The heron whimpered next: “My misery
Prefers the empty shoreline of the sea.
There no one hears my desolate, thin cry --
I wait in sorrow there, there mourn and sigh.
My love is for the ocean, but since I --
A bird -- must be excluded from the deep,
I haunt the solitary shore and weep.
My beak is dry -- not one drop can I drink --
But if the level of the sea should sink
By one drop, jealous rage would seize my heart.
This love suffices me; how can I start
A journey like the one that you suggest?
I cannot join you in this arduous quest.
The Simorgh’s glory could not comfort me;
My love is fixed entirely on the sea.”
The hoopoe answered him: “You do not know
The nature of this sea you love: below
Its surface linger sharks; tempests appear,
Then sudden calms -- its course is never clear,
But turbid, varying, in constant stress;
Its water’s taste is salty bitterness.
How many noble ships has it destroyed,
Their crews sucked under in the whirlwind’s void:
The diver plunges and in fear of death
Must struggle to conserve his scanty breath;
The failure is cast up, a broken straw.
Who trusts the sea? Lawlessness is her law;
You will be drowned if you cannot decide
To turn away from her inconstant tide.
She seethes with love herself -- that turbulence
Of tumbling waves, that yearning violence,
Are for her Lord, and since she cannot rest,
What peace could you discover in her breast?
She lives for Him -- yet you are satisfied
To hear His invitation and to hide.
A hermit asked the ocean: ‘Why are you
Clothed in these mourning robes of darkest blue?
You seem to boil, and yet I see no fire!’
The ocean said: ‘My feverish desire
Is for the absent Friend. I am too base
For Him; my dark robes indicate disgrace
And lonely pain. Love makes my billows rage;
Love is the fire which nothing can assuage.
My salt lips thirst for Kausar’s cleansing stream.’
For those pure waters tens of thousands dream
And are prepared to perish; night and day
They search and fall exhausted by the Way.”
- Farid ud-Din Attar (ca. 12th c. CE)
