In Praise of Rukn al-Din Mas'ud, Seeking a Stipend

Last night my reason, which needs no interpreter, lifted the veil from hidden things. It fell into conversation with me and suddenly struck up a cold opening line. It let slip a few words still wrapped in their sheath, words whose covering should not be pulled away. At last, without hesitation, it lifted the lid off the burning trays of truth. It said: Watch out, take charge of your affairs, for fate has set up a trial for you. The baker has cut off your daily bread; prices have climbed steep as flood-swollen water. The income you once hoped for is gone; usurpers have carried it off, piece by piece. In the palaces of kings the hand of need has folded away the means of bread and the custom of the table. You, with ten or fifteen mouths to feed, how can you keep your women's hearts content now? If the master does not know your state, the tale must be brought to him this very moment, so that he may lift this burden from you, just as he has lifted it from others. In the midst of this alarm I said to it: disaster has reached beyond every limit. The dagger, in cutting short men's lives, made no distinction between old and young. On the tips of the spears the blade's tongue proclaimed the end of all safety for the people. Sudden calamity stripped well-being away; it took security and honor from home and household. The mace took its seat in the dome of the skull once it raised its head from the shaft. The arrow set its thought on the liver in the heart, once it drew its shaft from the quiver. It chose its resting place beside the eye, the instant it was lifted from the house of the bow. The Kabuli dagger, sharp by nature, cleared the film of the body from the soul's eye. It made its lodging in the caravanserais of the breast, laying its brick, once it lifted its flank from its place. It descended into the black core of the heart, the arrow-tip, once released from the fingertips. On the streets, because of its bloodshed, one can hardly pull a foot free from the mire of gore. They lift the head from the body like a candle's, from anyone who cried out in fear for his life. Death's beak pecked at the throat of everyone who opened his mouth to the notched arrows. The talk of the sword grew fierce; war, in that hour, loosed the tether from its tongue. The army of ignorance charged in and wiped out every trace of skill and learning. Two loaves of bread are granted only to the one who took up the spear instead of the pen. The sword so utterly overpowered the reed pen that it carried off its innocent head just the same. If I make a request now, they say the holy law has lifted all obligation from so-and-so. It said: even if things are as you say, has the strife really wiped Isfahan off the earth? Surely it has not, all at once, abolished the custom of eating bread from the world. Ask for your yearly grain and your usual allowance; a custom cannot be undone in any way. Only a raw, shameless poet ever gives up hope of the lords' customary bounty. If the grain is scarce, there is ready cash; you can take it for nothing yourself. He would not raise a scale to weigh out gold, he who has done away with scales altogether. It has been a long time since his giving stripped the sea and the mine of the honor of their wealth. His pearl-scattering hand, through generosity, undid the very thread that strung the pearls. A tremor ran through the spear's bones when he lifted the frail reed pen. The night rested easy, for his justice removed even the trouble of the watchman's cry. The heavens fell at the feet of his ambition when it raised its head above the roof of the sky. We were still in the midst of this talk when the dawn lifted its head out of the far West. The sun drew its blade from the sphere; the night took fright and gave up its very soul. The clamor of the announcing drum arrived; it set down what it was holding and took up its beat.