.
A sorrow murdered at the orders of a song.
Moonlight murdered by neon.
A willow tree murdered by the State.
A depressed poet murdered by winter flower.

***

I saw many peoples. 
I saw many cities.
I saw plains and mountains.
I saw the water and the dry land. 
I saw light and darkness.
And I saw the plants in light,
          and I saw them in darkness. 
I saw the animals in light,
          and I saw them in darkness. 
And I saw mankind in light,
And I saw him in darkness.

***

I come from Kashan
But Kashan is no longer my town. 
My hometown has been lost.
With feverish effort, I have built myself a house
On the far side of the night.

***

I have never known two poplars to be enemies. 
I have never seen a willow selling its shade
         to the ground.
The elm lets its branch to the crow for free. 
Wherever there are leaves, my enthusiasm blossoms.
A poppy plant has bathed me in the rapid flow of being.

***

Life is a pleasant custom.
Life's wings spread out as much as death's.
Life leaps as high as love.
Life is not something to be left behind by you or me
       on the edge of the habit's shelf.
Life is the ecstasy of a hand picking.
Life is the taste of the season's first black figs
        in the acrid mouth of summer.
Life is one dimension of the tree in the eyes
       of an insect.
Life is the experience of a moth in darkness.
Life is that strange sense possessed by a migrating bird. 
Life is a train's whistle reverberating in the sleep
       of a bridge.
Life is seeing a flower bed from the enclosed window
       of an airplane.
 Life is the news of a rocket launched into space.
Life is feeling the moon's loneliness.
Life is the idea of smelling flowers on another planet.

***

It's not our job to unravel the mystery of a rose.
Perhaps our job is
To swim in the magic of the rose.
To set up camp behind Wisdom.
To wash our hands in the ecstasy of a leaf
          before we eat.
To be reborn each morning with the rising sun.
To send our thrills up like a kite.
To spray a fine mist over our perception
        of space, color, sound and windows.
To seat the sky between the two syllables of Be-ing.
To fill and refill our lungs with eternity.
To unburden the swallow from its load of knowledge.
To take back the names we have given to the cloud, 
To the plane tree, to the mosquito, to the summer. 
To climb to the heights of affection
        on the wet legs of the rain. 
To open the door to mankind,
         to light, to plants and to insects.

***

Perhaps our job is
To run between the Morning Glory and the Century
In pursuit of the sound of Truth.

Those that want to hear a recital of the poem can check out this link.

As I said earlier, reading this poem induced many emotions. But I’m a just a random guy on the Internet, so I wanna know what you guys think. Did you like it? Was it meh? Is there another nature-related poem that resonates more deeply with you? Please share your thoughts on this poem — or share other nature-related poems — in the Comments section below :)

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Put simply, my family were shattered. But her death was different to the passing of other grandparents who lived near us, and whom we visited almost daily. The vast distance between us and my grandmother amplified our pain, and brought home the reality of ghurbat.

Ghurbat is one of those words that mocks any effort to translate it. The Steingass Persian-English Dictionary offers some of the following definitions, all of which fall far short in capturing this state of being:

1. being far from country and friends;

2. distance from home;

3. exile;

4. (the state or) condition of a stranger (or foreigner).

To be in a state of ghurbat means that you occupy a liminal space; it means that you are a permanent resident of a barzakh realm between two potential homes.

I was born in Australia and — bar one year — have lived here my whole life, yet I will never be viewed as ‘fully’ Australian: as mainstream media would say, I’m a ‘man of Middle-Eastern appearance.’ In Lebanon, I am never fully Lebanese: I am Ali al-Australi (the Australian), always slightly behind in understanding jokes or inferences; who knows enough to know that he doesn’t fully get it.

Don’t get me wrong, I certainly don’t suffer from some early 00s’ Muslim identity crisis of not ‘belonging’ to my country. I know exactly who I am and what I believe, and have come to revel in that liminal space that my upbringing has afforded me.

