Thy pictured Beauty, Love, ne'er leaves my Heart, / Thy downy cheek becomes of me a part, / Tightly I'll close mine eyes, O Love, that so / My Life, before thine Image, shall depart.
Sufi
Baba Tahir Oryan
Baba Tahir Oryan was an eleventh-century Persian dervish and mystic of Hamadan, beloved as one of the first great poets of Sufi love, whose tender quatrains in the Hamadani dialect are still sung across Iran to this day.
Baba Tahir, honoured with the affectionate title Baba Tahir Oryan, is one of the most beloved and tender voices in the long history of Persian spirituality. He lived in the eleventh century in the city of Hamadan, in western Iran, during the era of the Seljuk dynasty, and tradition places his life roughly in the years around 1000 to 1055 CE, making him a near contemporary of the great Ferdowsi and the philosopher-physician Avicenna. Much of his life is gently veiled in the mist of legend, yet the spirit that shines through his verses has kept his memory warm and luminous across nearly a thousand years. The two names by which he is remembered each carry a sweet meaning. "Baba," a term of deep respect and endearment, marks him as a revered elder and a wise spiritual father, the way generations of seekers came to feel toward him. "Oryan," meaning "the Naked," speaks not of any want of dignity but of the wandering dervish's holy detachment from the world, his having laid aside every outward attachment in order to stand bare and sincere before the Divine. Together the names paint the portrait that lovers of his poetry have always cherished: a barefoot mystic, free of possessions, rich only in love and longing for God. A gentle and much-loved legend tells of his beginnings. It is said that Baba Tahir was an unlettered woodcutter who, drawn by a thirst for knowledge, came to sit at the edge of a religious college where learned scholars gathered. Humble and unassuming, he listened quietly at the margins, content simply to be near the company of those who studied. Then one night he underwent a profound spiritual experience, a vision in which the deeper truths of wisdom were unveiled to his heart. When he returned and spoke of what he had seen, those present welcomed his words with wonder, for the simple woodcutter now uttered insights of striking depth and beauty. The story, whatever its historical detail, captures a truth dear to the Sufi path: that the light of divine knowledge is a gift of grace, poured into the humble and sincere heart rather than won by status or schooling alone. Baba Tahir is best known and most loved for his quatrains, the melodious do-baytis, short poems of two couplets that he composed not in the polished court Persian of the capitals but in the warm, homely dialect of his native Hamadan. This choice of the people's own tongue gave his verses an intimacy and directness that have endeared them to ordinary men and women for centuries. In flowing, musical language he sang of yearning and devotion, of the ache of separation from the Beloved and the joy of nearness to God, of the wandering soul that finds no rest until it rests in the Divine. Scholars have lovingly described him as perhaps the first great poet of Sufi love in the Persian language, a pioneer who opened a path that many later masters would follow. There is in his poetry a sincerity that disarms the heart. He speaks plainly of his own littleness, his tears, his restless searching, and in doing so he gives voice to the longing of every seeker. His verses carry a quiet philosophical depth beneath their simplicity, weaving together the themes of love, impermanence, and the soul's homeward journey. So enduring is their appeal that to this day, all across Iran, his quatrains are recited and sung, traditionally accompanied by the gentle three-stringed setar, in a cherished melodic style that bears the ancient name Pahlaviat, linking his music to the older song-traditions of the land. To hear his lines sung in the evening is, for many Iranians, to touch something both deeply native and deeply spiritual. Beyond his poetry, a collection of nearly four hundred brief aphorisms in Arabic, known as the Kalimat-e Qisar, or "Short Sayings," has long been attributed to him. These concise spiritual maxims, treasured and commented upon by later devotees, distil the wisdom of the mystic path into luminous, memorable phrases, and they testify to the breadth of the reverence in which he has been held. Baba Tahir passed from this world in his beloved Hamadan, where he had lived as a wandering dervish among its people. Yet his memory has only grown more radiant with the passing centuries. A stately mausoleum stands today at the northern approach to Hamadan, its central tower encircled by a ring of twelve pillars, a serene and dignified monument raised in the modern era and lovingly maintained as a place of pilgrimage and remembrance. Visitors come from near and far to sit in its quiet, to recall the verses they learned in childhood, and to honour the barefoot poet who turned simple words into prayers. In Baba Tahir Oryan, the Persian and Sufi traditions cherish a saint whose greatness lay in his humility, whose learning came through love, and whose poetry made the highest mysteries of devotion accessible to all. Across a thousand years he remains a companion of the longing heart, a gentle teacher reminding every generation that the soul's deepest wisdom is born of sincerity, surrender, and an unquenchable love for the Divine.
