Tarkibs

Peace to you, whose essence is an ocean of justice, fairness, and faith; your pure being is a copy of the attributes of the Lord of all worlds. Peace to you, who in honor have risen so high that the imprint of your foot once shone upon the shoulder of the best of messengers. Peace to you, whose word will be reason's certain knowledge until the Resurrection, and whose deeds are certainty itself made visible. Proof enough of your excellence: that the best of mankind was your pupil. Witness enough to your knowledge: that Gabriel was your teacher. You have power over whatever you wish, for in truth the hand of divine power is tucked into your own sleeve. To bind hearts fast to the summit of true knowledge, from the rays of your every word you hung the firm, unbreakable rope. No one truly knows you, for it is hard to tell one jasmine's scent and color from another jasmine's. If both worlds deny your excellence, no harm: the clear Quran stands as the just witness to it. Day and night, to sweep your courtyard, the wings of angels and the tresses of paradise's maidens reach out on every side. If both worlds turned to cloud, the sun stays the sun; even on a cloudy day its grace upon the earth does not lessen. Everyone bears your love, friend and foe alike; you have stamped upon every speck a sun-mark on its brow. If you grant grace even to an enemy, there is no room for surprise: you are a mercy to all worlds, a mercy to all worlds. Whoever in every breath had the Prophet as his companion, on the path of oneness he too was joined to the Prophet. In my loneliness both Mustafa and you are my refuge. Let both worlds be worthless to me; these two are enough. Without the dust of your feet the sun has no light on its brow; without the sun of your banner the dawn cannot draw a breath. All knowledge is borrowed from the grace of your knowledge; all reason is kindled from the light of your reason. Over the honey of your words the wise watch, every moment, the swarming of angels gather like flies to the sweetness. And in the caravan of your majesty since the day of eternity: the Universal Soul is the cameleer, an angel the camel, the stars its bells. In the realm of your generosity, great and small weigh the same; no one can tell there a whole mountain from a single lentil. Whoever in the world sees your pure shrine sees it as one who sees a flower garden through a cage. The sky over your dome is like a bird that lays a nest of straw upon a mighty cupola. If time itself should wipe out the garden of Eden, for lovers that shrine of yours is paradise enough. I want the lane of your threshold, not paradise; the lover seeks nothing but the street of his beloved. From you I ask my heart's desire in this lane of desire, though the heavens have blocked my striving from before and behind. To complain of fate is a disgrace, yet against its complaint I can cry out, for you are the one who answers cries for help. I am so full of hope in your boundless grace that in that lane I will be safe forever from the turns of time. You from whose threshold's dust the sun took its ornament, and from whose desert sand the sky received its stars, from the blade of your sword, until the day of reckoning, the brides of victory and triumph have taken their adornment. Since the sun rubbed its face on the dust of your threshold, it has turned its own dust to gold forever by this alchemy. The pearl mine filled its vessel of honor from your door; the ruby mine found red sulphur at your threshold. For ages the keeper of paradise has dwelt beside your door's dust, until he found the water of Kawthar for his garden. The sky has spun about your head until at last it gained, from the glow of your mind, the most radiant sun. When the sky strolled across the meadow of your generosity, it found a single dewdrop there to be a green ocean. Whenever the sea weighed its pearl against the pearl of Najaf, it found its own gem as dim as the dark body of the moon. Your threshold of fortune is the elixir of every wish; there the sky found its desire fulfilled again and again. A single drop of your sea is an ocean so vast that the highest heaven is found swimming within it. I ask nurture from your grace, for by the nurture of your grace the iron of the sword's ability gained its fine edge. When all the world is brimming with desire from your grace, why should I alone be left with my wish unfulfilled? Had fate not seen you as its cause, it would forever have left the Universal Soul barren and the Universal Intellect unwed. From the rising of your glory comes Mustafa's glory; your pure essence is the very salt upon Mustafa's table. Though several verses came down to Mustafa for your sake, your very being is a verse sent down in Mustafa's honor. By the command 'submit to him' you were Commander of the Faithful even while Mustafa lived, in Mustafa's own time. The palm tree of Mustafa's law draws its freshness from you; your perfect being is the flowing water of Mustafa. You left not a drop in the spring of true knowledge once you set your thirsty lip to Mustafa's mouth. Mustafa knows your worth, for in both worlds there is no one who knows Mustafa's worth as you do. Your word is the Prophet's word, your deed is God's deed, for you are the hand of God's power, the tongue of Mustafa. Mustafa's truth-seeing eye is bright forever through you, for from eternity you were the soul of Mustafa's world. The light of the Prophet's eyes was the light of your eyes; no one among Mustafa's people had this honor. You whose body is purer than the souls of all the world's people, grant us the grace of your body, by the soul of Mustafa. Mustafa's household is support and shelter enough for me; let my life be sacrificed for Mustafa's household. If you cast a single glance of favor toward me, my arm will break the powerful arm of the heavens. If I do not say 'I would die for you, Commander of the Faithful,' then what shall I say in your praise, Commander of the Faithful? He whose footprint once shone upon the shoulder of the divine Throne, that very shoulder now brushes against your foot, Commander of the Faithful. What are breath and soul and body, what are wealth and family and wife? This world and the next be sacrificed for you, Commander of the Faithful. What they call the cloud of mercy is just a name for the shadow of your praying hand, Commander of the Faithful. What humiliations the mine would suffer if it dared weigh itself against the pearl of your bounty's sea, Commander of the Faithful. The pearl's luster floods every side like a storm when the rain of your generous cloud begins to pour, Commander of the Faithful. How could the length and breadth of these six directions ever befit you? The Throne is no fitting place for you either, Commander of the Faithful. If you wished to return to the field of eternity, until the end of time they would walk behind you, Commander of the Faithful. Every green blade looks like another sky upon the ground of your majesty, Commander of the Faithful. The mightiest Throne cannot lift its eyes to reach the door of your court of fortune, Commander of the Faithful. How can I withdraw my reaching hand from the hem of your union, when I know no one to take your place, Commander of the Faithful? Living without you is a fresh death each moment; I, who would gladly die for you, Commander of the Faithful. The Throne is but the first step of the threshold of your court; the highest heaven is only the first course of your wall. The feast that no eye has seen is set aside for your guests; the eight paradises are but a morsel from your table. Tell the sun not to rise, tell the dawn not to breathe: the morning sun is but a speck on your collar. The clouds are dust raised from your path; the cloudy sky is fed from the ocean of your kindness. Paradise is nourished by your commands and prohibitions; the water flowing through that garden runs by your order. When the pillars of the Throne tremble at the trumpet of annihilation, what stays unshaken are your pillars. It is not only the Quran that speaks in your praise; all the heavenly names are spoken in your honor. The destiny of all creation does not lie outside you; what they call the knowledge of fate is but your title. If the sun turned back and the moon was split, what of it? From the first day the sky has been a servant of your command. Though the keeper of paradise quarreled and boasted wonders in pride, the truth lies in the hand of your gatekeeper. If you grant kindness to the bountiful one, Faiz of Kashan, it is fitting, for he too is bound to your covenant. In your lane, who could stop his breath from lamenting? If he cannot sing your praise, he is at least your singer of ghazals. If with insistence I ask no cure from you, no wonder, for the very pain I bear is your cure itself. From the physician of love no cure should be expected; here the rule is to keep the pain as better than its cure. In bidding you farewell, all patience and endurance leave my heart. Peace to you, O peace and rest of my heart and soul, peace. My heart will not come out from the door of your court of fortune; and if it does come out at someone's bidding, let that bidding be forbidden. The heart that leaves this lane will not descend even to heaven; no roof can bear the splendor of this dove. What good if a whole world turns toward Najaf's threshold? The soul of the world, that is, your pure body, dwells there. I do not know from where they brought this ground, for nothing equals it in reverence except the sacred sanctuary. I found it like Najaf in no respect at all, though I walked through all eight paradises on the feet of reason. Noah sailed in his ark and came ashore here; Adam came down from paradise to make his home here. If the Kaaba were set beside Najaf before reason, reason could not tell at last which is which. I have made my pilgrimage and turned back from your lane, yet my soul, like the bird of the sanctuary, circles your head forever. May God not make this our last visit near you; rather grant us return, then return again, until the Day of Resurrection. I left your lane with a hundred heartaches, dust be on my head; in the way of love, what name can anyone give to this? I came one evening to your court and leave at dawn; yes, yes, at your court dawn itself turns to dusk. Whoever rubs his brow at the door of your court of fortune, his forehead will never again see a wrinkle until the Resurrection.

