The Story of Bijan and Manijeh: The Night

A night like a face washed in black pitch: no Mars in sight, no Saturn, no Mercury. The moon had put on a strange new dress and set out to cross the sky. It had grown dark in its resting place, its waist gone thin, its heart shrunk tight. Two thirds of its crown had turned to deep blue, and it gave the air over to rust and dust. The army of dark night spread over plain and meadow a carpet made of a crow's black feathers. From every side a demon showed itself to my eye, like a black snake with its mouth thrown wide. The sky was like rust-eaten steel; you would say its face had been smeared with pitch. Whenever a cold wind rose up, it flung dust from its fingers like an African. The garden and the streambank became such that waves seemed to break from a sea of tar. The turning wheel of heaven stood still in place, and the sun's hands and feet went slack. Wrapped in that pitch-dark veil, the sky seemed to have fallen fast asleep. The heart of the world was full of fear for itself, and the night watchman had sounded his bell. No cry of a bird, no roar of a beast: the age had gone silent about good and bad alike. Nothing showed, no high from low; my heart grew tight from that long, drawn-out night. In that distress I sprang from my place; I had a kind companion there in the house. I called out and asked her for a lamp, and my sweet love came to me in the garden. She said to me, what do you want with a candle? On a dark night what you need is sleep. I told her, lovely one, I am not made for sleep. Bring me a candle bright as the sun. Set it before me and prepare a feast; take up the harp and start the wine. That kind love of mine went from the garden and brought back a shining candle and lamp. She brought wine, pomegranates, citrons and quince, and a polished royal goblet. She said to me, get up and keep your heart glad; free your soul from pain and sorrow. See that you do not lay your heart to waste with worry; call for justice and speak out. The world slips by however you pass through it; why should a wise person eat their heart out with grief? One moment she poured the wine, the next she played the harp; you would say Harut himself had worked his magic. She made my heart victorious over every wish, for she turned that dark night into a festival for me. I said to that slender cypress, moon-faced one, tell me a story tonight, a story whose love gives the heart splendor and warmth, one that leaves even the heavens dazzled. Now hear what my kind companion said, after we were joined in delight. She said, keep pouring the wine while I tell you a tale from the words of the ancients, full of scheming and love, of trickery and war, and fit for a person of learning and steadiness. I said, bring it on, lovely one; recite the story and deepen the love. Of the good and bad of the unruly wheel of fate, which brings people every kind of turn, see that you do not let your heart grow tight; why turn from it, why look for delay? No one knows its way and its order; neither its pain nor its cure is ever plain. Then she said, if you will listen to me, and set it into verse from the Pahlavi book, I will tell it and take your thanks in return. Now listen, my companion who knows what is good.