Alas for this confused medley of knowledge
The breast full of learning, and nothing known,
I am nought, and my thoughts less than nought,
Nothing comes from me but yet wilder words.

The fault-recognising eye* was found, and my head sank into the fold (lit. pocket) of shame. In the beginning of the roll of fortune (the Akbarnāma), my design was that when the story of stories (dāstān dāstān) should have been written, it would receive beauty's rouge from being decorated by that chief* of the eloquent. Suddenly, a deadly sorrow appeared, and it came into my mind that there was no happiness for any one. Accordingly I in my distress and feebleness of capacity hissed out idiotic* cries, and revealed my rawness.

O lord of speech, look not on the crudity of speech
For I'm consumed by the death of the pattern of sages*
And am more brokenhearted than that crystal vase
Which lies far off within the rock.

Up to the tenth year (of the history of Akbar) the assemblage of wisdom (Faiẓī) had revised the composition of this know-nothing; not, however, to the extent that his heavenly mind was satisfied therewith, or that this bewildered pupil in wisdom's school was pleased. Time showed such jugglery, and pointed to a soul-exhausting day! Life became difficult to me, and my heart grew yet more disturbed at the mutability of things. The charm of the graciousness of the Khedive of enlightenment, and the wisdom-amulet of the spiritual and temporal caravan-leader (Akbar) recalled me from the aversion (to society) and bound me anew to sociability (t'aalluq). With a disturbed heart and a confused mind I summoned up resolution to write the glorious (gauharīn) history. But difficulties and bitterness caused from time to time fresh dis­tress to my confused heart and distracted it more than ever. And ever-new bewilderment ruined my thoughts' metropolis. Why should not the dust of rebellion arise, and why should not the foot of resolution tremble? For, together with various tumbles and contrarieties, a lofty sage, who helped me on every side, had departed, and a companion, who in respect of intellect possessed a nine-tenths share, had taken the veil. Would that in the famine-year* of humanity there had been a helper who could have written the pages when my heart was distracted so that they should not disgrace those which had gone before! Or if this stock of knowledge were not, an expert was indispensable who could amend* the writing of a distracted soul, and could erase clauses and introduce words and elicit meanings. Or if Time grudged even this, some persons were indispensable who might from the brilliancy of their enlightenment, and the strength of their courage perceive faults. Inasmuch as in the ambushes of my heart there was a daily-increasing agitation for freedom, and as there were various competing, outward engagements pressing upon me, and the confidential and loving friend was under the veil, what could be the value of the matter supplied by the heart to the hand, and by the latter to the pen. As my thoughts were clear, and gratitude to God increasing, and my loyalty sincere, and the genius of the Shāhinshāh was assisting, the light of fortune cast a ray in that darkness of struggles, and bestowed energetic strength.

What is within my heart
Is spiritual coin beyond count
I did not earn this enduring wealth myself
I received it from my patron's glance.

On the first Āẕar of the 40th Divine year (about 11 November 1595) I shut* the door of my house* of anguish. Outwardly I was occupied, to the exclusion of everything else, in writing the noble history, inwardly I was supplicating the Incomparable Giver, and was imploring a lamp for my darkened heart. I was laying the head of entreaty at the threshold of the Divine greatness, and begging for the accomplishment of my wishes. Suddenly fortune's morning unveiled her countenance, and a ray of light brightened the window­less closet. When I had time to meditate, and surprise had departed (literally had packed up), the morning-glory caught the slit of my pen. A great joy seized me, and a wondrous delight showed itself. My sore* and adust body donned the robe of spring, and a guide for my enterprise appeared. My heart renewed its vigour, and my useless (literally, headless and footless) pen drew a wondrous sketch. The stewards of glory roused up the wedding-minstrel* of discourse to a mystic* dance. In a short space of time I was made a rich treasury of eloquence, and a lofty diploma was granted to me. The titles of Nādir-al-kalāmī* (marvel-of-oratory) and Shams-i-peshtāq-i-goyāī* (sun of the portico of speech) were conferred. Some delightful expressions were put into writing (by Akbar). Thanks were returned for favours and a jewel-volume was completed as a gift to truth-seekers and connoisseurs. A great good fortune and brightener of the countenance arrived.