Once more my tongue is full of complaint; again my heart is full of both worlds. There was a time I had a heart but no voice; now every strand of my hair is brimming with speech. Since that hidden Friend made a home in me, my house has filled with the enemy of my soul. What good is it if I gain both worlds, when my heart and soul are filled only with loss? Since the Friend has neither place nor being, who is it that fills all space and existence with His presence? Yesterday and today are empty vessels; so what is it that fills the cup of time? If past and future are themselves untouched, then with what is the goblet's single sip filled? Why all these circles within circles, when the heart at the center is filled from within? The sea is emptier than a single drop, though it stretches full from shore to shore. My body stayed an empty purse without spirit, until it was filled with that living spirit. The earth's turmoil rose again to the heavens; my house was emptied of the one who dwelled within. Not a single hair of me is without awareness, without breath; what can I say, when you have no ear to hear? I embraced the gift of your nearness, yet the one I held was not truly within my arms. Day by day my burden only grows; tonight is no less heavy than last night. Though you are free of any stain, you do not forget me, stained as I am. Though I have no tongue to speak your name, not one hair of me is silent about you. My heart is dead, so mourning is its due; my ill fortune does not wear black in vain. For all my endless gloom, there is not an atom of me without inner fire. I have shaken off the whole skirt of worldly means; a home is only a burden when it is not carried lightly. Since my heart never bowed to the sky's airs, my pot has no need of a lid. If kindness is absent, even his cruelty is sweet; for me the sting is no less than the honey. Why does the wheel of fate bend its bow against me in spite? This longing is beyond the strength of its arm. Alas, my words have overflowed once more, this notebook with the heart of the sea but little room. May my hand never grasp at longing's hem; may my pain never be soiled by a cure. What leaves even the turning heavens helpless is the trouble of love, may it never come easy. May no heart, gathered and whole like mine, be scattered in the curls of your hair. I am sunlight cast into disarray; let no shadow of order fall upon my head. The world lies ruined by the heavens' so-called repair; let no complaint be left to the guardian's planning. The window of the sun has filled with smoke; may a single mote never wish to roam free. The sky is in pawn to Noah's ark; may my weeping eyes not bring on the flood. There is no time to beat my head in grief; may no bad habit make me tear my collar. How long must envy's thorn prick at my eye! Let no mirror hold a garden in its lap. The wheel of fate strikes only those already broken; let no ball be the right size for the polo stick. The memory of my own faithfulness is killing me; may no one ever regret a good deed. Your kindness has cast me into regret; it was a father's love that threw Joseph to the wolf. When I pour out the grief of being apart from you, I weep on one side and moan on the other. Every breath of lament I loose comes tangled, dragging a knot of weeping behind it. The flower is a kiss pressed to the dust of a doorway; that is the only smile I aim at the water of life. If they led me from his door to paradise, I would go, but keep my face turned back. You left, and what haven't I done in your absence! If only you would come, see what I would do. I draw such a sigh from remembering your stature that I tear the cypress's robe wide open. When I speak with you of being one, I am splitting myself away from myself. At last I will carry my love for you to the grave, and keep an ancient promise. I water my own tomb with my tears, and turn it into a garden bed of love. I am not one to quarrel with anyone; this is only the ache of my heart speaking out. Whoever greets me with insults, I will bless and pray for him forever. I have died, yet my heart is drowned in comfort; what is this heaviness, this stubborn heaviness of soul? Again my heart grew proud from your kindness; the closer it came, the farther the road stretched. My heart settled, consoled by union with you; a pity for the ruin that was rebuilt. Tiny as a speck of dust, I breathed of love for your face, and every breath became companion to an angel. They held my mirror up to my breath, and the mirror's east filled with light. Your absence has sickened me even of union; my morsel turned bitter for want of salt. How could my heart not speak the name of death, when the stream in its garden has reached the lip of the grave? See what this meadow's grass endures: it was the dregs at the bottom of the jar, and grew into the vine. The emperor's head became a bowl of China clay, and a bowl of China clay became an emperor's head. My reason fell wandering into the desert; the path of losing myself led far away. I am no sword wound, no mere injury; my own blood has become my healing balm. From eternity past to eternity to come is a single breath for me; the wide age has shrunk to the breath of an ant. My single drop calls out to the sea; my one wave rises up to the Pleiades. I struck a blow against the honor of caution; I turned to glass and threw myself at a wall of granite. What do I have to do with rules of etiquette? The road was long, so I cut straight across its width. Owing a debt of gratitude to the ship brought its own burden of grief, so I threw my baggage into the sea and went on alone. No swift wave ever struck the sea with the force my chest struck against this heart of stone. My boldness had spurred its horse ahead, but I reined back its head from its hot pursuit. You cannot play polo with such a stroke as the careless blow I dealt to this world. Many a proud head it buried in the dust, that royal crown I trampled underfoot. My mind reaches the height of detachment's intoxication; I drank a draught from the cup of the Messiah. Carrying the banner of lament through this dark night, I struck out as the caravan of the desert of longing. No one answered me out of fear, when I knocked at the door of clamor and uproar. I closed my eyes before the beloved and beat the drum of 'to whom belongs the kingdom?' for the spectacle. Whoever grows drunk and distraught like me will shut his eyes and fall into wonder. No one has any news of the beloved; this much news is enough for me: that there is no news. From all the awareness the world neglects, sleep is forbidden to one who is not awake. Not one soul has come out of the pilgrim's garb; perhaps at the door of this Kaaba there is no admission. The permission to behold the beloved's face exists, but the strength to bear the sight does not. I am a child reciting the lesson of forgetting; my lesson needs no repetition. Alas, in all my idleness in this world I lack even the wings of a captive bird. Beware, do not mock my idleness, for there is no work as great as my idleness. My helplessness and my defiance are a torment; no one needlessly sets out to harm me. I soar with my own lightness of spirit; let me unfurl my wings, since there is nothing else to do. No one could trace my path; my mischief is no light prank of the turban. The Messiah-breathed physicians get me for free, if my grief has no wish to declare itself. If the physician had no stake in the market of sorrow, he would have no business with me and my idleness. Love of the idols made its home in my heart; then another flood turned toward the ruin. All my patience has gone to wind and sighing; heartache has plundered this house. The hand of the sun was burning dark last night; did it perhaps comb your tresses? Thanks to that trembling shudder, with the press of your feet you scattered the harvest of my hope into single grains. Your image charged against my branded heart, as a chief of the camp inspects the dark tent. I am branded by my own endurance, for once again your blade was notched by the wound it dealt me. Nothing can settle my heart at all; ah, whose