English
In Praise of Lady Fatima Zahra
Such a soul-reviving breeze swept across the meadow that the morning wind seems to breathe with the miracle of Jesus.
The garden is so moist with grass and flowers that if you squeezed the air, water would drip out.
The air over the lawn has grown so joyful that the bud can no longer contain its delight within its cloak.
Since the spirit of growth has been so generously poured out, it is fitting that every wish should ripen into fulfillment.
If time itself grows like the springing grass, then today, without delay, yesterday becomes tomorrow.
Do not marvel that through this striving of growth the lover's sapling of longing bears the fruit of desire.
Given such abundant flourishing, it is no wonder if the sapling of prayer at last bears the fruit of being answered.
When the stature of the beautiful grows so tall in grace, how could the palm tree of the heart's longing not rise high?
The sapling of cypress, growing graceful in the garden, longs for the slender stature of beautiful boxwood-like figures.
The garden's cypress sapling rubs its head against the clouds, so much has it drawn growth from spring's bounty.
When I take up the pen to describe this air and water, my words turn green in the water like a reed.
The waves of the breeze have grown so full of joy that they treat the ship of sorrow as a wave treats it on the sea.
When the morning breeze sets out to praise the weather, it fills the mouth of the bud with gold in admiration.
Since the wind blew on the branch, every leaf, out of delight, sings the praise of this air and water.
How can the bird sit silent when the breeze's bounty gives a tongue to the speechless lily?
How can the nightingale's flight pause in such splendor, now that even the painted silk takes wing on the morning breeze?
By the bounty of the meadow breeze's lightness one could fly without the help of wings, like the color of henna spreading.
The air has grown so heavy with moisture that no wonder a wave of air does the work of water upon the page.
The ripple of the file looks like a wave of the sea on water, so much have all things drawn moisture from the air.
Freshness has spread so universally that not even abstinence has stayed dry in this world.
Fire could hide among the grass now, so tempered is nature, like wine within a glass.
Now that grass has sprung even from stone, there is hope we may sow the green seed of faithfulness in the hearts of the beloved.
Come and see how, in reviving the dead plants, the morning breeze takes on the role of Jesus' breath.
The balance of nature has grown so universal that even a breath of hypocrisy, if tempered, becomes proper, despite its hypocrisy.
The sun is hidden behind black clouds, like a lovely face beneath dark, night-colored locks.
Because of the crowding of clouds over the world of being, the light can find no path to reach the face of the earth.
The rain loses its way down through the darkness, and so the lamp of lightning flares again and again in the sky.
The army of clouds covers the sky like layers of darkness, and within it the rain hides like the water of life.
The drops fall so unbroken that a thousand ripples form at once on the surface of the water.
The rainbow has become like a cotton-carder's bow, fluffing cotton from the clouds and tossing it into the air.
Today the rose branch in the garden is Moses' deputy, drawing the shining white hand out from its sleeve.
When I take up the page to describe this air and water, a thousand buds of meaning blossom for me.
As soon as it reaches my tongue it bursts into bloom; I render the tale of the bud with brilliance and grace.
An open arrowhead lodges in the breast of the bud when, in this air, an arrow flies free from the bow.
In all the world the only unopened bud is the bud of our heart; otherwise the bud would have vanished into legend like the phoenix.
That is no shooting star by night: from the abundance of bounty on earth, the stars descend from the sky to breathe this air.
So soul-reviving has it grown that you would think the air has caught its fragrance from the resting place of Zahra.
What a resting place, the honor of the gem of religion; what a resting place, the light of the eyes of brightness and radiance.
What a resting place, that if its dust reached the heavens, a thousand precious souls would offer themselves as ready sacrifice.
What a resting place, so exalted in worth that it would be ashamed if a houri offered her perfumed bosom and sleeve to it.
Blessed pure resting place where the gem of chastity has settled like a pearl in the heart of its shell.
The sapling of the garden of purity, the rose of faith's orchard, the joy of the unmalicious heart of God's Messenger.
The priceless shell of the pearls Husayn and Hasan, the proof from which the exalted Imams derive their worth.
