English
In Praise of the Blessed Chief, Emad al-Islam of Khojand
You are the lord of the world, the backbone of Khojand's house; the very heavens rose up to serve you with all their soul.
Your sapling grows in the garden of knowledge and virtue, and by your insight what was hidden rose into the light.
When your speech lifted the veil from the face of thought, what did wisdom say? What magic has risen from these words!
The world had grown old and was collapsing all at once; this young fortune rose to lend it a hand.
It seems your firm resolve struck, and the earth sank down; the sky, seeing the grandeur of your rank, rose to its feet.
The age let out the cry 'God is great' when the arrow of your will sprang from the bow's chamber.
On the first day your hand set the custom of giving, a roar of dust rose from the very being of sea and mine.
Your finger settled on the pen and proclaimed aloud that safety had fled from the treasure of ocean and mine.
Like a hedgehog aimed at the foe, from his own body, in place of each single hair, a spear rose up.
The lily boasted of freedom because of your nature; the garden cypress rose to become its servant.
The radiance of your judgment shone at midnight, and a thousand dawns broke at once from every horizon.
The pupil of the eye chose to cleanse itself with earth even amid water, from the fine dust that rose from your threshold.
Your enemy was pure leaven of misfortune; he stayed sour, so long that he rose only for a scrap of bread.
Wait, and let them adorn the bride of your excellence, for she has just now risen from the bed of learning.
The blessing of your gracious breath reached the garden; the sick, feeble narcissus rose from its sleep.
I will not describe my longing with the pen, because for this very reason both pen and fingers have fallen from my grasp.
My state at parting from your presence is like a lover's when at dawn, in anger, his heart-stealing beloved rose and left his side.
What a slacker I am, yet I still expect a robe of honor, as if such an elegant young man had come from Isfahan.
Great one, hear a tale: the day before yesterday my heart suddenly rose up against me, quarreling.
Saying: The season of the master's bounty has long since come, yet you lie sleeping and will not rise for it.
Why do you not recall it? It seems that from silence the speaking child of your mouth has fallen still.
In anger I told it: Enough, why do you chew this nonsense, that so-and-so slept while so-and-so rose ahead?
Go, sit at ease, for your due will reach you; if it lags two days, the world hasn't ended.
Such was the exchange, and the right is on my heart's side; how can one turn away all at once from fairness?
The delight of that turban will never leave my head, for the crown of Khosrow rose from the very same place.
From that honor my head rose above my whole body, and from this envy came moaning and wailing from my flesh.
Since the turban never rises from the cold, one should never rise forever from beneath the turban.
Suppose I did rise up from my own turban; could I ever rise up from the turban of masters?
Do not blame your servant, for the root of this trouble first rose, at any rate, from that open, giving hand.
By the help of your kindness I will get a turban too, even though the very means of that help has vanished from between us.