memory drove me mad? Longing for you melted my mind so completely that it turned the cup of my skull into wine and goblet. My enemy could not break me apart; plundering me only revealed the beloved's splendor. The brand of longing for you in my chest made my breast the envy of a house of angels. Through long years, the pain of you in my body turned every single hair into a separate giving of thanks. Hope of you boiled up in my chest, and my mirror became the stage for your reflection. We are neither of the sea nor of the mine; we are wider than all space and place. We are not children of the heavens or the elements; we are the essence of soul and spirit. We are not what the sieve of the stars poured out; we are the sifted substance of the soul. We are the root of the world, and the world is our branch, though we are a world apart of our own. Anyone who is neither of the outer nor the inner realm will know well from which mine we come. We are not the self-adorning crowd of pretenders to knowledge; we are the tribe that claims to know nothing. Our show of being a sheikh is a hidden playfulness; we look like elders, but we are young. We do not know what the minstrel's song is; we are devoted to sighing and lament. We are sweet of word and delicate of meaning; we are the treasure of the heart and the coin of the tongue. All that we have sung is bluster and boast; we are neither this nor that. We are not only this, not even this; to speak truly, we are simply that. Though we are needful to every elder and youth, we are worth nothing; we are mere air and water. When our breath rouses a tumult through lament, we cast an uproar into the song of the trumpet of doom. As long as one can give up his life in longing for you, we toss aside the endless life of Khidr. We carry the Moses of the heart toward yearning, and cast an earthquake into the breast of Mount Sinai. The vast rank of a Kay and the kingdom of the ancient kings, we fling into the eye of an ant. When we set out, raising our clamor toward the fold, we topple the living dead from grave to grave. When we close our tear-wet, world-seeing eyes, we cast the splendor of the flood into the oven. When we describe your beauty in paradise, we send an uproar through the ranks of the houris. From the effect of a single drunken cry, we cast a commotion into the realm of the mind. And from the heart's throbbing in longing for union, we bring the palace of heaven crashing into ruin. A breach opens in the roof of the sky out of fear when we scatter the dust of decay through the world. Without you, the rose becomes a thorn in my eye when I so much as mention passing through the meadow. May the fire of love be chilled by my breath; may the torch of the moon be put out by my sigh. I am Joseph, and this rank of mine is my well; the wolf's den lies at the mouth of my well. Wherever I travel without you, no one walks beside me but you. Who, besides my knowing heart, stays beside himself at the thought of you? Thanks to their faithfulness, my lament and my dawn sighs never break away from me. If you make me wait forever, let this short road grow long for me. By the grace of my lightness, like a bubble I have pitched my tent upon the sea. It is no fault of mine that I fell; it was fated for me on this road. If I do not beg my praise from you, then what shall I do, from whom can I get a king? If you cast your shade over me forever, the sun draws its substance from my threshold. It is from the honor of the dust of your door that Khidr draws the water of life out of my well. The heavens delight in crushing the helpless like me, unaware of the one who would avenge my blood. When the King of Sainthood lends his aid, I could pour out all of time, from eternity past to eternity to come. When I take help from the King of Sainthood, I can reduce both worlds to a mere tale. When his honor shines forth in my words, I gain a hundred honors from the grace of the telling. The barrier of eternity becomes a stone in my path if I try to walk the road of his love to its end. Both worlds would dissolve into pure plainness if I so much as hinted at your name. From the moisture of his nature I take one drop into the world, enough to suffice me to all eternity. What can I say? From the ocean of his open hand how far might I carry the grace of his generosity? A king from whose door, until the Day of Judgment, whatever I carry away, I carry away as pure favor. From the revealed scriptures, in union with him, I take chapter and verse to all eternity. A single speck of love for his face is enough if I carry it to the West for guidance. I would not trade the dust of his door even if, suppose, I could win province after province of the whole age. O heavens, do you not fear your tyranny, that I will bring my complaint of you to the King's door? He through whom the foliage of unbelief was shed, the life of God's faith, the death of unbelief. When your praise displays its splendor, it turns the page of moonlight into linen. The delight of praising you so stirs the heart that the wave of breath begins to throb. When love for you brands its mark upon the heart, every hair becomes a field of tulips. If the joy of your road did not stir such ecstasy, why would the sand whirl in flowing dance? When the heart gazes upon your beauty, every eyelash becomes a tongue delivering a message. The dread of your rebuke, like autumn leaves, turns the color of the sky to jaundiced yellow. For a dawn or two the sun may surpass you, if it dares to race its horse against you. The thought of your steed crossed my mind, and at once my pen turned playful and eloquent. If it but appears within the heart, it grows softer than a hidden secret. From the very beginning of time, may none be able to check its rein, so that it gallops on forever. In the ranks of battle, with all the skills it has, it does whatever crosses its mind. What can I say of all you do? Whatever you do, you do exactly right. My master, my prince, my lord: the brand of grief for you adorns me from head to foot. And today, through love of you, I have become the mirror that reflects my own tomorrow. So much have I grown in longing for you that both worlds became too narrow to hold me. Since I came alive through your love, the garment of my soul has grown too tight for my frame. As I walk your path with joyful display, the rose garden itself becomes a thorn beneath my feet. The longing of my nights would scorch and shame the turning sky with all its radiance. Before your face the sun goes dark in the eyes of my seeing gaze. Like the sea I cast waves upon myself, searching for the one matchless pearl that is mine. Your knowledge alone, within the breath of time, is the seed for the bird of my knowing heart. Praising you gives a taste of fulfillment even in the desert, the water for my thirsty, speaking lips. I am but a drop, yet when I surge in love, the whole sky becomes one wave of my sea. The hand of fate is bound by your hand-of-God power; the heavens are humbled by your lion-of-God strength. The sky that moves with the cycle of time goes whirling along his path. It moved on, and time follows after it, as a flock follows behind its shepherd. If on the Day of Judgment there is no substance of his love, the gain of both worlds turns to loss. Once the heart beheld him, it went nowhere else, though the world wanders from world to world. Lord, let nothing but words of love for you ever pass over my tongue from my heart. Through your kindness I have all that exists, yet the talk that runs in my heart and soul is of you. For in remembering your threshold, my heart left me, and now my soul too departs. In eternity, from the delight of longing for you, my heart slipped from itself, and still it goes. From yearning for your door my cry rises to the sky, and it goes proudly, gracefully. With every breath, from my burning heart, one lament follows hard upon another wail. Have mercy at last, for your captive's heart has lost its endurance, and his strength is slipping away. How long will you moan with grief, restless one? Enough, Fayyaz, I have burned in longing for you.