But it is in moments like this when I peer over the fence of my comfortable liminal nest and gaze at what Lebanon may have been for me.

Garbed in the garment of ghurbat, I mourn not only the grandmother I knew, but the grandmother I never got to truly know. I mourn the life I would’ve had if my parents never left Lebanon: the friendships I would’ve forged, the memories I would’ve made, the languages I would’ve learnt. In short, the person I would’ve been, with all the wondrous (and not so wondrous) possibilities. For some people, it may not make sense to mourn something that never was, but that is precisely the point: ghurbat mourns that which never came to fruition.

I am eternally grateful for the blessings that my life has provided me, but it is in moments like this that I realise what I have lost. It is then that ghurbat hits hard.

The poem below was written by Muhammad-Reza Shafiei Kadkani, one of the greatest contemporary professors of Persian literature, and a noted poet in his own right. Though the sentiments are different to what I currently feel, there is something in the poem that I am certain will find great resonance with those living in the diaspora:

Happy Journeys - Muhammad-Reza Shafiei Kadkani
Translated by Dick Davis

"Where are you going in such a hurry?"
              the desert-thorn asked the wind.

"My heart's in torment here -
        don't you want to get away
From this dusty desert?"

"It's all I long for, but
        what can I do, with my feet tied like this . . ."

"Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"Wherever it may be, except here, where I am."

"Travel safely then! But my friend, I beg you,
When you have passed safely from this brutal wasteland,
And reached blossoms, and the rain,
Greet them for me."

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On Friday morning, the terror organisation known as the IDF launched a large scale attack on Iran, claiming they wanted to put a stop to Iran’s nuclear program — conveniently ignoring that they themselves have a large stockpile of nuclear weapons and refuse to sign the NPT. Nor do mainstream media outlets care to bring this up.

The genocidal Zionist entity was not content with attacking nuclear sites and military bases; instead, it aimed at civilians in residential buildings. To anyone only mildly acquainted with Israel, none of this comes as a surprise; they have been committing genocide for over a year with the support — tacit or explicit — of major Western nations. In these attacks many civilians were murdered.

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Among the civilians brutally murdered by Israel was 23-year-old Parnia Abbasi, who was murdered alongside her parents and 15-year-old brother. Abbasi was an English teacher, bank clerk, and burgeoning poet.

Here I want to share her most famous poem, The Extinguished Star, which was published in the literary magazine, Vazn-e Donya. It is a beautiful poem, one that resonates hauntingly after her murder.

The Extinguished Star by Parnia Abbasi
Translated by Ghazal Mosadeq


I wept for the both
for you
and for me

you blow at
the stars, my tears

in your world
the freedom of light
in mine
The chase of shadows

you and I will come to an end
somewhere
the most beautiful poem in the world
falls quiet

you begin
somewhere
to cry the
murmur of life

but I will end
I burn
I’ll be that extinguished star
In your sky
like smoke

War has a way of burying stories beneath statistics, but we must do our best to retrieve these stories and share them. Every martyred person was a lover, a beloved, a dreamer. Parnia’s dream was cut short by the Zionist nightmare, but like a star, a part of her lives on in her words, undimmed and unextinguished by the spectre of death.

For those that missed it, I recorded an episode with the Abbasid History Podcast on Umar Khayyam, a poet far more famous than he is understood. For those interested, here is the link :)

https://abbasidhistorypodcast.libsyn.com/ep059-ali-hammoud-on-the-life-and-works-of-omar-khayyam-d-1131ce

But what to translate with the half-baked Persian that I learnt? I decided it would be a passage from one of my favourite scholars and martyrs, Murtada Mutahhari. Shahid (martyr) Mutahhari was that rare scholar who was equally comfortable composing complex commentaries on the most difficult philosophical treatises as he was lecturing widely and disseminating knowledge to public audiences.

