In Praise of Mawla Rukn al-Din Mas'ud on His Return from Khwarazm

I am the one whose heart and hem, all at once, have been freed from the grip of suffering. I am the one for whom the turning of fate has finally kept the promise my soul longed for. I am the one who, in the darkness of tyranny and oppression, had his prayers answered, like Jonah in the whale. Here I am again before the lord of the world, my tongue loosened in thanks and praise. I see all this with my own eyes, and still I cannot quite believe it of myself. This is the valley of Mecca that once guided me; I see it plainly, and here I stand. How fine: your collar is the dawn's break of justice, your sleeve the sheath of generosity. Morning's face is adorned by your kindness; evening's locks are tangled by your wrath. When your judgment sets a plan in full order, it becomes the sun at the very meridian. Your mind speaks nothing but the truth; your thought sketches no shape of error. A handful of water sets a haystack ablaze wherever your wrath holds command. Where your grace shows its tenderness, the millstone itself nurtures the grain instead of crushing it. In the market of your power, what is the whole sky worth? A single worn, cheap piece of silk. In your nobility you are like a lily: sweet in speech and beautiful of face. The oyster gnaws its own pearl with its teeth, ashamed before the beauty of your lips. Your mind conquers hard problems the way an army of light overwhelms the ranks of darkness. If in your giving I call you sea and mine, know that I have insulted you by falling short. In the days of your justice, even the bow, out of pure straightness, turned away from its own curve. Your noble spirit has laid out the table of bounty and called across the horizons to the feast. If the deaf mountain heard your prayer, the tongue of its echo would answer nothing but Amen. Whoever has lined his eyes with the dust of your door will find plain kohl no longer worthy of them. Reason grasps the hidden secret from it when the tip of your pen says: 'If you could see.' In its insolence, whenever the sky now and then kisses the hoof of your steed, a crooked notion, shaped like the new moon, keeps forever turning in its heart: that in its arrogance it might destroy itself by imitating the horseshoe of your mount. How splendid the praise of your patience, weightier than the sands; how splendid the account of your might, mighty in strength. I have a long story to tell, free of lies and clear of any slander, about the things that happened in the master's absence, in this city, and especially to our companions, whether from the king or from those beneath him, whether from the officials or from the leaders. If your noble ear will not grow weary, I will tell it all in detail, from the beginning. First they reached out to plunder, and in the looting the poor became rich. They roamed through the houses like invaders; no favor was shown even to the saints. The secret storerooms lost their honesty, and their trust was handed over to the unworthy. One man boasted of ten bundles of squirrel fur, while another owned nothing but a bunch of leeks. They drew out the gold, then from that stolen gold made themselves hats and robes. As a lover's secret spills out through his tears, the buried hoards were laid bare from their hiding places. Then the earth was shaken with a mighty quake, and the earth cast out its burdens. When they were done looting the goods, they carried off the very houses themselves. Everything became fit to be dragged and hauled away: mansions, shops, houses, and buildings. How many an old, ancient household that once stood firm on solid pillars, was suddenly hurled by one raid from the height of the heavens down beneath the dust. It was so scattered apart that no two bricks were left to touch each other again. The walls were full of gaps like a broken row of teeth, and yet no toothpick was left lodged in them. Everything grew ruined, as a base man ruins good natures: flaw upon flaw, wreck upon wreck. When the earth was pounded flat, the dust scattered, and on the halls was written 'We shall fold up the sky.' The rooftops kissed the ground at the doors, and the columns, in their anguish, sprang from their places. The foundations, weary of sitting still at home, all at once set off toward exile together. The unbaked bricks rode off on donkeys, tumbled out of the mold of their solitude. The baked bricks, cramped in their hiding, chose to wander out into the open square. They bade farewell to their homeland of dung and rubble, and left for the countryside on the backs of donkeys. The dwellings, like their dwellers, were thrown into turmoil; such was the way of things when the time demanded it. With the mad craving to hoard silver and gold, the minds of a whole people were filled with alchemy. Once again came those violent blows, and that endless dividing up of gold. The empty handed man was locked in a pillory like a head in a board; the man with coins was struck on the neck like a stamped coin. One had a rope at his throat like a spindle's thread; another had shackles on his hands and feet like a spinning wheel. One had his veins drawn