The whole world weeps and mourns, but for whom? The age has dressed in black, in grief for whom? Why is heaven's tent stained dark like indigo? Whose cruelty has torn the horizon's collar? What new sorrow has shattered the sun's face? Whose suffering left these scars upon the moon? Grief has blackened the very walls and doors of time. Whose mourning made this dim house of sorrow? This dark velvet throne upon the turning sky, left empty of its king, whose seat is it? They poured the blood of dawn across time's face. Whose thorn has wounded the flowers of this garden? No blood remains in the body, yet still it tries to weep. Whose sobbing chokes within this throat of breath? The heart gives out from hearing such a lament. Whose voice is this, that pierces straight into the soul's vein? Hearts are seared, and inner selves laid waste. Whose stricken heart breathes out this painful sigh? A whole world lays down its life as offering. The claim still stands, but whose blood is the price? From end to end the sky is full of mourning's smoke. Tell me at last: for whom is all of this? It seems this grief belongs to every stricken heart, meaning the mourning of the King of Karbala's martyrs. That horseman of the field of Karbala: Husayn. The newly arrived guest of the plain of anguish: Husayn. The spring bouquet of leadership in faith's garden, that tenderly raised palm of God's grace: Husayn. The one cradled in Gabriel's embrace, that piece of Mustafa's heart and soul: Husayn. The light of the eyes of Zahra's and Ali's hearts, in short, the brother of Hasan al-Mujtaba: Husayn. Fallen among those who are strangers to the faith, without comfort, without kin, without a friend: Husayn. Modesty itself, wounded by shameless foes; faithfulness itself, slain by the blade of treachery: Husayn. Invited with eager promises, then cast down by cruelty, caught in the hands of the treacherous people of Kufa: Husayn. At the hands of vile Kufans and base Syrians, in Karbala made the target of disaster's arrow: Husayn. His heart pierced by a hundred thorns of enemies' cruelty, never feeling the breeze of loyalty from friends: Husayn. Like a tulip and rose tossed in the wind, struggling, drowning in his own blood: Husayn. Here the enemy's cruelty, there the friend's loyalty, yet left with nothing from either, O Husayn. From this pain, the world's delight fell into sleep, and this dust rose to dim the mirror of the sun. Spend it all on mourning the King of the age, it is still too little, for every tear is owed to the children of Adam. It is only fitting that this overturned arch of sky should blacken like the eyebrows of the beautiful, for it is the crescent of Muharram. Yes, the new moon's body is bent under the load of grief; even heaven's back is curved with this sorrow. Alas for the weeping stirred by this tear-burning pain: every eye runs dry, yet the Tigris is still a sea. Muharram has come and joy is forbidden; again it is the start of disaster, again the start of grief. Again it is the moment when, from the people's such uproar, they almost believe the Resurrection is happening now. This grief has so darkened the sun's own heart that the dawn rising over the horizon is now an evening of mourning. As long as time turns, every heart pours out sigh after sigh; as long as night circles, every eye runs with endless tears. What weight has the earth before this surging wave of weeping? This flood does its dealing with the highest heaven itself. It raised a resurrection over dead hearts in the field of the soul, this choked lament that sounds like the trumpet of Judgment Day. When the people of heart display the wares of their sorrow, this is the one pain that stands ahead of every other pain. Alas, the days of laughter and joy are over; nothing remains for people but the bitter water of tears. Each year the blood of Karbala's martyrs is fresh again, rising like tulips from the desert of Karbala. Still fresher is what flows from our eyes: the blood swallowed by the orphans of Karbala. It settled down and lodged in all our hearts, the dust that rose on the battlefield of Karbala. Who was this gardener who plucked, before they could be watered, so many blossomed flowers from the garden of Karbala? The rosebush, instead of roses, bears a bloodstained heart for fruit; the soil of Karbala's garden has drunk its fill of blood. Alas for the moment when, with no one, no friend, no companion, the Rustam, the hero of Karbala, was left utterly alone. That flower, the very flower of the Prophet's bosom, surrendered his cloak into the grip of the desert thorns of Karbala. The army closed in like a ring, more numerous than snakes and ants, circling like a signet round the Solomon of Karbala. The sharp blade drank blood, to drive in a single breath a draught of water down the parched throat of the king of Karbala. Water that demons and beasts all drink down like milk, the family of the Prophet must drink from the edge of the sword. The ship of endurance was wrecked by the waves of weeping, and the house of every heart was blackened by the smoke of sighs. While there was a drop of blood in the liver, it was given over to weeping; while there was a breath within, it was spent on sighing. From this grief, since the princes' faces reddened with blood, one must wear black, for fortune itself has turned black. It was not only Adam who was touched by sorrow's dust; this grief became a film clouding the mirror of sun and moon. To carry the message of this pain to East and West, the courier of tears set out on every road. The days grew dark when Muharram arrived; this month became the brand on the brow of every year and month. The sun claimed it too had been struck by mourning, and the broken pallor on its bright face bore witness to it. Whoever wept this month from the burning of his heart, Gabriel stood surety that he was cleansed of sin. Tomorrow, before the Prophet, it will bloom like a flower, the face that during these ten days grew pale as straw. Strive to weep as much as you can, for it is fitting; the tearful eye is the excuse for a lifetime of sin. Cry out for the moment when the king, the shelter of faith, in his battle armor blazing like the lightning of a sigh, came out of the tent and bid farewell to his household, with a host of pain and longing, a host of tears and sighs. Without his care, the family of the household of the faith, like the sacred law in our age, was left without refuge. From the smoke of the household's sighs the tents turned black, like the houses of the bereaved, draped in black. One sits in the mud of his own tears, struck down by grief; another has fallen to the dust of the road in sheer longing. From this cruelty one man's tears have flooded past the fish below; from this sorrow another's sigh has risen all the way to the moon. On this side the king's face is reddened with heart's blood; on that side the black-deeded enemy is left disgraced and shamed. One eye toward the enemy, one eye toward those he loves; one foot set on the road, one foot still in the tent. His honor pulls a corner of his mind toward driving off the foe; while bewilderment grips his gaze and holds it back here. The thought of battle turns his stirrup to fire; the will to go makes the very roots of his being tremble like quicksilver. His foot in the stirrup of longing, his hand reaching for the reins; his body torn between the women's tents and the battlefield, his heart drawn to the fight. The lady of the household seized the hem of the king of faith and cried out: O honored king, Why do you go, slipping away from us like this? Why do you leave us so alone and go? See what days have come upon us in our grief for you; O comforter, companion of our nights, why do you go? The children of Fatima are all helpless and forlorn; O light of Zahra's eyes, why do you go? We are bound at every moment by a hundred sorrows and pains; you slip away unseen and depart before our eyes, why do you go? You know we are without anyone, strangers, and powerless; you cast us down like this in the wilderness, why do you go? You are the captain of the ship of the Prophet's law; you let the ship of faith drift out to sea, why do you go? Against enemies beyond all counting, like the sun, you go out, one man, utterly alone. A hundred souls and hearts are scorched in the fire of parting; O balm of wounded hearts, why do you go? O keepsake of a whole garden of roses, in this garden why do you leave the