In Praise: As the Wind Once Bore Jamshid's Throne

Dark night raised its banner over the bright moon, and with ground musk it wrote its mark upon the pink rose. A chain of black pitch, an ornament of fragrant perfume, it drew across a cheek like the moon and a face red as dyewood. The God of the throne drew a musky line, a torment for all people, across the face of that idol like an open flower. My soul lives in loving him, my heart in his absence; the one saw much cruelty, the other endured endless injustice. When heaven set its seal on the document of his beauty, it struck out the names of all the fair ones of the age. In love I am unmatched, and in beauty he has no equal; glorious and exalted is the One who brought us together. Suddenly, with a hundred tricks and spells, he stole from me the very heart that had borne so much pain and grief for his sake. Everyone whose work led him into the service of that great lord became honored in the eyes of the powerful. From the fish beneath the earth and the lowest depths of the ground, up to the face of the moon and the height of the Pleiades, he raised his banner. As a turtle pulls its head back among the stones, so, before his generosity, need withdrew its head into nothingness. O master, the banner of your fortune and rank has carried the realm up to the sky of glory and high ambition. Since the Majestic One raised your honor higher, many an envious rival has heaved sighs of regret over you. In the surging waves of the sea of holy law, like a crocodile your sword swallowed the ship of heresy in a single gulp. Whoever stepped outside the desire of your command, the hand of death dragged his soul from his body into sorrow. The branch of the tree of your fortune grew broad with shade once its roots drank moisture from the cloud of your bounty. From dread of your rock-splitting sword, the enemy, like a hedgehog, pulled his head into his belly. Your throne made its home beside the stars; your judgment pitched its tent at the edge of the Milky Way. When the female onager recognized her cub through your justice, out of safety she led it into the den of the lion of the thicket. The road of your petitioner became like the road of the galaxy, so heavy with the coins he carried home from your giving. Everyone who suffered pain from the turning of this harsh age found rest in the shelter of your rank. As long as strange tales are told of how Abraha, in his unbelief, led an army toward the Sacred House, may heaven carry your saddle-cloth forever, just as the wind once bore Jamshid's throne.