Along with being an erudite scholar and professor of philosophy, Shahid Mutahhari was also an influential figure in the Islamic Revolution of Iran. He was a key figure in mobilising popular political opposition against the Shah, and along with Ali Shariati and Mehdi Bazargan, was a prominent lecturer at Hosseiniyah Irshad, a central political and cultural hub of revolutionary activity. Along with his public lectures, his books helped revive a political consciousness informed by religious principles, in a time where Marxism and other fashionable isms were prevalent in the Muslim world.

It was one of these books — which is actually a collection of his public speeches — that I turned to for translation practice. I read one of his speeches about the Revival of Religious Thought, and was struck by one of the passages. I spent roughly two hours translating the passage, and was pleased with myself that I had translated something for the first time.

Now, five years later, I returned to the passage and double-checked the translation (and asked Ustad Peyman Eshaghi to check it). With a few minor corrections, I present it here today for the passage’s resonance.

Though some of the language is dated — and it is a speech so the structure shifts randomly at times — the core message of Shahid Mutahhari rings true today, particularly when Arab leaders are bending over backwards to shake hands with Donald Trump whilst Gazans are being genocided.

On 1st May 1979, Murtada Mutahhari was gunned down in Tehran by members of the Furqan group. He was 60 years old. For his soul and the souls of the martyrs, please recite surat al-Fatiha.

I’ve added two of my favourite videos here of the martyr for those interested. They are only a few minutes long each, but well worth the watch.

You get the supreme articulation of love.

Below I’ve placed a few excerpts from these texts. No commentary is needed. Just let them seep into your heart.

Below are extracts from Rumi’s poetry, translated by Emily O’Dell:

Lovers who die with awareness
die like sugar in the presence of the beloved.

In primordial time,
they drank the water of life,
so they don't die in the way others do.

Since their souls have congregated in love,
they don't die like other people in the crowd.

They've passed beyond the angels to divine grace.
They're far from dying like ordinary humans.

Do you assume that lions too die
outside the gate like dogs?

When lovers die in their journey,
the soul's king sprints to greet them.

When they die at the feet of that moon,
they all shine like the sun.

The lovers who are each other's soul
all die in their love for one another.

Below are extracts from Les Misérables:

The future belongs to hearts even more than it does to minds. Love, that is the only things that can occupy and fill eternity. In the infinite, the inexhaustible is requisite.

-----

When love has fused and mingled two beings in a sacred and angelic unity, the secret of life has been discovered so far as they are concerned; they are no longer anything more than the two boundaries of the same destiny; they are no longer anything but the two wings of the same spirit. Love, soar. 

-----

What a grand thing it is to be loved! What a far grander thing it is to love! The heart becomes heroic, by dint of passion. It is no longer composed of anything but what is pure; it no longer rests on anything that is not elevated and great. An unworthy thought can no more germinate in it, than a nettle on a glacier.

I’ve left the final section for the two parts that almost speak to each other. The first belongs to Rumi, the latter to Victor Hugo:

Hey you, who is alive by the soul of this world.
Shame on you! Why do you live this way?
Don't live without love, and you won't become a corpse.
Die in love and alive you shall remain!

-----

Ye who suffer because ye love, let yet more. To die of love, is to live in it.

Share your favourite quotes about love in the Comments section below!

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Poetry has a unique way of capturing this feeling of inadequacy, the disdain for our past selves, the aching in regret over our past follies and indiscretions. And the world has a unique way of ensuring you collide head-on with the poetry that makes you feel this way.

I recently came across the Qasīdah Iʿtirāfiyyah (Confessional Ode) of Nasir-i Khusraw, one of the most fascinating characters in the history of Islamic civilization. There is much to be said about him — and much that will in a future post and podcast episode — but I wanted to dedicate this post to his Confessional Ode. Although the Confessional Ode ends on a positive note, it is the earlier part of the poem that particularly resonated with me. Some excerpts are shared below (translation courtesy of Peter Lamborn Wilson):

O widely read, O globally travelled one,
(still earth-bound, still caught beneath the sky),
what value would the spheres yet hold for you
were you to catch a glimpse of hidden knowledge?
Will your flesh luxuriate forever
in the boons and blessings of the world? Why not
for a little while enjoy as well the fruits
of knowledge with the tongue of the Spirit?
The dreamer's banquets cannot profit him;
only the waking know the taste of gain
and loss. What does the dreamer know of stars
and turquoise dome, or things the Almighty brings
to pass upon this dusty sphere?

