English
In Praise of Prince Hasan
Your cheek has become that light of the sacred valley, a lamp in the night of your dark hair for the Moses of my heart.
When your beauty shakes its sleeve in pride, may even the holy lamp not be safe from its dazzling blow.
It is not just your cheek showing through the curls of your hair; it is fire fallen into the harvest of my fortune.
On the night of separation, when I sigh, the sky hides its own lamp under the hem of its skirt in fear.
My chest is full of the smoke of sighs, and I fear, O silver cheeked, moon chinned beauty, that your image,
Finding the house so full of smoke, will make an excuse and leave, and walk right out of my heart.
I am so full of love for you that blood spills from my lashes, for there is no longer room enough inside my own body.
You are the one who, with a single blink of your lashes, sends the heart's blood streaming from my wounds down to my hem.
You darkened my day, yet I am glad, for my mind stays bright with love for the king who outshines me.
A king who, by the power of his nurture, can light up my darkened heart like the sun.
Grandson of the Prophet, light of Ali's eye, leader of all the world, Prince Hasan.
An emperor before whom, each evening, the sky lowers its sun crowned head in reverence.
Time drinks the blood of his heart like wine; whoever stretches his neck against him is drained like a wine flask.
From the garden of his worth the rose blooms eternal; the sky's sun is but a flower above his meadow.
To write the heading of his praise, the red dawn grinds vermilion as red as my own weeping eye.
What is the sky but a beggar at his door, raising its henna stained hand, a candle at the window?
The place of grace at his gate is like the plain of Arafat; the place of light at his threshold like the sacred valley.
His presence is the garden for the sapling of life; his mind is the rose garden for the flower of the sun.
Even if the span of time were a full circle, the robe of your worth would still have no edge to its hem.
The measure of your worth needs no explaining; the qualities of your being are beyond words.
Fate's decree does not turn its head from the line of your command; the heavens do not pull their neck from the collar of your order.
The musk deer of Khotan confess their fault by their boasting, beside the perfume of your noble character.
A broken glass cannot be made whole again, yet a broken heart can be mended by your kindness.
It would be no wonder if, by the thought of your protection, even a dewdrop could not be crushed by a pestle in a mortar.
If the rope on your enemy's gallows should snap, a noose of his own life thread falls around his neck.
A body not nurtured by the dust of your threshold wears the shroud of death while still alive.
If the heavens do not obey your command, cut them apart, sever their waist, break their head.
A thousand pearls of Aden envy the very pebbles of the city of your glory and grandeur.
Through the rule of your world nurturing justice, beautiful ones keep strife from their lashes and bitterness from their speech.
By the rule of your justice, the morning breeze, fearing your wrath, dares not carry a cure into the garden without permission.
By recalling your mirror clear spirit, the dust of grief can be wiped from the hearts of lovers.
It is no wonder if, imagining your grace, a grain of millet should swell with pride like a mountain.
If the breeze of your grace blew over hell, it could free the damned from eternal torment.
If your wealth were shared out among the world, the ant of neglect could leave a hundred harvests untouched.
Your justice is so devoted to truth that it would be strange if it ever fell for the curl of a beloved's hair.
To prepare your healing draught in fate's pharmacy, the stars serve as jewels and the sky as the mortar.
If a single spark from the flame of your will fell on my heart, the wound in my chest would shine bright as the sun.
If you have made peace with one of enemy nature, no wonder, for it is custom to stop a dog's mouth with a morsel.
You became a martyr to poison, yet out of pure devotion the life of both worlds has turned to snake venom for me.
My lord, I have a tale on my tongue, an account already clear before you.
Since it is plain to you, it is best left unspoken, for the king himself knows how to care for his servant.
When I have your kindness, to whom should I complain? When I have your street, where else should I make my home?
From the shortcomings of my fortune, knot upon knot has formed; from chest to tongue I hold a thousand kinds of words.
I cannot complain of the base heavens, though I have a hundred grievances of every kind against them.
The heavens, whose habit is always to nurture ignorance, do not favor people of merit, and least of all me.
The heavens never tended to the learned, so busy were they always serving the desires of every fool.
Even an enemy, if he looked with the eye of fairness, would see me always the nurse of manners and knowledge.
From the moment I took up the tablet and pen, I have known nothing but reading and writing.
By the love of learning I became nurtured in exile; for the love of being a stranger I cut myself off from home.
What of it that Anvari was supreme in verse? I am the rare wonder of my age in every art.
No skill remains in the world that I have not cultivated; refinement is born from no mother but on my own lap.
I am always ashamed of my own poetry; what business has a Plato with idle chatter?
I would never have so much as glanced at poetry, were it not for praising my leader.
From the fragrance of the bride that is your beauty's hair, my fame has passed beyond Khata and Khotan.
I, whom love for you has cast out of both worlds, why should I complain of exile or of homeland?
Of whom should I complain, and why, and of what? Why tell tales of moon and sun, and to what end?
If I do not follow the fashion of people of this age, no wonder, for now the very style of poetry takes pride in me.
My speech is lofty while the rival's rank is low; it is not his fault if he cannot rise to such words.
The time for prayer has come, Fayyaz, so end your words, for pouring out the heart's pain is not the way of devotion.
As long as the two eyes of modesty stay blind, as long as the tongue of prayer remains halting,
May an arrow strike the eyes of your enemies, and may prayer be a coat of armor on the breast of your companions.