from his body like the strings of a harp; another had his ankles pierced through like a reed flute. One stripped the jewelry from his wife; another tore the shirt from his own back. One had a club over his head, 'Come, sell it now!'; another was under torture, 'Hurry, hurry!' They wrenched from the eye of the narcissus the pure gold that had grown there by God's own seal. Blood froze in the fingernail of the flower bud, for its body was in agony under torment. The virtuous woman, like a delicate Persian rose, had been dragged out of her curtained chamber. In the crowd, for the sake of a few scraps of gold, her cheeks were clawed and her garment torn. Gnashing her teeth under the blows of the stick, she was forced to hand over her own silver, piece by piece. The free and noble head escaped that mob like a lily, only through lashings of the tongue and forced cries of 'long life to you.' The rich man who had arranged everything, tuned like a lute, with every instrument and means of pleasure that wealth allows, Who once had fame and reputation in the world, and a whole apparatus of song and melody at his command, Who had his treasury and his gatekeeper, his fine goblets and his tall lamps, Sometimes a Chigil boy to massage him, sometimes a Khata beauty as his interpreter, His donkey with a saddle and girth of silk, his head resting in the embrace of lovely idols, First they stretched him out on the rack, then gave him the punishment they thought he deserved. They bound his hands and beat him with the rod: 'Come now! Whatever you have, bring it out, quickly!' He screamed and screamed, and it did no good, except that he paid over his weighed-out coin. Now his house, his hands, and his bowl are empty, his fingers held out like a beggar's. The poor weak man who, like a needle, had a pinched, narrow life, tormented by the length of his own coat's hem, Whose means of livelihood were knot upon knot, and whose doors of income were sealed by hardship, Who had worn his body thin as thread, hard as iron, from endless striving and running about, Just to gather two or three rags together he would race about, headlong, in every direction, They seized him wretchedly, dragging him by the hair, and pierced his ears with the hand of cruelty. They stripped him out of his clothes so bare that not a single thread was left on his body. And from that wailing, a fresh fire seized the homes, a fire that emptied houses more thoroughly than the plague. The mosques became choked cesspits, the pulpits turned to firewood for the soup pot. Where once the faithful came with lowered lashes, sweeping away even the dust from its reed mats, Now, in broad daylight, you see it caked with filth like the corner of a latrine. A dead dog lies rotting in the very spot that once held the foreheads of the saints. The mosques that were once the home of the devout are now lined up as stables for donkeys. The roof has fallen down in prostration like the holy men, and the columns are bent double like the ascetics. The prayer leaders hang like lamps, and the prayer niches are cast down like worshippers in prostration. The minaret struck its cap upon the ground, crying: 'They have leveled me with the dust.' In haste the mothers carried the cradles out of their homes with a hundred sobs. The pure young brides, along with the master of the house, have become companions of the stray dogs of the street. One wails and weeps, crying, 'My home, my kin!' Another mourns aloud, 'What disgrace has fallen on us!' Many a veiled woman who once would not step out of her house on feast day or funeral now, out of helplessness and despair, has taken a stranger for a companion. Homeless, an old woman sleeps in a mosque beside her chaste daughter. And of those tender, delicate ones now wandering, so many, so very many, roam the corners of the earth. Come, look at the walls and the moat and see how upside down this whole affair has become. From the moat my body lies buried alive under earth, while the weight and heads of the dead hang in the air. No mercy for the child, no shame before the old, no regard for people, no pretense of decency. No one to ask what crime this was, no one brave enough to say, 'Why?' This is not zealotry; where is fairness? Are we Muslims, and yet content with such deeds? What kind of zeal is this? Even the pagan Abkhazians would not allow such customs and ways. With such rites and manners, do we still boast that we are the community of the Prophet? What excuse can they offer for acts like these? It is as if they believe there will be no Judgment Day. The disaster that struck us in the year of our exile, let me first say what caused it. Whoever is ungrateful for a blessing is stricken with its loss. For many years Isfahan lived at ease under your good fortune and your glory. No wind scattered the rose, no sword-edge of the sun assaulted the shade. Without the nightingales' sermon in the meadow, no morning breeze became the confidant of the bud. Out of decency, no sword bared its body openly in public. So restrained were people's hands in those days that even amber had no power to attract. In that land no claim was accepted, even in broad