 First of all, I want to thank the Center for Iranian Studies to have invited me. I'm really honored, but I'm not sure that I deserve this honor. You talked about great authority, and I believe in such a field as Persian poetry, authority doesn't mean anything, let alone so that great authority means even less maybe. I'm sorry to say that. Maybe I would like to start then, because you used that word, both of you, of authority. I would like to just start on a personal note to tell you that actually my relationship with Persian poetry is not a question of trying to have any authority, but it's really the consequences of a deep desire to fill the gap of absence and exile. And actually, for me, Persian poetry has been homeland for many years. And I believe it's because I had to leave that country that was mine that I took with me the language and ever since have tried to fill the gap of exile with words. And I think that's exactly what Persian poets do to us, at least those that I love, that is many, many of them. Today, I will try to explain that, actually, and to explain why poetry is essential for us to read, because it triggers a desire that maybe we have forgotten about even ourselves. When I started teaching the history of Persian literature, I realized that the theme of desire was not specific to what we usually call mystical poetry. I don't even know if the word desire is the right word. We'll come to it afterwards. And that it was present, so to speak, from the beginning. Maybe it was the source of what we call today, Persian poetry. And it was connected to the beliefs concerning the nature as and function of poetry. I realized that there was much more than meets the eye or maybe the ear. It's better to say the ear. In the famous Bouye-Jouye-Moulin poem by Roudaki, the poet of the 10th century who is supposed to be the first Persian poet, of course, he's not the first. But he's the first for which we have a very serious and important corpus that helps us understand how that poetry worked. But he's presumably the first because of that. It's a legend to say that he was the first. But I think there is, again, something very important to meet when legends are told to us. So in a way, this very, very famous poem, Bouye-Jouye-Moulin, and the circumstances, maybe legendary circumstances of its composition, tell us in a nutshell something about the essence of Persian poetry. And we will follow this poem up to some of the works of Rumi, or Jalolledin Rumi, or as we call him, Moulinah, the 13th century poet, mystic poet, to show that there is a continuity, even in the form of the poem. We'll come to it. Nézamia Rousy, who wrote a very famous book called The Four Discourses, Chahar-Maghallé, speaks about the function of the poet in the second chapter, which is just exclusively about the poets. And doing this, he tells us a few legends that he knew, a few stories about the famous poems that started that history of Persian poetry. The English summary of these stories that then I will read some, I don't know if it's going to be a poetic performance, but I will definitely read some poetry in Persian and English for you, because, of course, otherwise it's meaningless to speak about poetry. So the English summary of the story is that the emir Nasr the Samanid, who was the patron of Ruddaki, and whose capital city was Bukhara, went at a certain point. He went to Khurasan, or to Herat, near the city of Herat, now in modern Afghanistan. And he found there something that looked like the garden of paradise and didn't want to go back home. So much so that he stayed there one year, and then two years, and then three years, and then four years. And of course, the courtiers were eager to go back home, but they couldn't do that before the permission of the prince, of course. Mouin, in an article, speaks about that. And he says that in the chronicles, in fact, they say that the emir Nasr the Samanid spent some time in Khurasan, but he doesn't say how much time. I mean, the chronicles doesn't say. But probably there is some historical truth in that. So the emir was really infatuated with Khurasan, and we have a description of Khurasan that is quite interesting. I'm not going to read it to you because it's too long. But the description tells us that at that time, Khurasan had a really gorgeous nature. It was full of fruits, incredible fruits. There was water. There was really something very beautiful. And as I said, it is compared by the emir in the story to the Garden of Paradise. We may imagine from this text that the climate of Khurasan in the 10th century was maybe more pleasant than that of Bukhara. I don't know if our geographer here will confirm that. But apparently, Bukhara had a less pleasant climate than Herat in those days anyway. And also, we can feel from this text and the importance of fruits given to fruits and water that they had the feeling that they were living in a that the world was like a desert and that Khurasan was like an oasis in that desert. In Persian, that's what Nezami Aruzi says, because his prose is so beautiful that I cannot not read a few lines, a few sentences in that from him. He says, bozorgane lashkar o sepahian malul gashdan. So now they're getting tired, the courtes. Baarezuye khaneman barkhast. Paade Shahra saken didant. Havaa yeheraa dardil. Dar esnau yehso khanheraa bebehesh te adan manand kardi. Berke berbehesh tarjih nahadi. Vaz bahare chin ziyadat awardi. He considered even Khurasan more beautiful than the spring of China. And in Persian literature, the spring of China is just the most beautiful thing that has ever existed on Earth, et cetera. So he goes on saying that the courtes were tired and they wanted the prince to go back to Bukhara. So they go to, they don't dare, of course, tell the king that they