Shushtari in Song

One of the most powerful recordings of Sufi music, this medley of Shustari’s poetry begins with the following poem:

 

Translation:
They are my sweetest moments
when you are joined with my essence

 

When you are with my essence
The sun of intimacy dawns in me
My poverty came to me naturally
And existence has emerged and man sees
All of existence, all of it from my parts

 

They are my sweetest moments
when you are joined with my essence

 

O faqir, listen to what you should do
Put youself above the universe
There is nothing more beautiful from you

 

Cut off separations
and understand the mysteries
Enter the field
and see the past and the future

 

They are my sweetest moments
when you are joined with my essence

 

Original:
أطْيب    ما    هِ       أوقاتي        حين تَكن مجموع مع    ذاتي
حين    تَكُن    مع     ذاتِي
شمسُ  أنْسِي  مِنِّي     تطْلُوعْ
ويَجيني    فَقْرِي     مطْبُوعْ
والْموجُودْ       قد       بَان        ويَرَى                 الإنْسان
جَميعْ                  الأكوان        كُلَّها      مِن         جُزئِيَّاتي
أطْيَب    ما    هِ       أوْقاتي        حين تكُون مجمُوع مع ذَاتي
يا  فَقير  اسْمع   ما     تَعْمل
تِهْ   على   الأكْوانِ     وادّلَل
ليْس  ثمَّ  شَيْ   منَّك   أجْمل
واقْطَع                الأغْيار        وافْهم                 الأسْرار
وادْخُل               الْمِضمَار        وتَرَى   الماضِي      والآتي
أطْيب    ما    هِ       أوْقاتِي        حينْ نَكُن مَجمُوع  معْ    ذَاتي

 

Then at around the 2:00 minute mark it switches to the following poem, recorded in full here by the Ensemble Ibn ‘Arabi:

 

 

Translation:
 The slave to love is well-pleased with his madness.
Let him wear out his life even as he will.
Reprove him not; your blame will nothing serve:
Forsaking love is not his religion.
I swear by him for whom ‘Aqīq is mentioned–
a lover’s oath by his beloved—none
But ye are mine; yet have I to repent me
Remissness in loving, waveringness.
Why, when I hear the dove coo in the glade,
Why yearn I ever at his sorrowing?
And though his way is weeping without tears,
When the lover weeps, the tears pour from his eyes.

 

translation from Martin Lings’ Sufi Poetry: A Medieval Anthology p. 88

 

Original:
رَضِيَ المتيم في الهوَى بجنُونِه        خلُّوه   يفَنىّ    عُمرَه      بفُنونِهْ
لا  تعْذِلوهُ  فليْس  ينْفعُ    عذْلُكم        ليْس السُّلوُّ عن الهوَى من   دينهْ
قسَماً بمن ذُكرَ العقيقُ من   أجلِه        قسَم   المحِبِّ   بحبِّه      ويمينهْ
مالي  سواكم  غير  أنيِّ    تائبٌ        عن فاترات  الحبِّ  أو    تلوينِهْ
مالي  إِذا  هتف  الحمامُ  بأيْكةٍ        أبداً   أحِنُّ   لشَجْوِه     وشُجونهْ
وإِذا  البكاءُ  بغير   دمْعٍ     دأبُهُ        والصَّبُ  يجْري  دمْعُه    بعُيُونهْ
 

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