Wisdom
Without Thee in the Garden, Lord, I know / The sweetly-perfumed Roses cannot grow, / Nor Tears of Grief, although the Lips should smile, / Be washed away in Joy's bright overflow.
Love, since my Day, by reason of thy Flight / Is all so dark, O come, illume my Night; / By those fair Curves that are thy Brows, I swear / Grief only shares my bed in my despite.
Prince! through my Heart I am Affliction's prey, / It is the same all night and all the day, / I often grieve that I should grieve so much; — / O Someone take my graceless Heart away!
That phrase, "Yes, He is God," it troubles me, / My Sins are like the Leaves upon a Tree; / Oh, when the Readers read the Book of Doom, / What must my shame, with such a Record, be!
Alas, how long, then, must I sorrow so? / Bereft of all, my Tears unceasing flow; / Turned from each Threshold I will turn to Thee, / And if Thou fail'st me, whither shall I go?
Though we be drunk, our Faith is all in Thee, / Weak and Unstable, still our Faith's in Thee, / Guebres, or Nazarenes, or Musulmans, / Whate'er our Creed, our Faith is Thine, and Thee.
For Love of Thee my Heart is filled with Woe, / My Couch the Earth, my Pillow is as low, / My only Sin is loving thee too well. / Surely not all thy Lovers suffer so?
When thou art absent Sorrow dims my sight, / My Tree of Hope is barren of Delight, / And I, when thou art absent, all alone / Sit, and shall sit until my Soul takes flight.
Without thee is my Heart in Mourning clad, / Show but thy Face, and straightway I am glad; / If all men had a share in my Heart's Grief, / No Heart in all the World but would be sad.
Nought can the Meadows of my Fancy show / Save only Grief's sad-coloured Rose in blow, / From my poor Heart, 'tis such an Arid waste, / Even Despair's pale Herbage will not grow.
I'm a green Log fresh cut from off the Tree, / O Heart of Stone, thou burnest not for me, — / Though who, indeed, expects a Stone to burn? / But I must smoulder till I kindle thee.
My Heart is nigh distraught with Love's Emprise, / Tears gush in Torrents from my throbbing Eyes. / A Lover's Heart is like a fresh-hewn Log, / One end sheds Sap, Flames from the other rise.
The Heart of Man, you say, is prone to Sin, / Oh yes! but did not first the Eyes begin? / If on the tempting Face they did not look, / The Heart, unknowing, would be Pure within.
O thou whose eyes are shadowy with kohl, / O thou whose slender figure works my Dole, / Whose locks with musk are laden, art thou dumb, / That thus with Silence thou shouldst rend my Soul?
O thou hast caused a Thousand Hearts deep pain, / More than a Thousand sigh for thee in vain, / I've counted far more than a thousand Scars / Of thine inflicting, and yet More remain.
The Mountain Tulip lasts but seven days, / The River Violet lives but seven days, / And I will cry the news from town to town / That Rosy Cheeks keep faith but seven days.
Blessed are the Friends of God, Oh, blessed are they / Whose Task is ever "He is God" to say; / Happy are they who always are at Prayers, / For Heaven rewards them at the Final Day.
Thy Curly Locks in tangled Masses fall / About thy Rosy Cheeks that hold me thrall, / On every separate Strand of thy soft Hair / There hangs a Heart, — a Heart upon them all.
Such Storms descend upon me from the Skies, / That salt Tears ever sparkle in mine Eyes; / The Smoke of my Lament goes up to Heaven, / For ever fall my Tears, my Groans arise.