want to go back. So they go to Rudaki, because the text says, Which is a very interesting expression. So they go to Rudaki because he knew the pulse of the prince. I will come back to that immediately. So they go to Rudaki because they know that Rudaki can maybe convince the prince to go back to Bukhara, which is in itself quite interesting. Why should the courtes go to the poet for that? Why don't they go to the private counselor of the king? Or I don't know. So many people could speak, had the ear of the king. Why their first move is to go see the poet. For many reasons, probably. One of them is that the poet can tell the king things that maybe the others don't dare to say. The other reason is, as I said, that Rudaki knew the pulse of the king. The poet, so, has to be a good psychologist. That's what the text says. He knew exactly what the humor of the king is. He knew exactly how to speak to the king to convince him. And this question of the past, actually, is a topos, is a literary topos that goes through Persian literature. And it relates Rudaki to Rumi just by this simple expression. Why? Because actually, the fact of knowing what people are through their past has been, to my knowledge, has been developed first by Avicena, who was also a scientist at the court of the Salmanids. And Avicena says that he tells a story in which we discover that somebody is ill of love because of love because the doctor takes the pulse of the person who is ill. And Rumi uses the same story or the same image or the same technique in the first story of the Masnavi, the story of the king who fell in love with a slave girl. I'm not going to tell you a whole story because it's a very long story, and it has nothing to do. Well, it has many things to do. I'm not going to talk about it tonight. But what is important is that the slave girl becomes ill and then comes a very special hakim who knows how to heal the slave girl. And before healing her, he takes her pulse and he discovers that she's in love with someone, as it writes it. So that is the first relation between the texts of Nézamia Rousy telling us about Roudaki and Molavi. And it is very important to know that actually the poet knowing the pulse means that the poet in a way is a doctor. He knows something. He knows exactly what our ailment may be in a way by taking our pulse. So Roudaki accepted because he knew the pulse and he knew his humor. Mesaj, again, is a technical medical word, meaning in the medieval times there were different humors. But again, it's interesting that Roudaki, the poet, acts as a doctor. And this is not the chapter about the doctors. It's the chapter about the poets. But this shows us something about the meaning of poetry, I mean the status of poetry in those days. And Nézamia Rousy adds, Donest ke bennas rba'ou dar nagirad. Rou'i bennaz mavard, baqaside'i begovd. He knew, Roudaki knew, that prose would be of no use. This is just fantastic. We're in a text of the 12th century and they're telling us, Roudaki knew that prose would be of no use. No use for what? For convincing the prince to go back to Bochara. So I'm afraid those would, well, I don't know if all prose is like that. But in those days, Roudaki thought that the Nasser of those days would not have any efficiency. So Rou'i bennaz mavard and he decided to use poetry and he composed a Qaside. Well, there he says a Qaside and in those days, apparently, they called a Qaside, today we call a Qazal. It's a form of poetry. But this is, again, a discussion, a very erudite discussion. I'm not going to enter into today. When the emir had drunk the first cup of the morning, of early morning, this would need a long commentary, but I'm not going to comment. When he sat at his place and when he saw that the musicians toned down, didn't play their music anymore, he took his lira, you say lira for Chang, is it the right word? Lyra, that's it. I'm sorry for my English. Absolutely sorry for my English. I haven't come to England for many years and now it has become terribly rusty. So he took his lira and he started this Qaside, this poem, in the mode of O'Shaq, that is one of the modes of Persian music. But of course, that he does it in the O'Shaq, because the O'Shaq is supposedly particularly efficient in triggering the feeling of love and desire. Strangely enough, in the epilogue, if I have time afterwards, I will talk about it, in the epilogue of the Mante Gotte, the canticle of the birds, Atar says that he has sung his poem in the Pardae O'Shaq. Did he remember that? I don't know. But it's interesting that he uses Pardae O'Shaq. And we will see, just a little further, that this Pardae, maybe it's not the Pardae O'Shaq, but the word Pardae is also used by Molavi in the beginning of the Masnavi, talking about the music of the read Pardae Ha Yash, Pardae Ha Yema Darid. I will come to this later. So this question of Pardae, and of course, Pardae O'Shaq means a musical mode, the musical mode of the lovers. But Pardae is also a curtain, it's also a veil. So there is a connection between the idea of unveiling and telling poetry in that specific mode, the unveiling something. We'll see what. And also, what is interesting in that is that Roudaki apparently played the lyra, and he accompanied the recitation of his poetry by music. He didn't compose a poem and send it to the king. That would not have been as efficient as the fact of singing it or saying it accompanied by music. And he started that very famous poem. Of course, the king had had his first cup of wine in the morning, so he was in very specifically good conditions to hear to what Roudaki had to tell him. Bu Ye Ju Ye Maulian Aayat Hami, Bu Ye Yare Mehraban Aayat Hami. Or another version is Bu Ye Ju Ye Maulian Aayat Hami, Yad Ye Yare Mehraban Aayat Hami. Pas Forut Ar