Listen, how this ney tells a story, how it complains about separations. Since I was cut off from what remained of me, from my cries, men and women... everyone wept and moaned. My heart is shattered by separation, so that I may reveal my pain. One who is truly apart from their origin still longs for the time of reunion.
I have wept and moaned among every gathering. I have shared company with both the troubled and the joyful. Everyone considered me a friend according to their own thoughts, but no one sought the secrets within me. My secret is not far from my cries, yet not every eye or ear holds that light. The body is not hidden from the soul, nor is the soul concealed from the body, but no one has permission to truly see the soul. This is the sound of the ney—the fire of love’s sorrow, not merely air... Whoever lacks this fire, let them cease to exist themselves!
It is the fire of love that has fallen into the ney, the passion of love that has fallen into the wine. The ney is the companion of the one separated from their beloved. Its holes have torn apart our own veils. Who has seen a ney that is both poison and antidote, both a confidant and a lover? The ney speaks of the blood-filled path, telling the stories of Majnun’s love. The secret of this mind belongs to none but the one who is mindless.
Our sorrow has made the days untimely; the days have become companions with burning pains. If the days have passed, let them pass; we have no fear. O you, unparalleled in purity, remain steadfast! Everything except the fish has mixed with water; for those without sustenance, the days have grown long. The raw does not understand the state of the ripe; so, the word must be brief—end of discussion. O son! Untie your bonds to the world, be free. How long will you remain a slave to silver and gold?
If you were to pour the sea into a bowl, what would it hold? The fortune of a single day. The greedy’s eye vessels never filled. Mother-of-pearl, being content, was filled with pearls. One whose garment was torn because of love was thoroughly cleansed of greed and shame. O our love, whose passion is beautiful; be joyful! O healer of all our ailments; O remedy for our pride and grandeur; O our Plato! O our Galen!
The body, created from earth, rose to the heavens through love; the mountains began to move, becoming lively. O lover! Love became the soul of Mount Tur. Tur was intoxicated, and Moses fainted! If I could be a companion to the lips of the friend with whom I spent my time, and find a conversation partner who could endure secrets, like the ney, I too would speak the things that need to be said. One separated from their beloved, no matter how many melodies they have, is speechless. When the rose withers and the season passes, you can no longer hear tales from the nightingale.
