English
In Praise of Imam Muhammad al-Baqir (peace be upon him)
Spring has sealed the meadow's colors with such a spell that color no longer fears autumn's shattering touch.
The morning breeze passing over the field's carpet of green leaves the very mark of velvet rippling across granite.
Now that the rose's Joseph has become the cherished lord of the garden's Egypt, time, like Zuleikha, has grown young again.
In the garden, the rosebud's leaf holds, in its bright hand, a thousand hidden miracles up its sleeve.
The rose branch has soaked its robe in blood upon the stem, as if paying the blood-price for slain Siyavash.
One of gentle nature is never barred from the garden, though, like flowing water, it has a thousand twists to follow.
The air holds such moisture that, without the cloud's expense, rain forms ready over the wide plain of the open sky.
Given the bounty of the garden's air and water, no wonder if an arrowhead, like a bud, takes root and grows.
From the cloud's moisture, such tenderness and delicacy that the air itself is woven into the body of the garden's beauty.
The dew's weight leaves its trace upon the rose petal, like the mark of teeth on a beloved's lip.
The breeze moves carefully through the meadow, lest its rippling motion snap a swaying branch.
The gardener's heart is at ease about broken branches, for the spring cloud's healing balm has guaranteed the cure.
The garden's parts have grown so subtle that, like the rose's scent, they are nearly hidden from sight.
Into the dead daughters of the plants beneath the soil, the growth-breath, like the Messiah's miracle, breathes life.
No wonder the fruit, from such abundance of readiness, shows itself, like blossom, more plainly than the leaves.
With things so steeped in moisture, no wonder if the arrow, in the wave of the morning breeze, bends like a bow.
The page has absorbed so much moisture from the air that writing upon it is like a design drawn on running water.
No wonder in the garden, like molten gold, the air's wetness makes the flame itself flow and pour.
Now that fire and water share one hue, how could the flame ever harm the moth's wing?
Were Nimrod's fire to burn in this spring, the sprouting of fresh basil within it would be no miracle.
From such freshness and moisture, even amid the fire, the sapling of smoke stands like a cypress in the garden.
When roses spring from every thornhead, what wonder if the flower of my tears has bloomed from my lashes?
Why grieve over loneliness, when even a person's shadow receives a soul from the life-giving morning breeze?
Green has breathed across the mirror's surface from the dew, so that one's reflection could hide itself within it.
At dawn the flint's spark would not catch fire, so much moisture did the cloud give to the tinder.
Perhaps, like Noah, we should sail the meadow in a boat, for the wave of dew is raising a flood in the garden.
By the strong pull of the breeze, the rose's scent would reach it, even if the nightingale's cage were made of anvil-iron.
The joy of the rose's laughter cast its sorrow's bundle to the wind; the dew has thrown the pages of grief onto running water.
From the delight of blooming swiftly, the joyful rose leaps past its bud-stage with an easy bound.
From the burden of dew, the cloud-camel pressed its breast to the earth, or the earth, in its growth, took hold of the cloud's hand and rein.
When I look at the rosebud, my heart bleeds: why has it bowed its head into its collar with so much wealth at hand?
I learned the art of hiding pain from the bud, which keeps smiling forever though its heart is torn to pieces.
The scent of the rose carries word of the rapture of madness; tell my companions to leave a rose with me in prison.
Let the drunken revelers, with their songs of ecstasy in the meadow's ear, not silence the nightingales' lament.
The longing for the garden is so woven into the drunken nightingale, its desire to soar through the open sky,
that if you gave the nightingale even fuller wings, it would take flight without owing anything to the bow's force.
Whoever has heard the nightingale's lament knows why the rose's collar is torn open down to the hem.
Let the nightingale be a prisoner in the cage's corner, the one that in this spring sings nothing but praise of the king.
A king whose field of glory, if you tried to measure it, the rope of all time's length could not span its breadth.
A king whose tent of worth, if you pitched it, the whole expanse of the plain would only equal its canopy.
A king whose fortune, if it spread its shade, would hide the six directions beneath a single step of that shadow.
Imam of East and West, before whose love's radiance the high sun whirls like a speck of dust,
Muhammad ibn Ali al-Baqir, the splitter of sciences, whose high banner of knowledge is the pillar of this hall.
If the veil were lifted from the face of his knowledge, the sciences of both worlds would become dust on a mirror.
He is its equal, if the sun were made pure spirit; he is its likeness, if the Quran took bodily form.
If the robe of his learning so much as shook its hem, the whole dust of Greek philosophy would scatter into oblivion.
From the dust of his street the soul has been clothed since eternity; from the bounty of his table the spirit is fed forever.
If the sun put on the garment of his shadow, night and day would become one throughout creation.
If his cast-off cloak were draped over the sky, the sky's stature would fall short and its hem would drag the ground.
Non-existence could never breach the house of being again, if for safekeeping he raised a wall around the world.