longing nightingales and go? We have fallen into the hands of cruel, vicious enemies, helpless and alone, why do you go? No protector, no one to share our grief, no friend, no companion; we are left wretched, for God's sake, why do you go? In that moment the rosebush of the Prophet's family bloomed in sorrow; the king turned to his children and said: O people of my house, when you pass toward Yathrib, first go to the grave of the best of mankind. Let this be my whole message at that shrine: remembering me, soak this earth with your weeping. Then go, grieving, to the grave of Zahra; there pour a handful of dust over your heads for me. Then go to the grave of my brother; take that dust like kohl and line your eyes with it for my sake. Then with sighs and heart-rending, soul-burning cries, give my loved ones word of what befell me. Tell them: that stranger in the land of cruelty, Husayn, has been killed; now think of what else can be done. O friends, when you speak the name of my parched lips, remembering me, wet your eyes with the blood of your hearts. Whenever you recall my lips, red as carnelian, fill the hem of your garment with the pearls of your tears. Each year, when the crescent of Muharram appears, sit down in mourning for me and begin to weep. Whatever grief comes, until the Day of Judgment, in bearing it, look to what happened to me. In the long, drawn-out agony of my grief, whatever sorrow falls, make it brief. From the wailing that rose then in the women's tents, the hearts of the angels were all wounded with pain. After he bid farewell, that pride of the noble house, he turned toward the field of battle. The longing for martyrdom rushed into his heart: with desire amid the struggle, with patience in the fight. Before his eyes, the thought of meeting God; in his mind, the founding of an eternal kingdom. On one side, longing for his father and grandfather drew him on; on the other, concern for his family held back his robe. A sword like lightning in his hand, alone like the sun, he turned, blade flashing, toward that army of error. Suddenly, from the tents of the women, beyond all measure, the sound of weeping and crying reached his ears. The King of faith turned back and asked what was the matter; they said all at once that a certain small child from lack of water lay like a fish on the dust, and from the weakness of thirst had become like a thin crescent moon. The King wept, took the child from the nurse, and then carried it before that cruel people. He said: People of evil deeds, this innocent child has grown thin as a hair from thirst, frail as a reed from exhaustion. The water you have forbidden me for no reason, allow just one drop of it to this innocent one. Then a base man, from the spring of his blood-dripping arrowhead, poured water into the child's thirsty throat, without a doubt. From that fire of oppression the age set ablaze, the hearts of all people burned, both hidden and plain. A cry rose among the angels of the seven heavens; the jinn and the fairies all wept bitterly. The restless water grew heavy and still as a mountain; the steadfast earth rose up light as dust. From this cruelty, smoke coiled in the heart of the fire; the wind threw dust on its head, the water lay humbled in the dirt. Dust rose to carry this tale to the highest throne; the wind rose to carry this grief to every land. From the flood of weeping the house of the heavens was ruined; from the sting of lament the breast of the angels was torn. From the angels' reproach the globe of the earth burned in the fire of indignation, like a seed of wild rue thrown on flames. The pure angels turned to blood with this grief; what can I say of how those aching hearts became? Once more, when that life-giving, heart-stealing master came intending to charge that boundless host, he put on the armor of Ahmad the Chosen, and girded the sword of Haydar the Lion at his waist. On his body, a coat of mail as a keepsake from Ja'far the Winged; on his head, a turban that bore the mark of Hasan the Chosen. A sword like swift lightning, a steed nimble as flame, water held in his hand and fire beneath his thigh. Water the color of a leaping, tongued flame, yet in the moment of charging the foe, it had no tongue to spare. He became water and swept away that handful of thorns and chaff; he became fire and fell upon that crowd of cowards. Like flame, the burning of his breast thrust a tongue outward, and from thirst he held the ruby of his lip in his mouth. If they have cut off water from those ruby lips, what of it? How could thirst ever harm a ruby! His soul writhed in the burning fever of thirst; blood, like water, ran from the root of every hair. He fell to the ground like a ray of sunlight, scattered and helpless as his own loosened hair. Why did the high heavens not collapse in that moment? Why did this crescent boat not sink in blood? When the prince fell from his saddle onto the dust, the sun of the sky fell from heaven to earth. In the desert, the thorn of a spear broke the secret heart; in the sea of mystery, a knotted wave creased the brow. The cry of the camel reached the seventh heaven; the wail of grief fell into the eighth. Fortune turned, and all affairs reversed: earth rose to the sky and the sky fell to earth. Every pillar of the sacred law was ruined; many breaches fell into the house of clear faith. The ship of faith nearly went to wreck, so violently did turmoil strike the sea of religion. The fierce flood of doubt so set its head upon the heart that, from the turmoil, a breach fell in the palace of certainty. A day of resurrection appeared before the family when their eyes fell upon the king of faith's steed. From the eye of the stirrup, blood of sorrow trickled; in the curls of the reins, fold fell upon fold. The uproar of universal weeping rose so high that, from the turmoil, the highest throne began to tremble. In the plain of Karbala, from the drops of tears, as far as the eye could reach, all fell on gems and jewels of red. Each member of the Prophet's family, with the tongue of their state, began to sing the meaning of these words: You left, and set a brand of grief upon our hearts; you left us to the dark day of mourning. You went joyfully, while arrows of stars rained on us; you left no heart at peace, and a hundred sorrows behind. You withdrew from year and month like the Night of Power into a veil, and left this darkness for the month of Muharram. You set like the sun from this dark dust pit, and left a black day for the people of the world. You went to your father and your honored grandfather, and left us strangers, friendless, and full of grief. You reached the shore, free of the old sea of sorrow, and left us drowning in endless tears. Jinn and angels weep and burn for your absence; you left a brand not only on Adam's heart. You left, and made the days of your orphans dark and tangled as your own hair. You left us strangers and humbled in the hands of the enemy's army, with no comforter, companion, or friend. Whatever the cruelty, your family found comfort in you; you laid a soothing balm on every wound. The Prophet's spirit wept blood from this grief; how can I tell how bitterly Fatimah's soul wept? Alas for the moment when Fatimah, daughter of the Chosen One, mother of Husayn and Hasan, mistress of all women, with collar torn to shreds and soul rent to pieces, in the veil of grief and the garb of mourning, comes to the field of resurrection with a hundred cries, holding in her palm the broken tooth of the Chosen Prophet, her head crowned like a tulip, surging with blood, holding the turban of Ali, stained red with blood. On one shoulder he carries the green robe of Hasan, and on the other the blood-red garment of the king of Karbala. He comes in such terror that the heavens are shaken, he comes in such an uproar that the ranks of the prophets ache with grief. He cries out in anguish at this monstrous deed, he raises his voice against this crime and all that happened. He enters the court of the divine throne seeking justice, with angels, jinn, and spirits as witnesses to his case. He lays his honest hand on the pillar of the throne, kneeling before the tribunal of the Judge who repays all deeds. Gabriel is thrown into turmoil by the horror of this act, and the Prophet himself trembles at so vile a deed. On that day, what will the punishment for this ugly deed be? On the day of resurrection, what harvest will this sowing yield?