Shavadogu Yad, that is Nizami Aruzi, then he just tones down and continues. Rige Amu Ye Doroshti Rahe O Zire Payam Parnian Aayat Hami. Abe Jaihun Az Neshat Rue Dost, Khenge Maara Tamiyan Aayat Hami. Ey Bukhara Shad Baashodir Zee, Mir Zee To Shadman Aayat Hami. Mir Maa Hashto Bukhara Aasman Maa Suye Aasman Aayat Hami. Mir Sarv Aashto Bukhara Bustan, Sarv Suye Bustan Aayat Hami. I can see in the audience some people who know it by heart and it's quite natural. I read it because I'm a little worried, but actually we all know it by heart because it's one of the most famous poems in the history of Persian literature. And we all love this poem. And I wondered once, why do we love it so? What does it say? It's so simple. He's just talking to a king, asking him to go back to Bukhara. Why are we so deeply touched by this poem? I give the translation for those who don't know Persian. Now comes the perfume of River Mulean. Now comes the memory or the perfume depends on the versions. Now comes the memory of the sweet beloved. The rocks of River Aksus and the panes of the path now become smooth silk under my feet. The water of Jehun, blissful at the sight of the beloved's face, now comes up to the flanks of our white steed. O Bukhara, be joyous and live long, now that the prince to you is coming in joy. The prince is the moon and Bukhara the sky. Now the moon is rising in the sky. The prince is a cypress and Bukhara a garden. Now the cypress is coming to the garden. I have to give some explanations on this translation of mine. And I'm very sorry if it's a little flimsy. But it was very important for me translating this poem, first and foremost, not to forget the radif, so the rhyme, the meaning rhyme of the poem. Oyad Hami. Oyad Hami is very interesting from a grammatical point of view because it's a present tense, but it's a continuous present tense. And it's the Hami actually, then after a while, became our me, we use when you use the present tense in Persian, me-oyad in fact. But it's much stronger of course, when you say oyad Hami than if you say just me-oyad. And it says two things, the continuity of that perfume, of that memory, of that imagery that the poet tries to create. And it also means that it is there, oyad Hami. That is why I have insisted, because I couldn't have it, of course, in the rhyme in English. I insisted in having it in the beginning. Now comes, now it comes. I think it's very important because the poem says, now that I'm telling it in poetry, it becomes real. He's telling the prince, yes, you can feel the perfume of Moulin, Moulin being the river of Bohara. And the oxus, the river that one has to cross before getting back to Bohara. And he says, yes, by, through the magic of my words, you feel the scent of the perfume of the river Moulin. You feel how the water is fresh and smooth and fantastically pleasant when you have to cross it with your horse. You can feel deeply that all the rocks on the way, on the path becomes silk because of course you're getting back to your homeland. And you're getting back there with my words, it will make the journey so much easier. And at the same time, he says that Bohara is waiting for the prince. And it's not only the perfume of Bohara that comes to the prince, it's also the prince that is now already going to Bohara. He says, now the prince is coming to Bohara. The cypress is going back to the garden, the moon is going back to the sky. So he puts the prince in a situation where he cannot but go back because he's telling him you're already going there. You're there, almost there. Come with me, come with my words, we're almost there. And I think that is telling us something essential on how they considered poetry, these people. Nowadays we see it as something exterior to us. It's something that we read, that we teach, what we talk about maybe. But very seldom do we really think that it is part of our lives deeply. Of course, for Iranians it's very often is part of their lives actually. But maybe they don't conceptualize it as much. So that is exactly what a very special feeling of desire that Rudaki is trying to trigger in the prince so that the prince goes back to Bohara because he's still there. But again, what is at the heart of the poem is that it triggers the desire of the prince. That's exactly what Rudaki wants to do because he knows the pulse, he knows exactly how to speak to the prince to trigger that desire in him. The end of the story confirms that Rudaki is a very powerful poet and had that he definitely knew the pulse of the king. When Rudaki had recited this last verse, the emir was so much moved. I don't know if it's a good translation, moved. Montfael, he's acted upon. Montfael is a very interesting word. He was acted upon in such, you know, he was induced to. He was so much moved. I say, I think moved is not bad because we'll see that he will move on. Bring some movement. That he came, that he, sorry, he came down from his throne immediately and jumped on a saddle horse, which was already prepared there, without even putting on his boots and rode hastily towards Bohara. So it was a full success. Such a full success that Rudaki, the legend goes, who was already very rich thanks to his poetry, received more than the promised 5,000 gold coins by the courtiers. This is, so he's like, he's a golden poet. You know, some counselors today, yeah, you have to pay them. Some lobbies or counselors, you have to pay them great amounts of money because they can convince such and such a prince to do such and such a thing. But Rudaki did it just with one poem and he was well paid for it. But what the story tells us about the powers of poetry. We see, of course, that it has a power of conviction. But I think this idea of poetic power is an old one. Unfortunately, we don't know exactly