The Song of That Name

In the company of the Friend’s own friends.

I was but a spark of dust,
whirling in the beam of the Unseen Sun,
when my Shaykh rose,
like a dawn igniting with the Fire of Being.

He spoke, and each syllable was a river of secrets:

“Do not parade parchments,
for the First Pen has already spilled oceans
upon the Guarded Tablet.
The shelves of eternity bend beneath its weight
what library shall rival the angels who guard it?

Do not measure your soul by the shadow of your beard;
forests of hair cover the faces of rabbis and monks,
yet the Friend is not found in tangled roots of vanity.

Do not boast of famine,
the peaks hide hermits who sip silence for forty winters,
yet their bellies still bloat with the pride of abstinence.

Do not raise me domes of stone,
for Nimrod’s tower already clawed the heavens,
and still the heavens were veiled.

Do not bring me your books and inks,
for even Iblīs lectured the angels with his scholarship,
yet a single sajdah proved him false.

Do not bring me your libraries,
the Qur’an itself was revealed in the cave of silence,
not upon shelves of ivory.

Do not bring me your beards,
for the Pharaoh’s priests stroked theirs in pride,
yet could not part the sea.

Do not bring me your mosques, synagogues, and minarets,
for the Kaaba itself was filled with idols
until a Friend came with Light.

Do not bring me your long prayers,
for tongues can wag like drums,
while hearts remain stone.

Do not bring me your robes and cloaks,
for wolves too wear thick fur,
yet they devour the flock.

Do not bring me your chains of isnād,
for parrots too repeat what they are taught,
yet they know not the taste of the seed.

Do not bring me your fasts,
for even stones abstain from food,
yet they remain stones.

Do not bring me your pilgrimages,
for feet may circle the Kaaba a thousand times,
yet the heart still circles its own idol.

Do not bring me your swords and banners,
for armies marched in the name of God,
yet the Friend was crucified in every age.

Nay!
Give me the pulse that chants Hu,
the heartbeat of clay intoxicated by Divine breath.
Show me the lovers who shattered the cup of self,
drank the wine of Nothingness,
and returned as goblets brimming with God.

Bring me Abdul Qadir,
whose fingers were rivers of generosity,
whose palm was the palm of the Merciful.

Bring me Data Ganj Bakhsh,
a lantern that outshone Lahore’s night,
a sun that refused to set.

Bring me Mansur,
flinging himself like a moth upon the gallows,
crying not I am, but ‘None dwells but Him, none breathes but Him.’

Bring me Ibn Arabi,
whose heart was a Kaaba
where every form of the Beloved circumambulated.

Bring me Baba Farid,
who milled his very marrow into bread,
feeding the world with silence sweeter than sugarcane.

Bring me Mehr Ali Shah,
whose very breath chased falsehood to its cave,
for when Haq appears,falsehood has no legs to stand.

Bring me Bulleh Shah,
who danced in the dust of Qasoor,
lest his song be dismissed as idle rhyme;
each twirl was proof that truth wears no chains.

Show me Khwaja Moinuddin,
whose breath turned Hind into a garden of faith,

Show me Nizamuddin,
whose love was a river Khusro sang into eternity.

If you have these,
then we share the same proof:
the Friend’s own friends,
walking flames, shining suns,
burning bushes whose sighs
cry out from every street:
Hu! Hu! Allah Hu! Allah Hu! Allah hu!”

So the secret was told,
and what remained of me?
was only the song of that Name,
beating, beating, beating,
Hu… Hu… Hu!