My soul gives a sign: be silent—do not cause me distress.
I am silent, a servant of the command;
I have now abandoned all expression.
After immersing himself in the ocean of divine words, Rumi became acquainted with mysteries and secrets that he was unable to express. The people of his time were not prepared to hear these truths, and there was no receptive ear.
Enough—be silent, do not become a hundred tongues,
For not even one ear has come forth to listen.
The soul and heart cannot endure that boiling,
With whom can I speak, when in this world there is not a single ear?
He was also not permitted to disclose these secrets openly:
I fall silent at the command; when He says “Be silent,” I obey—
One day that Sovereign Himself will explain it all.
Be silent, be silent in this rabble-filled gathering;
Do not reveal, do not reveal—neither of the Lord nor of the Master.
He remains silent, fearing that his tongue might set existence ablaze:
Do not strike fire in the thicket—be silent, O heart;
Restrain your tongue, for your tongue is a flame.
Your majesty cannot be contained in a hundred worlds—
Such a sovereign, such an exalted king.
But when his steed raises dust,
Deafness and illusion mistake dust for the rider.
Close your mouth, for here there is not even one glance
That can distinguish the rider from the dust.
He seeks a confidant with whom he may share the secrets of his heart:
When you become my intimate, I will open my lips to you,
So that you may behold a sun at midnight.
Only his pure soul is the East—
In his rising, night and day are indistinguishable.
Day is when he dawns,
And night disappears when he flashes forth.
When a particle appears before the sun,
The sun itself is present within that very core.
The sun that radiates brilliance—
The eye grows dazzled and bewildered before it.
You see the particle within the light of the Throne,
Before the boundless, overflowing light of the Throne.
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Frown your face, for all are frowning here;
Go blind, lest you lose your staff among the blind.
Walk lame, since all in this alley are lame;
Wrap rags around your feet and twist your limbs awry.
Smear saffron on your face even if you are moon-faced—
For if you reveal beauty, you will be struck from behind.
He has many words, yet cannot disclose them:
I have countless words with you, about you,
Yet my silence is a mighty counsel.
On the one hand, he says: if you love your life, remain silent; on the other, as a mad lover, he says: fear not—speak! Perhaps the Day of Resurrection will arise and the Promised One will appear, rending the heavens.
My prudence tells me: be silent, if you wish to live;
But I am weary of life, if it has patience.
Speak the secrets, O madman—why fear the sober ones?
Tear your robe, O heavens—why await the Resurrection?
And he does not want strangers to become aware of the “Being” that is hidden within his being:
Through Your grace I became soul and vanished from myself;
O You whose Being is hidden within my hidden being.
Yet he speaks indirectly, hinting at the truth of his heart:
If you can, be silent—speak meanings without words,
So that the sovereign of expression may be the soul.
I am intoxicated by this event—aware and unaware;
Both speaking and silent, I am the tablet of the silent.
Close your lips now—become a word-spreader without lips;
Wordless, the dark-faced one entered the realm of speech.
No one possesses the understanding to grasp it:
I fell silent, for you lack the awareness to perceive it;
Do not move your ear in deceit—I have an eye that sees awareness.
He carries a chest full of words, yet has no permission to speak, and lives among people incapable of hearing:
I am heartless and turbanless, dwelling in the wine-seller’s house;
I hold a chest full of words—shall I explain them or not?
In a circle of the lame, one must limp;
Did you not learn this counsel from the noble master?
Elsewhere, he finds no one worthy of being a confidant:
Outwardly I am silent, but inwardly—
I carry blood-stained words in my devouring heart.
Look closely upon my silent face,
And you will see a hundred thousand signs upon it.
I shortened this ghazal—the rest remains in my heart;
I will speak if you intoxicate me with your languid narcissus.
O Silent One, silent of your own speech,
Why are you so bewildered by your sharp intellect?
Why are you silent before these fiery thoughts,
When thoughts arrive with a conquering army?
In solitude, be silent; among people, speak—
For no one tells the secrets of the heart to walls and doors.
Perhaps you find no human worthy,
That you have silenced yourself and see no confidant at all.
No one has the capacity to hear such words—like reciting Surah Yā-Sīn into a donkey’s ear:
How many robes I stitched for the stature of the heart,
How many lamps of intellect I lit,
Yet so many subtle points of Jesus-like spirit
I mingled into the heart and ears of a donkey.
Shams of Tabriz, like Rumi, was also unable to speak the full truth:
“I cannot speak the truth outright; I began with truth, and they expelled me. Had I spoken all the truth at once, the entire city would have cast me out.”
— Maqālāt-e Shams-e Tabrizi
One of these mysteries is the Greatest Name of God. In Islamic traditions, whoever discovers the Greatest Name attains exalted spiritual and intellectual stations.
Shi‘a Muslims believe that the Greatest Name of God is contained in the Dawn Supplication of Imam Muhammad al-Baqir (peace be upon him).
Ayyub ibn Yaqtin wrote to Imam رضا (peace be upon him), asking about the authenticity of this supplication. The Imam replied:
Yes, this is the supplication of Imam al-Baqir recited at dawn during the month of Ramadan. My father narrated from his grandfather Imam al-Baqir that the Greatest Name of God is contained in this supplication. Therefore, strive earnestly when you supplicate with it, for it belongs to hidden knowledge. Conceal it from those unworthy—hypocrites, deniers, and rejecters—for this is the supplication of Mubāhala.
(Sayyid Ibn Ṭāwūs, Iqbal al-A‘mal, 1417 AH, p. 345)
Imam al-Baqir (peace be upon him) further said:
If I wished to swear an oath, I would swear that the Greatest Name of God is in this supplication. Therefore, exert yourselves when calling upon God with it, for it is among the hidden and sealed sciences. Conceal it from the unworthy—hypocrites, liars, and deniers—and reveal it only to those deserving.
