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Here, the venerated Master Rumi tells a parable that illustrates a soul’s longing for freedom and the path to true liberation. The Merchant and the Parrot “The morsel that brings a pure light to the soul Is earned by endeavor; not begged with a bowl. Should oil, upon trimming, extinguish a lamp, Not oil may we name it; it is water; it is damp. The honestly-earned morsel, wisdom imparts; Gives softness to souls and a warmness to hearts. If thou be aware that from thy morsel spring Heart burnings and hate, know it’s not a blessed thing. Has wheat ever sown, and reaped barley instead? […] A morsel, when eaten, it is a seed; its fruit, thought. […] From good, honest morsels come, taken in mouth, Good works, and firm strivings to shun the soul’s drought. Reflections, though true, we’ll now bring to an end. To merchant and parrot’s tale ear we will lend. […]Our merchant, the parrot cast out from his cage. The parrot flew up; on a tree took high stage. The bird that was thought dead, now swift flew away. His course like the Sun’s from the morn to midday. The merchant sore marveled at his flying bird; Could not understand it; thought: ‘What has occurred?’ Then cried, looking upwards: ‘Come, pretty Poll mine! Relate all about this freak strangest of thine. What was that bird’s game, there, of whom then thou spoke? What trick was he played? Grief in me thou awoke.’ The parrot him answered: ‘He taught me the trick. He came and said: “Free thyself now. Up! Be quick!” No sooner had sounded thy voice in his ears, He, as was agreed on, fell dead, it appears. As much as to say, here, to me in my cage: “Thou death counterfeit; so thou save thy old age.”’ Become thou but grain; thou will be pecked up by birds. A flower make thyself; all the children go thirds. Thy grain hides thou? Thou are naught else but brick-trap. Thy flower shut up? Thou are a weed on house-top. His beauty, whoever may offer for sale, Invites many troubles his heart to assail. Hopes, fears, wraths, and jealousies strike him at once; As rain on his head pours in winter, the nonce. All sorts of opponents, by jealousy, moved; With them, even friends joy to see him so proved. Whoever may put off to sow seed in spring, Ignores the true value of time’s swiftest wing. Let each one take refuge in mercy of GOD, Who grace manifold on our souls has bestowed. Then shall thou find shelter, when shelter thou need. […]”
