Commonwealth of Wings~

Quotes from Parliament of Birds:
Tajidar, the wise:

"Of Self-exile, that still grows worse and worse, 
Yourselves would know that, though you see him not, 
He is with you this Moment, on this Spot, 
Your Lord through all Forgetfulness and Crime, 
Here, There, and Everywhere, and through all Time."

"Therefore, yourselves to see as you are seen, 
Yourselves must bridge the Gulf you made between
Up to the mighty mountain Kaf, whereon
Hinges the World, and round about whose Knees
Into one Ocean mingle the Sev'n Seas;
In whose impenetrable Forest-folds
Of Light and Dark "Symurgh" his Presence holds; 
Not to be reach'd, if to be reach'd at all
But by a Road the stoutest might apal;
Of Travel not of Days or Months, but 
Years— Life-long perhaps: of Dangers, Doubts, and Fears
As yet unheard of: Sweat of Blood and Brain 
Interminable—often all in vain—
And, if successful, no Return again:
A Road whose very Preparation scared
The Traveller who yet must be prepared.

Who then this Travel to Result would bring 
Needs both a Lion's Heart beneath the Wing, 
And even more, a Spirit purified
Of Worldly Passion, Malice, Lust, and Pride: 
Yea, ev'n of Worldly Wisdom, which grows dim 
And dark, the nearer it approaches Him,
Who to the Spirit's Eye alone reveal'd, 90
By sacrifice of Wisdom's self unseal'd;

Without which none who reach the Place could bear 
To look upon the Glory dwelling there.'"

"'The Royal Road is not for all to tread,
Nor is the Royal Palace for the Rout,
Who, even if they reach it, are shut out.
The Blaze that from my Harim window breaks 
With fright the Rabble of the Roadside takes; 
And ev'n of those that at my Portal din, 
Thousands may knock for one that enters in.'" 

"Who answer'd—'By no Virtue of my own Sulayman chose me, but by His alone:

Not by the Gold and Silver of my Sighs
Made mine, but the free Largess of his Eyes. Behold the Grace of Allah comes and goes
As to Itself is good: and no one knows
Which way it turns: in that mysterious Court
Not he most finds who furthest travels for't.
For one may crawl upon his knees Life-long,
And yet may never reach, or all go wrong: 140 Another just arriving at the Place
He toil'd for, and—the Door shut in his Face: Whereas Another, scarcely gone a Stride,
And suddenly—Behold he is Inside!—
But though the Runner win not, he that stands, No Thorn will turn to Roses in his Hands:
Each one must do his best and all endure,
And all endeavour, hoping but not sure.
Heav'n its own Umpire is; its Bidding do,

And Thou perchance shalt be Sulayman's too.'"


"This Life that hangs so sweet about your Lips But, spite of all your Khizar, slips and slips, What is it but itself the coarser Rind

Of the True Life withinside and behind,
Which he shall never never reach unto
Till the gross Shell of Carcase he break through?' 280
For what said He, that dying Hermit, whom
Your Prophet came to, trailing through the Gloom His Emerald Vest, and tempted—'Come with Me, And Live.' The Hermit answered—'Not with Thee. Two Worlds there are, and This was thy Design, And thou hast got it; but The Next is mine;

Whose Fount is this life's Death, and to whose Side Ev'n now I find my Way without a Guide.'"

"Were it,' 'twas answer'd, 'only to return

To that lost Eden, better far to burn
In Self-abasement up thy pluméd Pride,
And ev'n with lamer feet to creep inside—310 But all mistaken you and all like you
That long for that lost Eden as the true;
Fair as it was, still nothing but the shade
And Out-court of the Majesty that made.
That which I point you tow'rd, and which the King I tell you of broods over with his Wing,
With no deciduous leaf, but with the Rose Of Spiritual Beauty, smells and glows:

No plot of Earthly Pleasance, but the whole True Garden of the Universal Soul.'"

"From that same Eden: loving which too well, The Work before the Artist did prefer,
And in the Garden lost the Gardener."

Nightingale: 
"In vain do Men for my Divisions strive,
And die themselves making dead Lutes alive:
I hang the Stars with Meshes for Men's Souls:
The Garden underneath my Music rolls.
The long, long Morns that mourn the Rose away
I sit in silence, and on Anguish prey:
But the first Air which the New Year shall breathe 210 Up to my Boughs of Message from beneath
That in her green Harim my Bride unveils,
My Throat bursts silence and her Advent hails,
Who in her crimson Volume registers
The Notes of Him whose Life is lost in hers.
The Rose I love and worship now is here;"