what kind of poetry the Persians had before the rise of modern Persian, actually. Probably because the tradition was mainly oral tradition. But we know that the Bards had a great importance in, for example, in Sasani courts that has been studied thoroughly. But what we know better is about, is what the Arabs used to say about poetry. And I don't know if you have ever heard that, but when the Arab tribes were at war against one another, they considered that the first person that they had to take as a prisoner was the poet. Because from the poetry of the poet, the issue of the, the poet could change the end of the war and the poet could change the end of the war. Because if you're the poet of the opposite tribe was stronger than yours, he could say poetry that would make you win the war. So they really believed that the poet could change the end of the war. And I think this, because of course Persian poetry has been deeply influenced by the tradition in the Arabic language, I think this also passed in the Persian tradition. And we will talk about this longer tomorrow night because we will talk about the Majnun who was a poet in the Arab, from an Arab tribe. But then he became a hero of love and desire in Persian poetry. As I said, the power of the poet is compared here to the power of the doctor. That means that the doctor can know what your illness is and cure that illness through an appropriate cure, actually. And the cure that Rudecki proposes here is of course a poem. Because actually the prince himself doesn't know about his own illness. He doesn't know that he is homesick. He didn't know it before Rudecki told him. That is also very important. Because we will see with Moulana it's the same thing. The idea is that the poet knows things that we don't know about ourselves. And what he does is that he reminds us of who really we are and what really we should do and where we should head to. That's exactly what happens in this poem. And I think that is also why because it reminds actually the soul or the heart of its own truth in a way, of a hidden desire, of a forget of his or her forgotten homeland. That is why that particular poem and a lot of Persian poetry is so dear to us and so powerful. But how does he do that? How does Rudecki reveal to the prince that we are, in a way, his own hidden desire? By the power of evocation, as I said, Northrop Fry, the great English critic, used to say that livric poetry is an internal mimesis of sound and imagery. Internal mimesis of sound and imagery. Well, mimesis means, of course, that it imitates. Well, what does it imitate? It imitates exactly something of the inner movement of the soul by connecting sound and image. And by doing this, the poet make what happens in the realm of the soul alive. And that is why in this poem, Rudecki actually uses synesthesia. You go, I don't know if you pronounce it like that, synesthesia or synesthesia. That is to say, he uses all the senses. He wakes up, first and foremost, all the senses, the bodily senses, before giving, before presenting a desire of the heart, he evokes, he invokes even and evokes all the senses. Of course, the smell, of course, the ears because he says that it's accompanied by music. The fact that the evocation of silk and water gives the impression that you can touch something very smooth. And of course, you have all the imagery, the visual imagery of the cypress, the moon, the water that comes up to the flanks of the steed. So all these senses are put together in order to create an emotion. And it does so, even if we are not princes, even if we are not in, our capital is not Bukhara, even if we are not in Herat, we have not been in Herat for four years, we can feel a real desire to go somewhere, to go back to homeland. And this way of triggering, emotion and desire by images is probably what I would call the power of poetry. One of the metaphors that is present all along the poem is the metaphor of water. And it is true that Rudaki evokes all the positive feelings attached to water, freshness, perfume, fecundity, smoothness, and even at the heart of the poem, the sexual connotation of the image when we have the image of the water coming up to the flanks of the horse. And I must say, and I'm sorry to say that in front of such an honorable audience, but actually in Persian today, I don't know how it was in the days of Rudaki, but in Persian today, to have an orgasm is said, armadan, to come exactly like in English. And you know, the rhyme is ayatami. So it's just, he's inviting the king to not only to have that desire, but to fulfill his desire. And the fact of going through the oxus will fulfill his desire, thus the image of that water coming up to the flanks of the white steed. And I would like to link that to, and I'm really sorry to do that, like that, but I would like to link that to a sentence that we find in the Maralot of Shams. Shams, who was the master and the beloved of Molana, he says, teşne-i-khaham teşne-i, ab-e-zolal teşne-i-khahad. I seek a thirsty soul, a thirsty soul. I had to add soul, because in English it's very strange to say, I seek a thirsty one. So beautiful. Teşne-i-khaham is really beautiful. Well, this is prose, but the prose of Shams is just sheer poetry. It's fantastically efficient. But again, that is something else. So, actually, Shams et abrizi refers to himself very often, times and again in the Maralot, as water, or pure water. He says of himself, I am water. I am ab-e-zolal, or water. But it's a water that's in need of a seeker, a water that's sought to be drunk by a thirsty soul. The story goes that for years he was looking for someone who would understand him, to which he could bestow the lesson of love he had to give. And he waited a long time before talking to Molana, because Molana was not