(Sayyid Ibn Ṭāwūs, Iqbal al-A‘mal, p. 76)
In this supplication, nineteen names of God are mentioned, and the first name is Bahā’ (Glory):
In the Name of God, the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate.
O God, I ask You by Your Glory in its most glorious form;
and all of Your Glory is glorious.
O God, I ask You by all of Your Glory.
That incantation and the Greatest Name which I recited—
When I read it over the deaf and the blind, it became healing.
When I recited it upon the heavy mountain, it split apart;
It tore its own cloak asunder and burst forth anew.
When I recited it over a dead body, it came to life;
When I recited it over carrion, it became alive.
He says that the Greatest Name of God is “Bahā,” and that whoever sacrifices their blood in the path of “Bahā” is “The Báb”.
We found “Bahā ” and the “paid by blood”;
Toward the sacrifice of the soul we hastened.
Since the people of that era were not prepared for the advent of Bahá’u’lláh, Rumi considers naming ‘Akká as the Qiblah an act of defiance, and instead contents himself with Mecca.
I shall not rebel—I am not of ‘Akká;
I am content to live, for I am of Mecca.
In this poem, Rumi is distressed by the fact that he is not permitted to reveal his رمز (inner code or secret):
How long, O Generous One, shall we beat Your drum beneath the cloak?
How long, O Companion, shall we hide our intoxication?
The call from “Am I not?” has returned—control has slipped away;
Intoxication is openly manifest, especially by the scent of the breath.
But his Master does not allow him:
O heart, do not play the rogue, do not stir sedition or strife;
Do not make me infamous—do not reveal me in the marketplace.
Say nothing and do not clap your hands; do not lift the lid from the pot.
Let it boil well and be patient—for I am cooking you.
His Master angrily commands him not to disclose the secret:
Speak no more of the secret, for the Beloved has grown angry;
He has begun to look upon me askance.
He says he is not permitted to speak words that could save others from unbelief:
The soul is not commanded to utter this explanation;
Otherwise, wherever unbelief appeared, you would be delivered from it.
He says: discover it yourself, for I am not authorized to tell you:
Bring your ear close, for it is not far away—
Yet conveying it to you is not permitted.
Here Rumi’s patience is exhausted, and he decides to reveal the secret:
I will reveal Your secret—no patience remains any longer;
Neither heaven nor earth can bear my pain.
How full of sorrow is this heart of mine, and how free is Yours;
Your face is smooth and beautiful, while mine is wrinkled with grief.
He says: if by revealing it the world burns, let it burn—why my heart burn in silence?
Let this world burn—how long must my heart burn?
How long shall things remain thus, how long shall it be so?
He declares: I am intoxicated, and I will reveal the thousand-year secret. If you do not wish to see it, close your eyes—or open them and see clearly.
Intoxicated, I reveal the secret of a thousand years;
Close your eyes if you wish, or open them and behold with joy.
By “the thousand-year secret,” he means the Islamic dispensation, which—according to the Qur’an (Surah 32:5)—spans one thousand years:
“He directs the command from the heaven to the earth; then it ascends to Him in a day whose measure is a thousand years of what you count.” (32:5)
God brings His religion (Islam) from heaven to earth, and after one thousand years—by human reckoning—returns it unto Himself.
Islam reached completion with the passing of the Eleventh Imam in the year 260 AH; one thousand years later, in 1260 AH, (1844 AD) the Báb declared His mission.
When his Master sees the intensity of Rumi’s love, He tells him: I am your companion—do not reveal My sign.
When He saw my passion, the Beauty came toward me on the path;
He said: do not give any sign of Me—I am your companion and your friend.
Rumi accepts, but asks his Beloved to temper the fire of his love so that he may endure obedience:
My soul stood astonished for a moment before His face and said:
O graceful idol, O water-and-fire together!
O life-increasing face—by God, just so, just so!
O heart-enchanting minstrel—by God, just this, just this!
When You have spread the carpet of Your love,
Pour water upon my fire,
O Beauty of the unseen world, Shams-e-Din of Tabriz!
Or else, do not cast more firewood upon the flames of my love:
Enough—enough! Do not throw firewood on this blaze,
For I fear this fire will seize the higher path.
Elsewhere he says he will remain silent, provided he is not stirred:
I will cease from speaking if He does not agitate me;
For He is the rider, and I march beside His feet.
Rumi must obey the command; in due time, the sun’s light will illuminate everything, and the Master Himself will speak with majesty and splendor:
I obey—when He says “Be silent,” I fall silent;
One day that Sovereign Himself will explain it all.
From love I heard this word and chose the path of silence;
Speak, O Love—for I have no “yes” or “no” with the Friend.
When the sun rises, where can night remain?
When the army of grace arrives, where can deprivation remain?
Be silent, so that He Himself may explain this—
For it is better that radiance descends from above.
Thus, it is better that He speaks in the language beyond language, for our tongue is no tongue before Him:
Be silent, so that He may speak without word or tongue;
What are these tongues, if that tongue is truly tongue?
A thousandfold blessings upon the most auspicious hour,
When that Speaker, the Trustworthy Spirit,
Shall unveil those secrets.
He says: say nothing, so that He Himself may utter what never appeared in previous revelations:
Do not breathe a word, so that you may hear from that Sun
What never came in book or speech.
Do not breathe a word, so that the Spirit may breathe for you;
Leave the familiar ones in Noah’s Ark.
At last, the divine promises are fulfilled, and God’s Chosen One appears in human form:
That Supreme King was firmly concealed;
Today, clothed in the cloak of Adam, He has stepped forth.