. . . Wake up from this charming vision, 
you who have slept and dreamt
for forty years, and see that of all the friends
of your youth not one remains. No one is left
to share your drowse and supper but the beasts . . .
and that which donkeys eat is not a blessing
any more than that which Caesar conquers
is a kingdom!

'In the Book it is clear that Ahmad is the Messenger
of Good News, and the Warner, luminous as light.
If the unbelievers wished to blow it out
God would light it again in spite of them.
How is it that today no one is left
of that Community? Surely the word
of the Universal Judge cannot be false!
Whose hand should we grasp, where should we take an oath
that even we men of latter times might enjoy
the justice of heaven? Why should it be our fault
not to be born in that era? Why should we
be deprived of the Prophet, afflicted and distressed?'
My face grew pale as a yellow blossom in
the pain of ignorance, I bowed in the wind
of doubt like an aging cypress. The learned man
is like a pomander, his knowledge a halo of musk;
or like a mountain concealing its vein of gold;
but ore without gold, perfume without aroma
are worth no more than dust.

But on a more serious and positive note, there is something else that is unique and endearing about them: every taxi driver I’ve ridden with had memorised their fair share of poetry. I’m not talking the very basic lines and aphorisms that everyone knows; I mean the deep, mystical poetry that PhDs in Western universities struggle to dissect.

It’s why, ever since I learnt Persian to a decent level back in 2020, I’ve made it a habit to ask taxi drivers — or anyone else I interact with for more than 5 minutes — their favourite lines of poetry. I think of it as an informal social study, or sociological/anthropological study (any social scientists here that can tell me what to call this project of mine?)

My most recent taxi driver/politics professor/poetry expert/study sample was Hadi, who was my taxi driver for a few days in Mashhad, back in July of last year. Hadi was a lovely gentleman, and thankfully, someone who did not indulge in conspiracy theories. But he did indulge in poetry. When I asked him for his favourite verses, he thought long and hard, before reciting these verses from Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh:

مكن بد كه بينى به فرجام بد

ز بد گردد اندر جهان نام بد

"Wrought not evil, for surely a bad end you’ll see,
For evil brings to your name great infamy."

The excerpt Hadi chose is simple, but they’re words that one should live by: a principle that governs the world that our lived experiences can confirm all too well. The world would be a better place if we listened to the poetic wisdom of Iranian taxi drivers. Though we should, with good reason, continue to ignore their political musings.

Share a comment below of any words of wisdom that you received from a taxi/Uber driver :)

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The Shahnameh is an epic poem that is filled with such passages — you would expect it, considering it is the longest epic poem ever composed by a single author. The Iliad, likewise, is filled with such passages.

I have chosen two such passages to share. Not for their aesthetic quality. Not for their eloquence. But for the way they seemed out of place; an out-of-tune chord in an otherwise masterful musical piece that inspired much deliberation. I have indicated such passages below by making them bold.

