English
In Praise of the Great Imam, Rukn al-Din Mas'ud ibn Sa'id
Blessed be God for this stirring of the morning breeze; how far the grace of its craft reaches, from where to where!
The new grass has become all tongue in thanks to spring, which lifted it from the dust for a fresh dwelling.
Nature's caravans sent gifts to the eye and heart, delivered by the hands of growth and blossoming.
The breeze put the running water in chains; the back of the earth dressed the face of the tulip in silk.
With half a sip it drew from the cup of the air, the soil poured out all its secrets over the plain.
With so much blossom, wild rose, and greenery, you would think the earth had grown pure enough to mirror the sky.
The violet is like night, and the tulip its lamp; jasmine is the dawn, and the rose the wrapped sun.
Like an honored elder walking ahead, the blossom arrived, with a crowd of young shoots trailing behind.
The song of Barbad rose beneath the nightingale's harp when the bird tuned its throat to a phoenix's melody.
Through nobility of soul that lord earned his name; even empty-handed he stood tall.
Blossom and branch are words spoken by star and tree; breeze and herb are hints toward body and soul.
The coming of Ramadan in the midst of spring scattered the customs of revelry and undid the work of pleasure.
The silken-stringed instrument writhes upon itself, for in the fast no one has means or music.
From so much cruelty the blood froze in the wine cup's heart, for in the season of roses no one paid it any heed.
Now you see the singer and the harpist lined up in rows, like idle masters in the corners of mosques.
Instead of the silken string, a rosary in hand; instead of the plectrum, a prayer of glorification in the palm.
The lute fell silent because, from an empty belly, its pulse no longer stirs, its limbs gone weak.
The harp sits on its knees, head bowed low, like a scrupulous worshipper in the sitting posture of prayer.
If the miracle of Ramadan has not broken the ordinary order, then tell me, against nature's spite, why is this so?
The rain's water has become the oil of the tulip's lamp, just as the morning breeze is the flame of the blossom's candle.
The plane tree and cypress have raised their hands, row on row, striving hard to proclaim God's greatness.
The cloud rains down so hard upon their heads that I have imagined it a prayer for rain.
Since the rose keeps company with the thorn to the end, if it should be a revealer of secrets, it does not surprise me.
The narcissus sank into its own affairs from wonder, once fate woke it from the sleep of neglect.
Blue-robed and yellow-faced, the water lily deliberately took a ritual bath for prayer.
The blossom lays its shining white hair upon the dust, for it is desire that so disgraced it in old age.
The lily thrust out its tongue from thirst; no wonder, since it is both fasting and in the heat.
In the manner of those who chant at dawn, the nightingale raised its voice from the branch tips at midnight.
The breeze opens the closed folds of the bud again, like the nightingale rising to call for the pre-dawn meal.
Look at the black-heartedness of the tulip at such a time, that it will not let go of its cup of wine for a moment.
Perhaps the violet turned its tongue to slander, for like a lie it draws its tongue out endlessly.
If from newness the rose acted with wanton pride, at the hand of a short life it got a fitting beating.
And if out of naivety the bud only bit at water, see how in the end its reward is fire.
The cloud weeps with a burning heart, and rightly so, for in springtime the cloud has very little life left.
Though the rose sometimes wears a laughing face, the tears it sheds are all show and hypocrisy.
If a single drop trickled from the narcissus's eye, one teardrop is enough from the eye of the blind.
Like those who fast, the bud has closed its mouth, and from its mouth breathes the scent of Khotan's musk.
It has two blessed moments: one when it blooms, one when it kisses the carpet of our master.
The order of the Muslim community, the support of the gifted, whose threshold is the prayer-direction of the wise heart.
Lofty as his own judgment, fortunate as his own name Mas'ud, gentle as his own nature, young as his own luck.
The crescent of his fortune becomes full moon at its first sight; the perfection of his knowledge reaches its end at its very start.
The cloud's reservoir would be wounded by the sword of lightning if it tried to rival his hand in generosity.
Only what is right passes over his tongue, for his words are pearls, and the pearl never errs.
Blessed is your agreement, the gate of eternal life; and your opposition, the tooth of the key of destruction.
By your effort the difficult problems are humbled; at your court the market of the learned thrives.
The mind of ambition sees only your likeness in dreams; the eye of the heavens seeks your equal in the water and finds none.
The sign of joy at your presence is written on morning's brow; evening takes its color and face from your enmity.
The sky, whose habit is stubborn as a bow's arch, bent itself double before you out of straightforward honesty.
The pregnant age would give birth to no bright wit from the night except by the aid of your mind as midwife.
If the fire of your resolve did not thin it, the pores of the air would be more tightly closed by the mass of the earth.
You are the one whose noble lineage on both sides makes Adam and Eve take pride.
The bud of your kindness blooms from wide acceptance; the freshness of the flower of your manners comes from the water of modesty.
Withholding has never been your habit except in the fast; the only thing you grasp is a lesson, and all else you give away.
In debate, if you speak against a mountain, the echo that repeats your words is silenced by your argument.
They say as a proverb that night keeps secrets hidden; then why are your secrets revealed from the night of your handwriting?
Learning would have collapsed under the blows of deprivation, had it not taken a staff from your pen.
You are the backbone of the holy law, and your own back is strong, for the hand of destiny supports you when it decrees.
If the age comes to know your justice, from now on it will never plunder the goods of our life.
And when the bride of your mind lifts her veil, modesty flees its bed at midnight.
By your bounty the empty side of desire is filled; by your giving the treasury of the sea is emptied.
One of the marvels of your pen's tip is this: from murky water it strings a necklace of gleaming pearls.
Because poor gold has taken on the color of your envier, you spare it no mercy in any way.
The opening of the sword of your opposition is the passage for souls; the twenty hands of your loyalty are the belt of Gemini.
If the trace of your gentleness fell upon the taut bow, its tension would turn to relaxation.
Cure the enemy's brain with the sharp sword, for water and greenery are good against melancholy.
For fear of your watching, the moonlight this month dared not lay rouge on the lovely flower.
Your justice sat Venus upon the bull when it saw that not a breath of the lute's music was let free from the ass.
How blessed: from shame at your kingship, the ill-wisher's heart is broken and crumpled like the folds of a robe.
I have a heart full of all kinds of tales, none of which is hidden from the mind of my master.
I see no other way but silence, for I have not the courage to say one thing into two.
Yet with all this I will throw out a subtle point, in jest, not by way of complaint, God forbid.
If your love had not made me your patient servant, why would I have endured such a burden of cruelty all my life?
The servant's dues are met simply by this: all his poems, apart from this ode composed in your praise,
all his other odes, whatever you find of them, carry the heading: 'And by him, also in his praise.'
My robe of nurture must have a thousand layers now that the pistachio of my nature has split into double-kernel praise.
Your general bounty needs no asking, for it is no condition to beg light from the sun.
How fine an ode, whose meaning shines from firm words like the light of your manifestation on Mount Sinai.
If I recite it into the ear of the deaf boulder, from delight the granite mountain would tear open its shirt.
I would close my tongue like a pistachio from speech if any one of these poets could bring a second like it.
Live a thousand years in the shelter of the world's chief master, the lord of the law, the king of the learned.
May the wish of each of you be fulfilled by the sight of the other, just as the world's hopes are met by the grace of you both.
Ramadan has come, and for the ill-wisher, from its workings, two things are ready, thanks to the glory of your rank:
a body melting like a candle, yellow and withered, and a heart like a lamp, catching fire and laid open.