How long must I keep this sigh trapped inside my chest? I will go and blacken the face of the sun and the moon. How long will the heavens march their army against me in hatred? My cry, gather your own army of tears and sighs. How long will fate block my path of escape? Then I too will block its way with the force of my weeping. The waves of my mourning never break apart from one another: a hundred mountains have been chained to the feet of a single blade of grass. The time has come, with a fresh grief like an eyelash, to seat my gaze in mourning clothes. My days were already black, and now this fresh sorrow has made night and black day even blacker for me. Who can cure the seizures of the age now that disaster has carried off wisdom, our only refuge? Alas, that lion of the sea-hearted thicket is gone; that prince of the era, Mohammad-Ali, is gone. His radiant face wrestled with the sun for brilliance; his words, though bitter, fell on the rose's face like rosewater. Time wanted a Zaynab for the garden of paradise, so it chose him from the rose-bed of this world. He left the perishable house for the eternal one; he went from this fountain of mirage toward the pure spring. This narrow world was not worthy of his lodging, so he hurried in haste toward another world. Since that humane young man left the world, youth has lost its freshness and humanity its glow. Had he stayed even two more years on the throne of life, you would have seen a man rise to outshine the sun. In knowledge and perfection he was so unmatched that he answered a question still unspoken on the tongue. He was one who could overturn the age and stir the whole city; he was no student of mine, he was the master of the era. What a pity that this rare one packed up and left this house; look how this bent old sky has broken our back. A hundred regrets for that brilliance, that understanding, that wit; alas for that delicate nature and that generous hand. Had fortune let him stay a while in this world, you would have seen what heights a man could reach. He had stayed clear-headed in this gathering of the senseless; he had walked steadily on this road of heights and depths. Light of the eyes of moon and sun, without you there is neither a life-giving sun nor a night-worshipping moon. Without you no joy is left for this ruined world; tell the sun to turn black with grief. You went, but your good name remains as a keepsake; your fresh words remain, glistening like our tear-filled eyes. You went from among us, and our hard, stubborn heart remained like a gravestone upon the earth of your tomb. You were the brightness of the world's mirror, and I its dust; brightness left the glass and only the dust remained. In the garden, without your presence, not one bud opened; this tight knot stayed in the narrow heart of spring. Time was racing rein to rein beside you; in the end you galloped ahead and time fell behind. You were the touchstone of good character in this world; you went, and the coin of goodness was left without its measure. You were the rose at the side of friends and lovers; you went, and tears of blood, like a rose, stayed in our embrace. Without you, we friends will ruin ourselves, until we blacken our own days with mourning. The day you died, where was I, alas, that I could have shrouded you in the veils of my eyes? You existed, and the world had no face for me; that I should live on while you are gone, woe to me. Except for me, who became a living corpse in your absence, no one has seen his own death while still alive. Since you scattered to the dust like a rose in time's garden, I, like a bud with a thousand tongues, have sewn my mouth shut. Since you left the company of the learned, the heavens have blackened the house of speech with the ink of grief. Parted from your face, the rose became a thorn on the tree; at your loss, the cypress sank low in the meadow. The nightingale, parted from the rose of your face, laments; in grief for your cypress stature, the dove sings its mournful song. In separation from your moonlike face, cypress of the garden, you have left neither your enemies nor your friends untouched.

Come, my heart, let us turn our backs on the world, let us pry a stone from the earth and hurl it at the head of time. No one's mind was ever brightened by the sun's bright page; let us fling this blank slate up against the sky. Let us beg a cup from the drunken eyes of the cupbearer, and like glass laugh at wine red as the redbud blossom. From this burden of existence that weighs us down, let us lighten ourselves and reach for the heavy goblet. Since the turning sky makes us old in the end, it is a shame to spurn the luck of youth. Let us dip our heads a moment into the sea of thought, and then defy the riches of ocean and mine. Let us bring out fresh pearls of speech, and though they are worthless, give them away for free. First let us steal the heart of both worlds with charm, then, like the beloved's eye, strike at the ranks of souls. By the blessing of the nail's stroke, the force of these thoughts, let us leave many a scratch-mark on the coin of the spirit. If a bold quarrel with bad luck comes our way, let us throw ourselves into the heart of India's army. From the sleeve of our sky-roaming resolve, let us reach out a hand and seek our own true self. My soul is bred on the sorrows of the world, my heart is darkened by the dust of this age's spite. Where is a fresh face that fulfills the heart's desire, while this idle sun keeps repeating itself behind the clouds? Perhaps some heart-stealer's kindness will turn toward me, one for whom the sun is a lover less worthy than a speck of dust. A flirt whose ruby lips plainly reveal the salt hidden inside the sugar-box. A drunken one whose Turkish glance, in the field of war, holds a hundred riots tangled in its musky curls. When the glance draws the sword of coyness from its sheath, wherever you look there is the splendor of heads severed. What thought of blood-money in killing those who love it? The dust of its threshold is equal to the blood of martyrs. In the showplace of its glance, with the arrow of coyness, every desire the heart seeks is granted. With the memory of the Zamzam of your longing-stirring lips, the water stays in the mouth of Kawthar's pool till the Last Day. In the parade-ground of beauty's display, the sun bears on its cheek the gold coin minted by the scratch of its nail. It is a child and cannot keep a mind steady; it steals hearts, but does not know how to keep them. A moon whose face the sun has never seen, a bud whose scent even the wind has never caught. Do not speak of one like it, my heart, for these words even the mirror dares not utter to its face. A face so fair you would say a beautician washes it each dawn in the fountain of the sun. The sun cannot boast it is its equal, for it is just a glass filled from that one's pitcher. The rose tore itself apart with fresh envy again, perhaps it heard the nightingales speak of its beauty. If no one like it is found again in the world, this idle sun will keep searching for it. Who could reach union with it even in a dream, when a hundred heart's blood is owed for each longing of it? Brahmin, do not boast so of your idol's faith, perhaps it has tied its sacred thread before that one's hair. Wounded bird, do not trouble your wings and feathers, you cannot circle it, for fear of its temper. What is wine, when its lips breathe such intoxication? What is the sun, when it lifts the veil from its face? O king, the realm of my heart is conquered by your moon-like face, the sun finds shade beneath your black tresses. You broke the ranks of hearts, and stranger still, your beauty wins victory from the tilt of your cap. The sun will love it till the Day of Resurrection: every speck of dust raised from the showplace of you. Whenever the sun rides out to show itself, it makes itself faint so it may fall in your path. Do not hold back your cruelty, for tomorrow at the Reckoning the sin will hang upon the neck of your slain lover, as your guilt. You are a child, and the sun has gained no advantage over you; what will it do when you grow full, when your moon comes round to fourteen? No one's blood will seize your hem in punishment if this warm glance pleads your excuse. The sword-girt sun rises from one corner; how can your beauty muster its army for you? You have no equal in the worlds above or below; is there one like you in paradise? I think not. If the sun has a face, it is shameless and without grace; but dew on the rose-cheek of idols is the sweat of modesty. O bud, do not throw the honor of modesty to the wind; the color of the rose's beauty comes from the water of modesty's face. In the garden of your face, O fresh spring of beauty, the one thing without color or freshness is the flower of faithfulness. I have neither heart nor faith left because of you, and even so, your coyness is fitting, your flirting fitting, your defiance fitting. I bear your cruelty as long as I live, but where is release from this pain and grief even in death? You were a nursing infant and I was your friend; how did you turn