The first is from Achilles. He has just won one of his greatest victories, vanquishing the mighty Trojan prince, Hektor. The Greeks are gathering to defile Hektor’s corpse, and it is to them that Achilles addresses his speech. Yet one passage seems out of place, capturing my attention for its otherworldly concern amidst the bloody glory of victory:

"Friends, who are leaders of the Argives and keep their counsel:
since the gods have granted me the killing of this man
who has done us much damage, such as not all the others together
have done, come, let us go in armor about the city
to see if we can find out what purpose is in the Trojans,
whether they will abandon their high city, now that this man
has fallen, or are minded to stay, though Hektor lives no longer.
Yet still, why does the heart within me debate on these things?
There is a dead man who lies by the ships, unwept, unburied:
Patroklos: and I will not forget him, never so long as
I remain among the living and my knees have their spring beneath me.
And though the dead forget the dead in the house of Hades,
even there I shall still remember my beloved companion.
But now, you young men of the Achaians, let us go back, singing
a victory song, to our hollow ships; and take this with us.
We have won ourselves enormous fame; we have killed the great Hektor
whom the Trojans glorified as if he were a god in their city."

The second of such passages is from the Shahnameh. The legendary hero Rostam is waging battle against Sohrab, not knowing that Sohrab is his son. Ferdowsi offers detailed depictions of their battles:

At first they fought with short javelins, then attacked one another with Indian swords, and sparks sprang forth from the clash of iron against iron. The mighty blows left both swords shattered, and they grasped their ponderous maces, and a weariness began to weigh their arms down. Their horses too began to tire, and the blows the heroes dealt shattered both the horse armor and their own cuirasses. Finally, both the horses and their riders paused, exhausted by the battle, and neither hero could summon the strength to deliver another blow. The two stood facing one another at a distance, the father filled with pain, the son with sorrow, their bodies soaked with sweat, their mouths caked with dirt, their tongues cracked with thirst.

Before continuing with narrating their battles, Ferdowsi pauses momentarily, and decides to zooms out of the chaos, taking a cosmic and heartbreaking snapshot of the battle:

O world! thy doings are a mystery,
The broken and the whole both come from thee!
Love stirred in neither of these twain, no trace
Of wisdom was there, love showed not its face!
The fish in streams, wild asses on the plain,
And beasts of burden know their young again,
But toil and lust forbid a man to know
The difference between a child and foe!

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Let’s chat in the Comments section below! What passages have remained with you long after you’ve read them?

1. My latest piece in the Guardian was published last week. If you want to read a piece on how to balance hope, fear, and love in your relationship with God, then look no further:

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2025/feb/10/when-i-purchased-this-hand-crafted-artwork-in-iran-i-didnt-expect-it-to-teach-me-such-a-valuable-lesson

2. I recorded a second episode with the Abbasid History Podcast. This episode focuses on Ferdowsi, the author of the Shahnameh. Please do give it a listen and share your thoughts!

https://abbasidhistorypodcast.libsyn.com/ep057-ali-hammoud-on-the-life-and-works-of-ferdowsi-d1019ce-author-of-the-epic-shahnameh

And now, back to regular schedule my good sirs and madams :)

Persian literature is full of sorrow and tragedy, and no poem embodies this more than the Shahnameh; the Shahnameh is full of heroes, and there is no greater hero than Rostam; Rostam’s life is full of achievements and tragedies, and there is no greater tragedy than that of Rostam and Sohrab.

Rostam is Sohrab’s father, although the two are unaware of this when they meet in single combat. Rostam is the legendary hero of the Persians, their fiercest warrior, old in age but still a force to be reckoned with. Sohrab is the young hero of the Turanians, the mortal enemies of the Persians.

Sohrab is anxious to meet his father Rostam, whom he has heard a great deal about, but never met before. He even spies on the Persian army, trying to identify Rostam, offering wealth and riches to one soldier who would identify Rostam for him. Soldiers from both sides remark on their uncanny resemblances. When they first meet in combat the similarities between them do not pass without comment:

Then Sohrab said, "I'm going to question you.
Your answer must be honest, straight, and true:
I think that you're Rustam, and from the clan
Of warlike Sam and noble Nariman."
Rustam replied, "I'm not Rustam, I claim
No kinship with that clan or noble name:
Rostam's a champion, I'm a slave — I own
no royal wealth or crown or kingly throne."
And Sohrab's hopes were changed then to despair,
Darkening before his gaze the sunlit air.