yet ready for that. He was not probably thirsty enough. At some point, Shams even describes himself as a stagnant water that needed to meet Molana, someone who would liberate him by the force of his desire. He needed to be desired. You cannot give a lesson of love to anyone if that person is not desiring to receive what you have to give. He became, after that, he says himself, he became ab-e-ravan after he met Molana. He became running water. Well, we say running water. He became, Ravan is that going, ongoing water. And again, Ravan comes from, of course, Raftan. And the rhyme in Rudakis poem was Amadan. Of course, Amadan meant that it was from the point of view of Bukhara, the king is coming to Bukhara. Here, ab-e-ravan is the water that goes, that goes where it should go. And again, you see that there is something very important in the connection between the metaphor of water and the metaphor of desire, because you need that power of desire to start your own movement by yourself or towards your homeland or your beloved or whatever, but you have to go to somewhere or to something or to somebody. But to do that, you need to be desired and to desire both. The grace of water cannot be given if there is no one to desire it, to receive it, or if the cup is full already with something else. And this, of course, is a spiritual lesson that has been, at times and again, given by Attar in all his work and in his Manta Rothera, in particular. So this is, time is running. And what I call desire, maybe I'm, it's very difficult, actually, to translate the word talab, the word I'm referring to is the word talab. It's also the name of a valley in the Canticle of the Birds and it is the first valley. That is why I'm saying, without desire, without talab, you cannot go anywhere. You cannot even start the journey. In the Canticle of the Birds is the journey of the birds, the souls that are going towards their beloved. I want to go towards their beloved, but what is interesting in this Canticle of the Birds is that in the beginning, all the birds gather together but they don't know what they're looking for. They say, we want a king, but we don't know who our king is. We don't know where he, she stands. And, of course, after that, the hoopo comes and tells them about the simor, et cetera. I'm not going again here to tell about this story. But what is interesting is that it starts in desire. It starts in a desire that they don't know themselves all the particulars. They don't know exactly what this desire is. They just know that they have a desire. They don't know who simor is. They don't have no idea. They just say, we want a king. And the hoopo tells them, I know the king. And I will describe it to you. Describe the simor to you. And how does the hoopo describe the simor in poetic words, with poetic metaphors and images? No other language can explain what simor is. And he says, but actually simor is beyond description anyway. He gives verses and verses of description comparing simor to all the beauties of the world and then says, but of course I cannot describe simor's beauty. You have to go there and see. But the birds cannot go. The birds cannot travel that far. They feel frightened. They feel that there are going to be too many rocks and pebbles and, you know, like going from Herat to Bukhara. It's not such a long way for them. It's a much longer way. But they have the same idea that maybe the path is going to be too difficult. And they need the poet. The hoopo, that is actually the image of the poet in the canticle of the birds. They need the poet to smooth the way, to transmute the difficulties of the path and the pebbles into silk. And that is exactly the function of poetry as Ahtar considers it. I don't know if he, I'm for sure he had read Rudaki. He knew Rudaki. But I don't know if he remembered Rudaki and this particular poem when he created the hoopo to say that actually the only language that can help you smooth the path is poetry. But probably somewhere inside himself he was, of course, the heir of a tradition. Maybe he didn't think of that poem in particular, but we can follow the journey of this particular poem through the history of Persian literature. I will just speed up a little because I was going too much ahead, actually. I went to Ahtar, 12th century, whereas I had something first to say about someone who was not a poet, but who commented upon, well, in a way, commented upon that poem by Rudaki. In the 11th century. And it is Ainul Ghazad Hamedani. Maybe you didn't expect Ainul Ghazad Hamedani to pop up in the middle of this lecture about Persian poetry, but you will see that actually he's quite helpful. Who was Ainul Ghazad Hamedani? He was the disciple of Ahmad Ghazali, the great mystic and brother to the great Mohammad Ghazali, and he was actually, he was killed for his deviant mystic ideas. He was quite an extremist in practicing the mystic of love. And that is what he says in one of his letters. Again, it's prose, but just listen to that prose. Hitch dhani ke boobak an sa'at waqt khodra baan nishat e kodam be'id, mi gozaraniid, bishno. Bishno, ke bishnawi amma torah hanooz gushe, pardon, sorry, bishno. Har che ke bishnawi amma torah hanooz gushe asheqan nist, in chonche navi. Mi goht, bangejuye molian aayad hamid, booye yar mehraban aayad hamid, rode jaihun az nishat rooye dous, khenge marah tamian aayad hamid, dash te amoo ba doroshti rig'u, zire paayam, parnian aayad hamid. Einal Ghazad, in his letter, quotes the poem by Rudecki with some variants from what I read to you, but basically it's the same poem. And what does he mean in his letter? He says, when the prophet Muhammad, Mustafa, the prophet Muhammad, was heading to Medina with Abu Bakr, they crossed a thorn field. As Mustafa was barefooted, Abu Bakr took him on