English
Ode of Refrain on Love
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.