bloodthirsty? Why all this estrangement? I drink blood at your hand, O nursing child; when your milk turns to blood, what is left as my share? There is an arrow from you in every pore, yet I make no complaint; say yourself: who else could bear your cruelty more than this? Each day some of my honor is scattered to the wind because of you; this is the wage of one who longed for you through the nights. I will not pull my foot back from the quest, yet it is no use: the broken heart's affair cannot be set straight by your crooked locks. This blood-dripping wound my heart has just received, it is clear as bright water that your sword has made it. Every evening when your beauty shows itself, the sun sinks into the earth in shame before you. All my life I have not taken my eyes off you; whether it was you in my sight, or your image. At the Resurrection, the glory of sinners comes from this: every lover's blood that you have trampled. You drink wine with a rival, O moon, what are you doing? The blood you have drunk, I will not make lawful for you. You are still a child, so hold back a measure of your coyness; wait until your crescent rises to a full moon. Yesterday you were a moon, today a sun; your months and years pass, each finer than the last. Your sapling brings forth a rain of divine light, and beside the fire of Moses it makes your young tree rival the tree of Sinai. Beauty will not let go of you, for it has read the omen of good fortune in your blessed face. In the age of your loveliness, the sun and the moon swear by your glory and majesty. My love, your quarreling has no end; cruelty and torment are sweet, but only up to a point. Look at my black day and my dark nights: this is my day and my fortune without you. Like the flame inside a lantern, my hidden burning shines out from my chest, from my restless heart. I am like a threshold fallen at this door, for the dust of your door is the honor of my standing. Sit a moment before me in your coyness, so that fate may set the reward of my patience at my side. Open those sweet lips with a smile, what harm is there if a bud should bloom from my springtime? O you, more beautiful this year than last, why is it that my year, from love of you, is worse than the last? When my low luck and contrary star drive me by force from the dust of your threshold, I am glad of this: that on the walls and doors of your street the blood of my eyes will remain as my keepsake. Your coquettish glance never tired of cruelty; the sword of your coyness drank from the stream of my wounds. When did Joseph ever have this freshness, this moon-like face, this way of smiling, this manner of looking? This coyness, this flirting, this eye, this glance, in your age, how can anyone keep their heart safe? In love I dug mountains with my eyelashes, and yet, before you it had no more worth than a straw. My eye went blind without you; blessed be the memory of when this eye had its healing collyrium from that road's dust. There have been lovers, but where is one like me who had such dark days and such black fortune? A hundred times you burned me and still you are not satisfied; my poor heart had such great sins by your creed. No one has ever seen your face without the veil of your hair; my sun always took refuge in shade. If your eye shed the lovers' blood with its glance, from each warm look of yours it had a hundred excuses. The wound's blood-dripping lips never close from delight, since your dagger gave the wound a tongue inside its mouth. O you, for whom even the sun longs for the healing dust of your door, in your alley the morning breeze sells kohl. Every speck from your threshold is another sun; a hundred suns are dust beneath the feet of your street. Unbelief, from the breaking of your curls, broke Islam, the way the prayer-beads folded double in grief beside the sacred thread. From the magic turmoil of your tresses, a hundred riots, bound by the hands, were caught in every ring. Out of longing to see your face, each morning the sky brings the gold of the sun as a face-revealing gift. The heart is in the dark prison of your hair; each of its rings is a window of calamity. The long, far road of your tresses melted me away; a hundred lifetimes passed and still it had no end. Do not stir the flame against twigs and straw any more; I fear that, like wild rue on the fire, you will burn a world from me. My hand cannot reach your hem, but my blood, even at the Reckoning, I wonder if it will let your hem go. When your eye shames me with a glance, it makes my blood lawful to your sword as if it were water. How can I hide that my heart is in love with you? All this writhing of mine comes from the hair of your slender waist. I have one heart in my chest, and so many thousand wishes; all of these depend on your hidden kindness. No one has done coyness as beautifully as those eyebrows; this is an arrow worthy of the strength of your bow. Thirsty-lipped as I am, how can I not die, when the pure ruby is quenched by longing for your pearl-scattering lips? The arrow of fate that strikes someone without warning is but a sign of the sudden arrow of your glance. We are certain you will not fulfill even one in a hundred, that promise of yours that hangs in our doubting heart. Your fierce-tempered coyness, if it is your garden's keeper, will not leave a single nightingale in your garden, from cruelty. The opening of my narrow, grieving heart depends on one unknitting of your eyebrows. I will stop my complaining, for the beloved's heart is delicate; the temper of coquetry is delicate, and very delicate indeed.

Again the curl of her hair, like a lasso, has set a snare for me on every side. Her ruby lips with their sweet smile poured a hundred cups of poison down my throat. The fortune of my star burned like wild rue thrown on the fire of my rebellious sighs. The riot of her magic glance galloped its horse across the field of my endurance. From the twist of a single strand of hair a wound came upon the very core of my heart. Wasting has made me lighter and frailer than the body of a painted bird. Desire has gripped me harder than a snare that could bind an elephant in the grip of a gnat. My affair grew as cramped as a tight rhyme beside the long line of her stature. Faced with a power so full of disdain, how can a needy man hold his patience! My madness has found its excuse; so spare me your idle advice, preacher. Patience could never master love, and so it tore patience from my weary heart. Since my heart's desire is beyond my reach, I too have made up my mind that for a while I will sit, give up all longing, and perhaps die at last with my heart's wish unfulfilled. I struggle, and my struggle leads nowhere; I weep, and my weeping is not allowed. I am a stranger to my own time; in no land am I known. How can it move that heart of hers, this power that not even prayer can match? If the beloved came, where would she sit, when her love leaves no room in my chest? It cannot be found so easily; this is true faithfulness, not common alchemy. I have not lived a single breath without her; why is she not with me for even one breath! We seem apart, yet in secret she is never parted from my heart, nor my heart from her. The beautiful ones stole my heart by force; giving away my heart was no sin of mine. I have washed the writing of desire from the tablet of my heart; not a single word of want remains. You asked, what do you hold of me in your heart? Tell me instead, what is there in my heart that is not yours? In my heart I hold a thousand wishes for you, yet since not one of them is granted, I will sit, give up all longing, and perhaps die at last with my heart's wish unfulfilled. Again the grief of love has fallen into my head; my heart, with its longing, has fallen into sorrow. My pillow turned away from me in reproach; thorns and brambles fell across my bed. Grief lit such a fire in my heart that even the salamander caught fire in it. My heart and my faith both said farewell; on which infidel did my eyes fall? The pagan cord wrapped its arm around my waist, and the prayer beads fell from my hands and feet. The freedom that was once my prey, I'll only meet again on Judgment Day. Restlessness, that tame bird, has had both wings broken and its feathers torn out. Like the beloved's promises, my peace keeps slipping to another day. Sweet sleep flees from those lashes; yes, its path now runs against the blade. What use is hiding my grief now, when the veil has fallen from my whole life? No desire is won by trying; this lesson has repeated itself again and again. The wheel of fate has never walked to anyone's wish, and there's no fighting it. So I'll sit still and give up wanting; perhaps then I'll die content at last. My soul's ease, love has cast a hundred snares around me from the curls of your hair. From the heady poison of your glance, mischievous one, the almond's taste stays forever bitter. My life is bitter because you never sweeten your lips even with an insult to me. What chance has the rosebud against your ruby lips, what form the cypress against your stature? Beside your shirt, the rose petal is a thorn; in your