his back. Common people think that this was painful to him. They did not know that this was the landmark, landmark of his life. In fact, he had never had such bliss in his entire life. Do you know what blissful verse he was reciting to himself while walking with the prophet on his back? Hark. But if you listen, while you have not yet the ears of lovers, how could you hear? And he quotes the poem by Rudecki. So, many interesting things here. First, that Ain al-Rozat, whose main focus was mystic life, quotes that poem of Rudecki as being a poem that gave bliss to Abu Bakr. So he uses what is supposed to be a profane poem in a very spiritual context. And what spiritual context? A spiritual context that, of course, dated from a time, before the time of Rudecki. Which means that that poem existed before even Rudecki. Pronounced it. That poem existed in the realm of the soul, and Abu Bakr had access to it because the poem is an absolute being that has nothing to do with this historical apparition. That's what Ain al-Rozat says. And he believes that Abu Bakr could cross the thorn field with the prophet on his back because he was helped by this poem. And he quotes only three lines. Of course, he lets aside the sky and the moon and the cypress, et cetera. He just keeps the idea that you can send the perfume of Julia Moulian. Of course, there's nothing to do with Medina or Mecca. But you know, the Bu'yijwe Moulian becomes just an absolute image of the bliss of feeling the presence of water. Of course, when you're in the desert, it has a particular meaning. And the second line, the second verse he quotes is the one about the steed, the horse, and the water that when you cross the oxus, you feel the water coming up to the flanks of the steed. And the third one is, of course, the idea that dash te amu, or he says dash te amu, never mind. The path, of course, is full of difficulties, full of pebbles, doroshti. He is in the middle of thorns, but it's the same thing. But it appears at something very smooth because in his case, he's telling this poem and, of course, he's having the Prophet, his beloved Prophet, on his back. And he insists on the fact that this was no difficult journey. This was the most blissful day of his life because he crossed the desert and he went to Medina with the Prophet. And, of course, we could hear, speak about the notion of Hejrat because, of course, when they went from Mecca to Medina, it was, in a way, they went to exile. They went into, in a city that was not their homeland, but that became their homeland, in a way. So this was the beginning of Islam, et cetera, et cetera. So actually, it's because I read this letter by Enol Rosat that I started thinking hard on Rudak's poem. I thought, wow. If Enol Rosat says that, it means that this poem tells us something quite essential on the powers of poetry again. That, of course, is not... We will see with Rumi that it's beyond... It's a notion that is beyond time and space. There's something quantity about it, if I dare say. So, now that... Now, I would like to come to Rumi or Molana more precisely. There is a poem considered as authentic by Foulouzon Far, so I consider it as authentic, too. That goes like that. A poem in the Divani Shams, so in the collection of lyric poetry by Molana. It starts, and I read it... I first read it in Persian, the whole of it, because it's a pity not to do that, and then I give a translation in English. The poem is a poem that is truly from the Zishtan Nahan. The Nakhz Rouyan Suy Zishtan Keiravand is a poem written by Bol Bolandar Gul Setan. The poem of Nargesh Beru Yad Yasaman is a poem written by Nush Dahan. This is all a poem. This is all a poem. It's a poem about the purpose. The whole world is a poem about the world. The whole mind is in the memory of the mother and father, it's a poem about the sign. The whole body is in the memory of the life of the poem. The whole soul is in the memory of the village. And for love, it's not a poem about a city, but a poem about the land. The words are a poem about the city, This is very difficult to translate, and it's so Romanian at the same time. So I will read it in English and comment at the same time because time is running by. Here comes the perfume of the rose garden. You have, of course, even those who don't know Persian have noticed that it's the same rhyme again. Oh, yeah, here comes, or now comes. You will see, here I've changed, I've put some, sometimes now, sometimes here, and we'll see that the question of space and time is very interesting in this poem. And that probably, I don't know if he had read the letters of Engel Mozart, I don't know if they were available at that time, but it's so strange that he uses the word Kharsar, exactly like Engel Mozart, the thorn field. Maybe my friend Lenny will give me some light on this, but so here comes the perfume of the rose garden. Here comes the perfume of the tender friend. All the pearls bestowed upon me by my beloved, now the water of the sea, sorry, because of all the pearls bestowed upon me by my beloved, now the water of the sea comes up to my flanks. Imagining that rose garden, the land on thorns, now appears smoother than pure silk. The doggish famish, I don't know, this doggish hunger, Jewekalbi, I think is the only person who has ever used such a phrase in poetry, Jewekalbi, and actually Moine in his article on Bouillage et Moulion says that this is very ugly, then it's really not done in poetry to use such words like Jewekalbi or Nardhebon or Najjar, he says really this is not done, but he forgives Moine, nevertheless, for being, because he's a great poet. So, I don't know, the doggish hunger feels coming from the soul's kitchens every instant the smell of the bread cooked there. From such a carpenter that is his love, now comes