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The Third Valley
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If the loving seekers wish to live within the
precincts of the Attracting One (Maj dhúb),
no soul may dwell on this Kingly Throne save
the beauty of love. This realm is not to be
pictured in words.
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Love shunneth this world and that world too,
In him are lunacies seventy-and-two.
The minstrel of love harpeth this lay:
Servitude enslaveth, kingship doth betray.
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This plane requireth pure affection and the
bright stream of fellowship. In telling of these
companions of the Cave He saith: “They speak
not till He hath spoken; and they do His bidding.”
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On this plane, neither the reign of reason
is sufficient nor the authority of self. Hence,
one of the Prophets of God hath asked: “O my
Lord, how shall we reach unto Thee?” And
the answer came, “Leave thyself behind, and
then approach Me.”
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These are a people who deem the lowest
place to be one with the throne of glory, and
to them beauty’s bower differeth not from the
field of a battle fought in the cause of the
Beloved.
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The denizens of this plane speak no words—but they gallop their chargers. They see but the
inner reality of the Beloved. To them all words
of sense are meaningless, and senseless words
are full of meaning. They cannot tell one limb
from another, one part from another. To them
the mirage is the real river; to them going away
is returning. Wherefore hath it been said:
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The story of Thy beauty reached the hermit’s
dell;
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Crazed, he sought the Tavern where the wine they buy and sell.
The love of Thee hath leveled down the fort of patience,
The pain of Thee hath firmly barred the gate of hope as well.
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In this realm, instruction is assuredly of no
avail.
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The lover’s teacher is the Loved One’s beauty,
His face their lesson and their only book.
Learning of wonderment, of longing love their duty,
Not on learned chapters and dull themes they look.
The chain that binds them is His musky hair,
The Cyclic Scheme,
to them, is but to Him a stair.
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Here followeth a supplication to God, the
Exalted, the Glorified:
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O Lord! O Thou Whose bounty granteth wishes!
I stand before Thee, all save Thee forgetting.
Grant that the mote of knowledge in my spirit
Escape desire and the lowly clay;
Grant that Thine ancient gift, this drop of wisdom,
Merge with Thy mighty sea.
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Thus do I say: There is no power or might
save in God, the Protector, the Self-Subsistent.
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