gathering, the candle is disgraced. The partridge in all its strut cannot keep pace with your graceful walk for even a step. In love of you, my heart is like a half-slaughtered bird: it finds no rest until it gives up its life. From the very start of loving you it was clear this affair would never reach an end. The rose opens its bud like a mouth, longing to send word and kiss your lips. You don't spread your wings to hunt, yet I fear the very nest will become a snare for the bird of my heart. I said I would win my desire from you, or make my name famous for a wounded heart. Since no desire was granted by you, from now on I am set on staying unfulfilled. So I'll sit still and give up wanting; perhaps then I'll die content at last. Without you the feast of joy is forbidden; without you all my pleasure is unfinished. What is a stroll through the meadow to us? Without you we won't even speak the rose's name. It is not only the heart left undone; without you everything ripe in me turns raw. There is a kind of intoxication in remembering you, but without you that pleasure is denied to me. Every joy I once spent with you takes its revenge on me now that you are gone. There is no thrill in the partridge's strut; without you it has forgotten how to walk with grace. The rose gave off no scent in the garden; without you the nightingale has caught a cold. At the feast of pleasure, without you the wine cup holds an eye brimming with blood. Like a ship surrendered to the wind, without you I cannot stay still in one place. I told myself my heart would get its wish through you, but with you gone, no wish was ever fulfilled. So I will sit down and give up wanting; perhaps I will die just as my heart desires. Our lineage runs all the way back to Adam, and every drop that made us was the yeast of sorrow. We have not taken a single step without love, nor breathed a single moment without pain. How long can I keep swallowing this heartache? Where is the sigh that could lay the whole world low? Like a child, I barely sleep without crying; like a glass flask, I can barely breathe without a moan. A sigh is the only cure for the one who loves you, the way wind is the remedy for a dying fire. Love kindles its fire from two hearts at once; the rose is rumpled by grief over the nightingale. Both moth and candle burn: the moth all at once, the candle little by little. On your face the sweat is the color of carnelian, like a bead of dew on rose and tulip. See the freshness of the rose: its color has turned to fire within the body of the dew. Your kindness only feeds the fire in my heart; your sympathy itself becomes the source of my grief. It wanted not to heal too soon, so its very tenderness branded the salve as a wound. Getting my wish from you is hard: you will not grant it, and neither will I let it go. So I will sit down and give up wanting; perhaps I will die just as my heart desires. Because of that slim waist and that dark hair, grief has worn me thin as a single strand. No one can grasp the secret of her waist, for it is a subtle point too fine to fathom. The breeze keeps stirring your two tresses to steal away my heart. In loving you, near and far are the same; the sun shines on what is distant and what is close alike. Your eyes will not make peace with my heart; it is a war between Turk and Tajik. Though I am drowning in the water of my own tears, my heart sits over the fire like a boiling pot. The brand you have seared into my soul no salve can ever heal. My love, I know, is certainty of you; it will never admit any doubt. Your hair has settled over my daylight, a darkened sun set beside the bright one. Take hold, my heart, of the firm rope of her tresses; it will surely guide you. A crowd shares my desire for her, more numerous than grains of sand. From now on I wish for a quiet corner, free of any rival and the fear of sharing, to sit down and give up wanting; perhaps I will die just as my heart desires. As long as a face stands before a mirror, she is the mirror and the mirror is her. From behind, the down on her cheek makes its boast, like a parrot speaking from behind a mirror. Through love I have set the world aside; this one heavy stone is enough on my scale. My home is in the curls of my beloved's hair; between me and the friend lies only a single strand. When will this knot in my life come undone, while your coquetry keeps a frown knotted on your brow? Though hidden, I am as visible as the rose; I am not like the bud, folded layer upon layer. I am water, not from any purity of nature; like glass, my skin is a veil over my core. It is helplessness that suffers no harm; Farhad was martyred by the strength of his own arm. Every heartache that comes from you is joy, for all joys are nothing but grief for it. After these games it played with my head, from now on my head rests bowed upon my knees. I sought the friend to win my heart's desire; since the friend won't grant it, let me sit and give up all desire, perhaps I will die with my heart content. I am the sun, yet my days are dark; I am a mirror, yet I gather dust. Your dark eyes blackened my days; your hair tied my affairs in knots. Without you I know neither night nor day; I am ashamed before the day and the age. Until you throw your arm around my neck, I will not let go of the hem of your robe. I am the most stranded of caravans, even though my load is the lightest of all. So long as she sees my autumn turned toward her, and I see my spring turned toward her. Whenever I open my eyes, there are my tears; whenever I shake my hand, there is the dust. From your defiance and your tug of war, I am hopeless, yet still I hope. There is no place for me at the feast of joy; it seems I am the candle at the head of a grave. Not a single breath has rested with my companions; I am ashamed even of my own shadow. Though I am greater than the sun, you gave me not even a speck of regard. In the end you did not grant my heart's desire; and I, like you, have no remedy. Let me sit and give up all desire, perhaps I will die with my heart content. Your face is veiled behind your hair; night is the curtain over the sun's face. With your reflection, my moist eyes hold both rain and sunshine at once. Remembering those ruby lips, my heart clings to the wine cup against my chest. You linger in the search for my heart; I rush to give up my soul. Where you parade the splendor of your face, the sun counts for no more than a speck of dust. If, ashamed of the scent of your hair, the musk-pod turns toward error, that would be the right thing. My soul, longing for the taste of your ruby lips, is a lip parched at the spring of a mirage. Terrified of your raiding glance, my soul has become a whirlpool of dread. You will see her beauty in your sleep, my heart, if only dreams will come to you. Since you grant my grieving heart no satisfaction, you keep me bound to the pretext of an answer. Let me sit and give up all desire, perhaps then I will die content. You who are left in the search, rise up, you who are slain by longing, rise up. Rise, for the moment has slipped from our hands, come, let go of all this talk, rise up. Sit down, for the morning breeze has risen, you who thirst for honor, rise up. Like unripe fruit, your wish is still sour, stop speaking of your desire, rise up. This outer form holds no real meaning, rise up and leave this garden of mere color and scent. The mallet of misfortune chases after you, come, rise from this field like a struck ball. The rose has no intention of staying true to you, you idle, chattering nightingale, rise up. This garden bears no fruit of faithfulness, rise up from its flower like a fleeting scent. My lips thirst for the spring of the wine jug, you moon-faced cupbearer, rise up. There are reasons enough to kill me, you child who hunts for excuses, rise up. The moth will not rest its feet, you hot-tempered flame, rise up. Before we tell you, frustrated and denied, to cast off all longing, rise up. Let me sit and give up all desire, perhaps then I will die content. The day you draw your bow from the quiver, it is a feast for us, the very Feast of Sacrifice. No need to go to the garden at all, gaze at the flowerbed in the mirror instead. As long as my mind is not gathered in peace, your curls will never fall loose and free. I am one whose luck is so short that my hand reaches no one's hem. My home is in the realm of discipline, the elixir of contentment gives me life. I would never trade a single day on poverty's plank for the throne of Iran. I count my dervish state as fruit from my ties to the soil of Gilan. The cool ease of Qom waters me, yet the air of Kashan sets me on fire. Lord, may my eyes never be in need of Isfahan's kohl. The soil of Shiraz draws my blood toward it, for that mine is the source of my own jewel. Longing for the friends of Tabriz, I let red tears stream from my lashes. I want the king of Khorasan to grant my heart's desire in just the way I wish. And if granting such a wish should cost me loss in the world to come. I will sit still and give up wanting anything, maybe then I will die having gotten my heart's wish at last.