a ladder that leads to the sky, or that leads, that comes from the sky, I don't know, because in Persian it's ambiguous. From all the walls and doors of the friend's house, now comes to the lovers the scent of John, this is untranslatable, John's life is the soul, it's the most beloved thing, John is John, just remember that John is John. Bring one sign of fidelity and take a hundred thousand, now this that is comes to bring that that is, this is quite Molaivian, Molaivian, you know, it's transforming the power of love into something, into a language that is just unbelievable. Whoever dies in front of the image of the friend, now would come to paradise undead or non-dead, not dead, of course, to go to paradise you have to die first, but he says that of course if you have seen the face of the beloved then you will go to paradise without necessarily, not without being dead, so being alive, definitely alive, and here I would like to insist on the word image of the friend. If you, if whoever dies in front of the image of the friend now would come to paradise not dead or non-dead. To die in front of the image of the friend calls to mind many stories from Attar, but also the last story of the Masnavi in which three princes go around the world, I'm not going to tell this the whole story again because it's a long story but it's really a fascinating story. They go around the world, they want to go and see the world and their father says to them you can go everywhere except in a very special place where there is a special palace, there you cannot go and of course when you say that to someone particularly your children, what do they do? They want to go exactly where they are, where it's forbidden. In so doing the father knows exactly what he's doing, he knows the pulse of his children, he knows they're young, he knows they're going to go there, he triggers their desire. Had he not said anything about that place they would not have even had the idea. So the father triggers the desire of the children, the boys, and they go and there they find the portrait of a princess of Whitherfall in love. Image is very important. When you see the image of beauty it triggers desire in you. It triggers love and desire. It's exactly what the Hooper does with the birds. He creates mental images through poetry so that they say we want to go and see that beauty that Seymour is. There it's not poetry it's a portrait but the portrait actually is very much used in poetry as a metaphor of what poetry does when it describes beauty of course. I will talk about this tomorrow when talking about Nizami. So they fall in love and they go and they find the palace where the princesses etc etc. It's a long story. What is important is that actually two of them die in front of the palace where the princess is because one of them is too much in a hurry to see the princess. The other one thinks that he has done it himself and the third one just stays there, does nothing and so he obtains everything. The text finishes like that very quickly. The most passive one took it all and I think it's related when he says bring one sign of fidelity and take a thousand, take a hundred thousand. His sign of fidelity was to stay there, say nothing, ask for nothing, just burn with desire, be ready to die with love before entering the palace and he had it all. And that I think that's what it means to die in front of the image of the friend and I think that is what poetry in general Mola Vee in particular does. Invite us to die in front of the image of the friend, really to die. To die really to die means to die to yourself, not physically. Physically to die is not to die. I mean from the point of view of Molano. And this image the poet can show it to us. It's not always easy to find the princess of China but what Rumi does, what Attar does, what Rudecki does to the prince is to give an image so desirable that you're ready to renounce to your own choices, to your own decisions, to your own self in order to receive that, that which has been evoked by the poet. Caravans from the invisible for sure, but hidden from the sight of, sorry, there's something missing there. Yes, Caravan has gave me Ayad Yarin. Caravans come from the invisible for sure, but hidden from the sight of the ugly ones. I would say the blind ones and I don't have time to explain why, but this word zesht comes repeatedly in Mola Vee's poetry. For example, the one zesht, Bechandid, Keunas, Nomayad, etc. So there is the idea that the zesht is not the ugly one, it's the one who is morally ugly, spiritually ugly, that means blind. All that is an enigma rams, the goal is him, now the other world comes in this world. Like reason running within blood and skin, now the non-sign comes into the signs, like oil into the essence of milk, now non-space comes into space. As I told you, in the story of Ainul-Gozat, non-time suddenly happens in time. Here non-space suddenly comes into space. As for love, that which cannot be defined, except in this speech that stands for that one, more than that we could evoke. It's in translation it just gives nothing, because it's very difficult to translate, I'm afraid. But now, so more than that we could evoke him, but now jealousy shows some signs. I withdraw, tanzanam, I just refuse to do it, for from his difficult words now come to the mind of people hundred doubts, from these difficult words now come to the mind of people hundred doubts or hundred imaginations. And I think both are related, doubts and imaginations. I think Goman is both here doubt and imagination. He says using the model of Rudaki's poem, thus showing us, by the way, that he knows it by heart, quoting from it sometimes. He shows us what he says here in spiritual terms, of course. Rudaki was not concerned with spiritual meanings, but