daylight, unless two dawns bore witness to it. No dealings of self-interest and favor with the rulers, no bribes handed silently to the judges. Though the pen was sick and weak, it still kept itself away from anything false. Whoever practiced deceit dark as night was, like it, punished with public exposure by the dawn. Though gold is two-faced by nature, it never gave false testimony by concealment. Like a scale, whoever leaned toward gold out of greed was stoned. No one knew the worth of this gift, no one grasped the true depth of this care. Since we were not thankful, inevitably by fate we fell captive to a tyrant. A ruler who ruins and is raw as the nature of wine, who burns the heart and pours out gold like a cheating dice game. All is tearing down, killing, and burning, with no fear of God and no shame before anyone. As if it were a crime worthy of Yazid, this man's gold is freely plundered; over a beggar's coin, another's very breath is squandered. The schools lie in ruins like the fading custom of generosity; nobility has turned dark-faced, black as the hand of fate. The tree of skill is like an antler's branch, barren, without leaf, growth, or fruit. The worthy man's fortune keeps sinking, while the base man's standing keeps rising. Every estate is seized, and every seizure an estate; every village has its lord, and every village is lordless. As on the Day of Judgment, all now flee: father from son, kin from kin. No one has any crime but being alive, no one has any refuge but hiding. All are wounded, with the balm out of reach; all are drowning, and the friend estranged from the friend. No strength to stay silent, no daring to speak; no end to the fear, no scent of hope. Since Mas'ud Sa'id had no power left, what did we say then, Bul-Qasim, Bul-Ala? God made a parable of ingratitude for blessings, in the Quran, in the story of the city of Saba. There was a city, adorned and lovely, pleasant and secure, brimming with wealth and plenty. Two beautiful gardens flanked it, left and right, full of every kind of comfort and delight. Its streams flowed from Kawthar and Salsabil; its air healed the sick and kept the healthy well. Its clear water was pure wine, its plants were sugar, its saplings sprung from the Lote Tree of Paradise. Its roses and lilies came from fine character, its fruit from righteousness and giving. It was named 'the good land,' with a forgiving Lord as its guide and example. When they turned away from thanking God, He sent a certain creature upon them. Suddenly, with the teeth of vice and corruption, it gave them over to ruin in the great flood. Their two gardens turned into two other gardens, full of bitter colocynth and thorny weeds. Its trees became all thorns to the eye and heart, its plants all seeds of tyranny and cruelty. No water in the spring, no moisture in the cloud, no blossoms on the branches, and none allowed. No shade below, no fruit above, no scent of faithfulness, no color of purity. If we measure it against the name of Isfahan, Saba itself was but half of our city. Thank God, that age of Sodom-like cruelty has vanished behind the curtain of its ending. They found a key for what was locked, and laid a remedy on the wounds. Your presence became salvation for the captives, your word became healing for the wounded. The glory of your arrival reached the heavens; from wall and door came the cry: Welcome! Welcome! Yes, the moon beats its drum beneath a blanket when the shining sun goes into hiding. When Solomon loses his ring, the demon becomes king over humankind. His people worship the golden calf, while Moses turns for help to God's presence. When the blazing sun goes into hiding, it is no wonder that the faint star shows itself. The enemy's trickery will not last now, since your pen has become the solver of every knot. The magician's illusions turned to empty wind the moment Moses cast his staff from his hand. Though your absence handed us over to the lion's claws and the dragon's jaws, when we saw your face again, we said: God has done well in what has passed. What I have set in verse is not merely praise of you, but a complaint we bring before the one who hears complaints. Sift these words through the sieve of thought, and you will find grains of alchemy within them. From this sea, the diver of mind and wit brings up many a glowing pearl. This poem is not flawed by forced repetition, for it is verse woven upon many different events. Hold your servant in the way that befits you, since you know that he belongs to you. Through the long years, no hostile wind has ever clouded the pure clear water of his loyalty. For you, honors and robes; for us, praise; fate must keep pouring both abundantly. May you remain, ordering the affairs of the high, for all the length of nights, in spite of your foes. High in renown, close ally of generosity, wide-gated in your court, awe-inspiring in your might. Since you have pitched your foe like a tent upon the ground, spread out the skirt of majesty like a great pavilion. If a low-spirited enemy has thrown down gold, you, gather nothing but a good name. May you keep enjoying children, rank, youth, and wealth until the Day of Judgment.