In Praise of the Minister

You in whose praise, in the minds of every master of verse and prose, no thought has ever come more sweet than praising you. Lord Shahab al-Din, no ruler triumphant over the armies of the age has ever appeared save through your clear judgment. Nothing contrary to what you held in mind has ever entered the nature of the heavens or the will of the stars. Of the perfumes your character mixed for the world, the rose and the amber have not received even a trace. The jewel has fled from your hand into its iron fortress; no gem has ever entered a dagger's heart in vain. Since the age laid its head on the line of your rule, it has not been tangled by turmoil the way a lock of hair is tangled. In the reign of your justice, has one drop of blood ever been shed unjustly, except the wine poured from flask into cup? Why does the sea beat its foam upon its own head and cry out? Only because it is left helpless without your bounty. The wind fell into the dust of the road out of your gentleness; foolishly, only fire has risen up to overreach. The long-bodied spear struggled hard to rival your single-handed pen, and never came its equal. Since your justice is the physician for the temperament of nations, no corner of them has slipped into decay. The sick reed pen, whose marrow has left its bone, has no false craving left in your era. Whoever has not come to this threshold on his own feet will one day lay his own head here with his own hand. As long as there is a vein in his body, anyone whose head is not empty like a hollow lute will keep speaking your praise. Like flowing water, your pen holds on its tongue every knowledge that has never made it into the heart of any book. Of those hard problems the mind falls short of grasping, which has your pen not conquered? Its belly is empty and it runs night and day; yes, your pen has not grown thin for nothing. You are free and sweet-tongued like the lily, and in your eyes gold and silver are worthless as a common flower. This is the tear in the enemy's eye and that his changed complexion; it is no idle disgrace that has fallen on gem and gold. Your kindness lays a debt of life upon everyone in the world; I did not say this point as flattery. Whoever has not heard this truth confirmed, tell him to go ask the very doors and walls of Isfahan. They all agree that a lord like you has never been born into the realm of existence. You who have come to crown all creation like a jewel, what has not befallen every gem at your hand? For a lifetime I have longed to serve you, yet fortune has never granted me this good luck. My deprivation from serving you is not by choice; whatever is not fated is hard to obtain. Your servant has curled into himself like a scroll, because he has attended no gathering or assembly. He has drawn his skirt in from people like a bud, for like a rose he has not burst forth in a hundred petals. Your kindness was his usher and your generosity his chamberlain; your servant did not arrive here without a helping guide. Of all kinds of misfortune, which is more crushing than what the cruel heavens have not brought down on my head? The tongues of those who envy me speak what has never even entered your servant's heart. By God, what they have laid to my charge has never taken shape in my character. If they speak in your servant's presence, let them listen too; no one has ever come before a judge alone. The truth of my words will surely become clear, for in the end not much has come of this tale. They said the lord uttered your name; in fairness, I could not believe this report. Because for years, in the presence of the great, the name of no man of talent has been raised. Beware, do not count it as negligence from your servant, if until now he has not come to serve you. Either the hand of misfortune has not loosened its grip on me, or the term of my affliction has not yet ended. What use is throwing a double six from the dice, to one whose piece has not escaped this trap? How can he even reach your presence, who has not yet stepped one pace beyond the summit of the sky? Look on me with a kind eye, even if I seem to you among the trivial things not worth notice. Many men of learning come to your court, but perhaps none has come as a poet like me. Yes, my verse is dry now, it has been a while; from the sea of poetry the tip of my pen is barely moist. I have planted the minister's praise hidden in my heart, but it has not yet come fully into bloom. From now on the tree that drinks the water of your favor will bear fruit, for no fruit has ever come from a dry branch. Accept this meager offering from your servant; do not look at how it is unworthy and unfit.