In Praise of Him (A Poem Woven Around the Word 'Hand')

Fate has turned my luck away, so my hand can never reach the beloved's curling hair. The heavens would never rise up against my power if, for one night, I could hold the beloved in my arms. I would draw a hundred thousand hearts out of every twist of that hair, if only my hand could reach the beloved's locks. Patience, youth, heart, and soul, all lay caught in that grief; with the water of my tears I washed my hands of all four. Whoever laid a hand on that snake-like coil of hair has surely stepped on a serpent's tail. Grief comes easily to hand from every side, but this one thing, a comforter, never falls within my grasp. Like a sleeve, my work has slipped from my hands, yet the beloved will not withdraw from such handiwork. O heart, if you ever get a chance at peace, do not, for God's sake, let go of the hem of that beloved. Your love-play with the beloved is a game of the head; since you cannot match that stride, walk away and let go. Leap up bravely, like a man, from the well of the beloved's chin; grip those two musk-scented ropes with your hand. O painted hand, what a hand is yours! Look, once again you are openly stained with the blood of my heart. If the beloved's hand does not labor to shed lovers' blood, why does the rider keep it belted for slaughter? The arrowhead of your teasing glance is lodged in my heart; if you do not believe me, come, bring your hand and feel. The parrot of my reason, craving your sugar lips, beats its hand upon its head like a fly caught in syrup. Union with you never came without the pain of parting; no one lays hand on a rose without the wound of its thorn. One night I tasted your ruby lips, and still, from their sweetness, I lick my hand like a cat. It is longing for the chain of your hair that makes my hand ride a reed stalk madly, like a fool. Longing for your face, I am like a mirror, forever propping my hand beneath my chin in waiting. This clay bead of my body would drop like a pearl into the water if I pulled my hand from these weeping lashes. I would pull my feet free from the toil of your grief, if the favor of the great and noble reached to help me. Sultan of the sacred law, Sa'ed, who at the hour of decision binds the very sky with his mighty hand, The hand grew five branches at its top for this: that from the touch of his generous bounty the hand was overwhelmed. For that reason the pearl named itself an orphan, so his hand could gently place a crown upon its head. In his time the tyrant's helping hand withdrew; the falconer's hand pulled back into the raw sleeve. The hand of the sacred law leans upon his very being; that is why, for pride, it beats its hand upon its chest. O you beneath whose gravity the mountain's hand lies pinned, whose grandeur has raised its hand above the fortress, You lift from the dust and raise to the sky whoever, like scattered dust, reaches a hand toward your hem. If a man's soul does not truly lie in the hand of destiny, then what is your place, O renowned hand? By your good fortune, whoever kissed your hand once or twice became, like a raised sleeve, a bearer of the banner. When the strength-testing might of your anger plants its foot, or in fury strikes its hand at the mountain's waist, Your foe's hand is closed by stinginess, while yours, in these times, is a hand of boundless giving. Because you have flung your enemy behind your back, his hand is forever in mourning, like a grieving man. Like a pillow beneath your hand, the sky, at the head of the court, folds its hands before your door like a servant. There, where your hand rests at the head of the sky's court, the gatekeeper lays his hand upon his chest to admit the daily crowd. If your dread shouts a warning to disaster, then, like a cypress, it holds its hand back from all commotion. The fingers instantly bow down in helplessness, when the hand tries to count the weight of your giving. Who is Karun beside your generosity while your hand exists? No one would reach a hand toward such a lowly figure. The free men of the age are your possession, because over all of them your hand holds sway with bounty and wealth. You are the sun of fortune, and by your splendor even the low dust turns to gold if, for instance, you reach a hand toward it. Like a jug that lost its head at your terror, your envier, in his panic, struck his hand upon his head. With all his own resources, your foe, spinning about himself, keeps raising his hands like a plane tree in despair. Your enemy's hand is 'wide open' only in this: he keeps it stretched out on the roadside, begging. The autumn wind gilded the hand of the branches, because for your sake the Creator held out His hand. Whoever emptied his side of you, like a plane tree, was left holding his hands before and behind in poverty. And whoever comes bare before your bounty, like a pine, at once, like a cypress, gains a thousand-handed robe. You laid a hand of grace upon my mind, or else I would have washed my hands of this whole affair. My poetry is only a first attempt, since the virgin thoughts did not yield freely to my will. To receive your endless bounty, see how I have kept my hand ready, lined up in rows. I have brought forth and drawn out from my grasp a poem whose hand has reached the royal pearl. See the virgin daughters of my mind: like buds, they raise their hands over their faces, ashamed before you. In the garden of your praise I am a nightingale who has won the prize in this land, brought from Hamadan. A bird whose melodies are this fine even in autumn, how will it sing when spring renews its hand? I laid this poem, adorned like a beauty, upon my hand, for on festival days the hennaed hand looks lovely. Your enemy keeps offering up his camel-hearted courage as sacrifice; that is why the star of the Sacrificer has drawn its hand to the work. Live forever, for your enduring kingdom has laid a firm hand on the very hem of the Resurrection. Your survival and eternity itself made a pact, and then shook hands upon this agreement.