I believe that the seeds of the spiritual quests of Rumi and that are visible in his poetry were already there in Rudaki, and even Rudaki didn't know it. In the same way as the poem of Rudaki was there in Abu Bakr's time, and Rudaki didn't know it himself. In that sense, I think, there is a very close relationship between this poem, particular poem by Rudaki, and the whole tradition that came after it, and I think there is a continuity, as I have tried to show you. I will not have time to going on with this comparison, but we could also compare this poem to the beginning of the Masnavi and show that, maybe I have time, yes? I have five minutes to do that. And show that the idea of, the idea, the central idea is that poetry so wakes us up by triggering desire, and at the same time shows us the way, shows us from where we come and where we should go. In Rudaki, of course, it was in this world, it was a question of Bukhara and Herat, etc., but there is more to it than that. That is why it's still speaking to us. Otherwise, why should we be so much touched by this poem, which is so contextualized, and we know exactly why it has been said, but we are touched because it tells us something that is inside and that has to do with the fact that we are in exile wherever we are, by the way, even if we live in our own country. And in that sense, I see that it's not only related to this poem by Rumi that uses the same meter, the same rhyme, etc., and quotes the poem by Rudaki, but also to the beginning of the Masnavi. And maybe the beginning of the Masnavi is a good conclusion for us. And again, I will read it just then, and you will see what I mean, because I've already given the clues, actually. Here it's not a lyra, it's a ney, but it's music. And it's music that becomes the metaphor of poetry. Of course, the read song is what we hear from the read, but it's more than that. When he says, listen to this read, he means me. Remember, Eynol Rosat would say, beshnoh. Very interesting that letter. Beshnoh. Here we have beshnoh. Listen to my poetry. And it will tell you where you come from. Listen to this read. There are many translations. This one is Frank Louis's. Listen to this read. Play out its plain, unfold its tale of separations. Of separations, Joda Iha. You remember, in Rudaki, he said that Bukhara was the beloved. And in a way, he suggested that the king was separated from his beloved. It's the same thing here. Of course, with all the multidimensional aspects of the spiritual experience of Molana. But then it's the same song that is being sung to us. Listen to this read. Play out its plain, unfold its tale of separations. Ever since they cut me from my reedy bed, my cry makes men and women weep. I like to keep my breast fretted with loss to convey the pain of longing. All those severed from the roots thirst to return to the source. So it's no need of commentary. I think you follow me. I rise my plant in any kind of crowd. In front of both the blessed and the bad, they hear in me just what they want to hear. None tries to find my secrets couched within. My secrets soon divulge in my lament, but eyes and ears lack light, cannot discern it. Not flesh from soul, nor soul from flesh are veiled, but none is granted leave to see the soul. How many times in the Masnavi he says we cannot see the soul. So let us imagine what it looks like through the words of poetry and through the words and through the stories that he has to tell us. And in this passage he also says, he also hints to the idea that we who are readers of poetry, we always look at poetry, look in poetry, our own image. Each person becomes my friend according to his own imagination, not knowing this real secret of my heart. And that is my idea about poetry. I don't think it's a bad thing. After all, what else can we do? Then come to poetry how we are, as we are and with what we have, nothing more, nothing less. And again I will quote Eynol Rosat to conclude, because maybe his words are much more powerful than mine. Oh noble soul, consider these poems a mirror. Don't you know that the mirror has no face in itself, but each person who sees into it can contemplate his own face. Know also that poetry has no meaning in itself, but each person can read into it his own destiny and the perfection of his life. And if you object that poetry has the meaning which has been given to it in the first place, that is the intention of the author for example, and that the readers only invent it, invent for it other meanings of their own, I would say. It is as if you said that the mirror only reflects the face of the person who polished it first. And this concept is so deep in its truth that if I wanted to ponder on it, I would deviate from my purpose. So poetry is definitely the language of desire, but the language of that desire which is within each reader of it or each hearer of it. Whatever that desire be, Molana also says, Asheqi, Garzin, Saru, Garzan, Saras, Aghibat, Mara, Bedan, Serah, Baras. Whatever you love, it doesn't matter. It will lead you to the secret. That is why I am now deeply convinced that profane or mystic, the Persian poets speak of something that is beyond that simplistic division. They tell us something about that which we have lost, whatever it is, that which gives meaning to life because we seek it so passionately. Maybe we do not know exactly what it is. The poets are here to give a form to that ideal which we have lost or the memory of which we have even lost. They remind us that whatever it is, the secret of life resides in it and it makes life worth living and poetry worth reading. To find out about who you are, where we belong and where we desire to go, the poem invites us to go back to our Bukhara, our garden, our sky, right now with no delay. Please take your seat.