Sohrab and Rostam then engage in long, fierce battles in which, for the most part, they are evenly matched. Sohrab eventually gains the upper hand and is on the verge of killing Rostam, before Rostam remarks that killing him in such a way would lack honour. Sohrab foolishly relents, and Rustam leaves the battlefield to rest and replenish.

They meet again for the final battle in which Rostam overcomes Sohrab, plunging a dagger into his chest. It is here that Sohrab speaks his final words, words that have echoed for over a thousand years in Persian literature:

I brought this on myself, this is from me,
And Fate has merely handed you the key
To my brief life: not you but heaven’s vault —
Which raised me and then killed me — is at fault.
Love for my father led me here to die.
My mother gave me signs to know him by,
And you could be a fish within the sea,
Or pitch black, lost in night’s obscurity,
Or be a star in heaven’s endless space,
Or vanish from the earth and leave no trace,
But still my father, when he knows I’m dead,
Will bring down condign vengeance on your head.
One from this noble band will take this sign
To Rostam’s hands, and tell him it was mine,
And say I sought him always, far and wide,
And that, at last, in seeking him, I died.

When Rostam heard the warrior's words, his head whirled and the earth turned dark before his eyes, and when he came back to himself, he roared in an agony of anguish and asked what it was that the youth had which was a sign from Rostam, the most cursed of all heroes.

"If then you are Rostam," said the youth, "and you killed me, your wits were dimmed by an evil nature. I tried in every way to guide you, but no love of yours responded. Open the straps that bind my armor and look on my naked body. When the battle drums sounded before my door, my mother came to me, her eyes awash with tears, her soul in torment to see me leave. She bound a clasp on my arm and said, 'Take this in memory of your father, and watch for when it will be useful to you' but now it shows its power too late, and the son is laid low before his father." And when Rostam opened the boy's armor and saw the clasp he tore at his own clothes in grief, saying. "All men praised your bravery, and I have killed you with my own hands." Violently he wept and tore his hair and heaped dust on his head. Sohrab said, "By this you make things worse. You must not weep what point is there in wounding yourself like this? What happened is what had to happen."1

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My dear friends, I have a further request to make of you. I am attaching here a fundraiser which I hope you guys can contribute to, with any amount possible. Your contributions will brighten the day of someone who has seen endured the worst of tragedies over the past 16 months, and help them rebuild their life.

https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-us-build-a-new-life-in-peace?utm_campaign=fp_sharesheet&utm_medium=customer&utm_source=copy_link&attribution_id=sl%3Aa7349953-9524-4f16-8184-65d562661cf8

This isn’t your usual Numinous post where I share my reflections, translations, and punny jokes. Instead I want to share two passages from two different books, both of which have given me much to think about. One has absolutely nothing to do with Persian literature, and the other has absolutely everything to do with Persian literature. Both are absolutely worth your time.

Passage/Reflection 1:

Earlier this week, as I was preparing to teach a course on Ancient Greek mythology, I came across one of the most beautiful and tragic passages I’ve ever read. John Davies, a poet and reader of this blog, restacked the passage and noted how it evoked memories of his own mother’s passing. I also hope that it stirs something within you. The passage is quoted here below, translated by Richmond Lattimore:

Passage/Reflection 2

Earlier this week, I was also preparing for my next appearance on the Abbasid History Podcast (I seem to be doing a lot of preparing these days). I came across the following passage in the Foreword to the Shahnameh, or The Book of Kings. Composed by Ferdowsi, the Shahnameh is the national epic of Persian speaking peoples, and amongst the masterpieces of world literature. But Ferdowsi’s poetry isn’t what gripped me — if you are interested then check out the podcast episode next week.. Rather, it was Azar Nafisi’s Foreword wherein he described literature as a homeland. The passage is quoted here below:

Let’s chat in the Comments section! Please feel free to share any passages that you’ve read recently that resonated with you, particularly those passages that made you feel that they were composed solely for you.