Fortune ran and opened the door of success
She gave a gift greater than my wishes
The nightingale of speech flew up from my mind's rose
The veil of concealment was rent by my pen's point

Host upon host of spirits joined me
Called and uncalled, they passed through the door
The idols of the heart ran forward
My pen invited them with a melodious murmur.*

It is now fitting that there should be the melody of joy and the whispering of delight. But how can he whose resolution is attached to the recording of cycles upon cycles break his fast by writing the account of one of them? With what provision can he satisfy his heart and indulge in pleasure? Especially on this day when by heaven's decree there is a fresh agitation in my head, and another consideration has come to my perturbed mind? The body is urban (i.e., inclined to sociability) but the soul is campestral; there is the thought of the last journey which will dissolve associations. There is the futility of my contemporaries whose tongues speak, but whose hearts are silent. There is daily-increasing anxiety about the com­position of the book of fortune (Iqbālnāma, i.e., the Akbarnāma).

Alas! A mountain (koh) of grief has fallen on a straw (kāh)
The moon has become the beloved of a tiny ant
This strange thing has happened
The beggar has fallen in love with the king.

The sole desire of my thoughts is that when the marvels of several cycles shall have been described, and my obligations of gratitude shall have been paid suitably to my wish, I may by the Divine aid withdraw my foot from among the world's servants and earnestly apply myself to the service of God. May I emerge from the defile of association and relationship, and obtain repose at the sublime stage of enlightenment! May I emerge from the strivings of this soul-destroying abode of demons, and enjoy happiness in the holy chamber of eternity!

Remove your goods from this caravanserai
For the roof has holes, and the clouds are big with tempest,

'Tis a cell where you cannot remain
Be your years 10, 100, or 1000
Lift up the screen so that they may bring in
The Divine Couch to the dais (of the heart).

But in the atmosphere of this lofty eyry the wings of the courage of the highflyers of the fields of cognition grow faint, what then must be the condition of the sensual and selfish? Shall I speak of the thorny and dangerous road? Or shall I allude to the grief of those who, from the wickedness of the robbers of the desert, which is full of evil, have fallen short of their goal? Or shall I speak of pain from the cowardice of selfish fellow-travellers? In the garish inn of natural existence, Wisdom sits in the corner of contempt, and Self-will on the height of ostentation. The varied phantasmagoria of the outer world hunt after the soul, and the spiritual physician has assumed the veil. The last evil is the soul-tormenting of the wicked. Some by smooth speech, and some by silence sell evil things (nikūhīdigī) as good things (nekūkārī) and in the garb of guides practise highway robbery (dar libās rahnamūnī rahzanī kanand). Most, after having been deceived themselves, practise fraud upon others, and regard the injuring of men—what need then to speak of animals—as matter for boasting. How can the number of those who have yielded their hearts to the blandish­ments of this harlot (the world) who robs the wise, and destroys Rustum-like strength be reckoned up? How can the jugglery and sorceries of the workers of iniquity be enumerated? The eldest of them is baseness of disposition which is enchained by the pledge of love for this friend-slaying, foe-soothing One (the world). On the prosperity of this quicksilver-waved mirage it (the base disposi­tion) has the triumph of sloth (kharsandī) and a joy composed of heedlessness. In the adversity of this wheat-shower, barley-seller, shall it not feel the being trampled under the foot of regret, and the exhaustion of grief? On this account the wise and eloquent, in their diagnosis of mysteries, call the first* the “Father of that quickly-perishing mountebank” (the world). The second is the fool who on the coming or going of the old dotard snaps the thread of discretion and judgment, and becomes bewildered with joy or sorrow. His hunger is not satisfied by her many seeming but unsubstantial dainties, nor his wishes quieted. Nor is his orphaned* stomach filled by the deficiencies of this something-seeming but in reality nothing, nor is the foot of his desire made lame. In the allegory of truth this (the fool) is called son of the capricious drunkard (the world). The third is the purblind and low man who on account of old errors does not come away by the highroad of truth from pursuing the desires of this world—which has come to the meeting-place of the furious blasts of destruction—but who trusts to the worthless remedies of the cheating Age, and lays his hand on the skirt of deceit and fraud, and thinks to convey himself to the shore of safety by his own devices (dastān sarāī). Great men have called him in their allusive style the slave of that thousand-wiled magician. The fourth is that slumbrous confused one who is led astray by the crowding of desires and seeks to make a shield for himself out of fraudulent traditions. Moralists point him out in enigmatical language as the handmaid of this faithless juggler.

It is clear to the leaders in the assembly of judgment what must be the state of the man who looks for repose in such a place of tur­moil, when such is the state of those who have chosen it. If in expounding this thesis I should write of the sects* of ancient times and of the present day, my work would be like filling an abyss, and the foot of my travelling pen would be worn out at the first stage. Hear now a little of my own story! And let me stretch out the foot of effort for curing myself.