The fruit born of her worth gave rise to the harvests of generosity, knowledge, justice, bounty, and openhandedness.
For the line of the eleven, in nobility Ali is the major premise and she the minor.
Behold the majesty whose lineage has given birth to the greats of faith and nation until Judgment Day.
Honorable descent is from her, light of the eye of lineage; nobility is from her line, the crown of glory and height.
Among the servants of her faithfulness are Sarah and Hagar; among the nurses of her household, Mary and Eve.
A hundred thousand houri-like ones fall at the dust of her door; a hundred thousand like Asiya run around her in devotion.
To be a maid in her sanctuary is the wish of the lady of Egypt; to beg at her door is the hope of the king of Sheba.
Who but she is called daughter of the Prophet, flesh of his flesh; who but she bears the title of the Pure, the Virgin?
The clay of Eve had not yet been kneaded when she was already named the mistress of all women.
The seal of chastity was set upon her pure being, just as prophethood was sealed in the lord of both worlds.
How proudly the sky preened over this desire, to become the humblest curtain-keeper following her rank.
Yet on the path of reason and analogy it is heedless, for what fraction of the sea can be reckoned in a count?
The vaulted sky is but one step of her palace of majesty; the six directions are but one courtyard of her household.
If they tried to measure the expanse of her worth, even the imagining of the placeless could not find its dimensions.
The bride of her true majesty draws back no veil except in the bridal chamber of the knowledge of the matchless God.
Imagination cannot traverse the field of her worth; one cannot cross an ocean by the strength of swimming alone.
Though the length of time be coiled loop upon loop like a lasso, it still cannot reach the summit of her palace of majesty.
Even if time tied its own head into a knot to stand up tall, it could not encompass the field of her worth.
There is not a hair's breadth of exaggeration in these words; pure realities stand beyond yesterday and tomorrow.
Both this long span of time and this wide expanse of space, set beside the holy realm, are a mere speck in the desert.
Her worth cannot be seen with the outward eye; how could the sight of the worldly reach where she is?
Yet even with the outward eye, if you look, you will see that her worth has risen above all that exists.
The purity of her lineage sends a greeting from Adam; the majesty of her descent sends a message from Eve.
Her nobility in eternity past rode side by side with the Eternal; her majesty in eternity to come rode stirrup to stirrup with Everlastingness.
Divine worth nursed her at its breast; divine decree helped raise her in its lap.
If a tyrant here usurped her right by his own decree, what will he do there where God is the judge?
Though he took her injury lightly, what will he do, for in harming her he has harmed God and His Messenger?
O most noble one, you whose rank is fit to be praised by Gabriel, by God, and by the angels.
Who am I to describe the rank of your station? Who am I to be a fit singer of your praise?
You whom God the Almighty Himself has praised; you whom the lord of both worlds has described.
The veil of your worth was lifted by 'she is part of me'; the height of your station was shown by 'whoever harms her.'
What need is there to define your rank, when the rank of the Imams bears ample witness to your exalted station?
Gabriel was indebted for the honor of serving you; God's grace hastened eagerly to nurse you.
At service in your court the sky seeks its desire; sweeping the dust of your threshold, the sun finds its wish fulfilled.
Night and day the heavens travel the road of harmony with you; that is why the soles of their feet are forever blistered.
The dust of your threshold is the adornment of the spring breeze; the dust of your court is the honor of the morning wind.
The sky could rival your rank only if a chameleon could fly on the wings of the sun.
Me, and the worthiness to serve you? What a hope! Me, and being fit to obey you? What a blessed wish!
Hoping for your kindness is, for me, the best of deeds; turning to your grace is, for me, the best of rewards.
From me there is no service worthy of your station; from me there is no praise befitting your glory.
For me to claim to praise your virtue is a false claim; for me to sing your eulogy is likely a mistake.
From this claim of praising you I seek nothing else; from this boast of eulogy I have no other desire than this:
That I confess your majesty, what grace that is; that I have come to know you, thanks be to God.
As long as in this world, through grace and through wrath, friends are honored and enemies abased,
May your dear ones, like generous friends, dwell honored by your kindness, and your enemies forever, everywhere, beneath your wrath.