The seven climes are but a courtyard of his vast realm; the nine heavens are but a single chamber of his palace.
On land and sea the skies are part of his caravan; by day and night the elements are hired hands in his kitchen.
The angels sweep his threshold with their wings and feathers, as the attendants dust and clean his courtyard.
They do not pitch the pavilions of his majesty in any field that lies within the land of place or the fortress of time.
If the whole of possibility were seated foursquare on its throne, he would pass clean through it from every side with two fingers.
Even in a thousand years the heavens could not reach his palace of glory, though they flew up roaring like a demon.
Certainty finds no trace of the depth of his glory; what then can the bow of guesswork accomplish in vain?
If imagination dove as a swimmer into the sea of his perfection, it would race like a wave yet hardly reach the shore.
Though number is exact, his infinity defies it; not even half a fraction can bring his limit into view.
Were it not for the gifts of his open hand, the sea would never form a pearl, nor the mine make gold.
But what is a mine or an ocean compared to a hand
that turns dust into gold and stone into coral?
His gift reaches even the lowliest in full,
just as greed fills the laps of all the rest.
If a cloud rises from his open palm,
the horizon fills with pearls of rain like the skirt of heaven.
The ocean knows the pearl-scattering of his hand,
so, like the sky, it gathers up its hem in awe.
His giving is not just rubies and gold, for instance,
those are treasures of the earth, hoards of the mine.
But from the gifts of his ocean of knowledge, forever,
comes every delight of the soul, every joy of the spirit.
How fine, distinguished above all the world's people in noble character,
like a rose branch standing proud in the garden.
In the breadth of his single heart, the whole world's lord;
in the measure of one man, the master of all creation.
Set apart from his peers by the merit of his virtues,
alone among the people of the earth in his goodness.
If the spring of your justice casts its shade on the meadow,
no menace of autumn could drain the color from its face.
If the breeze of your kindness passes through the garden,
the blossom smiles open in the womb of the branch.
Whoever looks with the eye of discernment at the dust of your road
sees in it the same moon that lights the darkest night.
How could the sun be mistaken for your shadow?
No one ever mistook smoke for flame.
Between your judgment and the light of the sun there is
the same difference as between knowledge and direct sight.
All the world's people live on the share you grant,
as water is given to the thorn root for the sake of the rose.
Obedience comes whiter-faced to the Day of Judgment;
in the water of your threshold's soil, even sin is washed and dives clean.
A thousand years of worship will not lift
your opponents out of being deprived of forgiveness.
Even if they spend their whole lives in a single prostration,
without your favor they only beat their heads against an anvil.
The wretchedness in the enemy's heart cannot be undone by deeds,
for no one washes off his destiny with flowing water.
By reason and analogy you are the one fit for the succession;
by proof and argument you deserve the imamate.
You are the one to whom Jabir al-Ansari, in the Prophet's own words,
sent greetings across the span of centuries.
Your body is no less than the spirit of Jesus, son of Mary;
the hand of Moses, son of Imran, lives in your sleeve.
When you draw the hand of miracle from your sleeve,
the staff of Moses and a shepherd's stick are one and the same.
If Moses turned a staff into a serpent,
at your command the hair on the enemy's body becomes a serpent.
If the blind of heart fails to know you as you truly are,
that is the flaw of his cursed nature, so why should it trouble you?
When the blind man cannot witness the light,
no fault falls upon the shining sun.
My lord, you are one whose true rank
the mind cannot grasp in thought or put into words.
Praise and description must match one's understanding,
and you, as you truly are, cannot be known at all.
What are the senses, outer and inner, beside your radiance?
What is the eye of a bat before the light-spreading sun?
You can be perceived only by pure intellect,
for the radiance of the spirit does not fit within the vessel of the eye.
But the mind cannot describe you,
for when it beholds you, reason itself is left bewildered.
What can one say who has not seen you? And once one sees you, what words remain?
For inner certainty is something words can never carry.
I have known you through your knowledge and your virtue, yet what use is that?
May God let me see you with my own eyes, face to face.
Though I have gathered nothing but shortcoming,
though I have no substance but my own flaws,
The wares of my learning hold no capital but vain longing,
and the trade of my deeds yields nothing but loss.
Yet I carry love for you, and this deed of mine is enough;
knowing you is my knowledge, and this awareness is enough for me.
My hope rests in your grace, and what work could be better than this?
When you are my gain, why should I grieve over any loss?
Through the brilliance of speech, set apart from all the beasts,
lies the essential mark that distinguishes the jewel of mankind.
May your enemy, like an animal, be left tongue-tied and dumb;
may your follower forever speak warmly in your praise.
By your radiance let friend be told from foe,
as pearl and coral are known among rows of cheap beads.
On that day when a father forgets even his son,
remember me, and do not forget the one who has bestowed so much upon you.