English
In Praise of Nur al-Din, the Learned Secretary
A light fell on me through the window of good fortune,
and it turned the house of my heart into a home of joy.
The dark ruin of my heart grew so radiant
that I forgot the very sun in the sky.
And all of this is a single ray from my master's mind;
may fortune never let me stand at any door but his.
Nur al-Din, king of the gifted, who with the tip of his pen
at every moment shows me a fresh and cheerful beauty.
He whose one act of nurturing generosity
made the proud heavens submit to me, taming their necks.
I am ashamed before the point of his pen, for from a sea of grace
it sent me pearls beyond counting, unpierced and pure.
Ever since my eye grew familiar with the dust of his door,
all rubies and jewels lost their worth in my sight.
You who, from your boundless care for people of art,
are on the verge of giving my heart real joy.
I never knew that a breath could revive the soul;
your breathing has made a master of me, once your pupil.
Since I saw the curls of your script and its subtle meaning,
no rose or boxwood ever came to my mind again.
My soul fell in love with your words; it is as if
your sweet, eloquent lips gave me the heart of Farhad.
The beauty of my eye was joined to your writing;
that is why my eye began to give birth to pearls.
I am the slave of your pen, which without the shame of begging
gave me all that ever passed through my mind.
I could not give thanks for a single hour of your bounty,
even if my life stretched out to seventy years.
I have a fate that leaves my lips cracked with thirst,
even if the whole Tigris of Baghdad plunges me under.
From this fine model that unlocks a world in one word,
nothing opened for me but the blood of my own liver.
Though a sword's blade may be fit to conquer the world,
what use is it to me when I have no strength to wield it?
With the army of despair charging me from left and right,
woe to me if your kindness does not answer my cry.
Without the help of your good fortune I could not cut a single hair,
even if I were turned from head to foot into a steel dagger.
Do you know what they gave me from this land grant?
A mockery that made me die a hundred deaths standing there.
The dignity I still had, I traded for this bread,
and the broth of grief burned my liver with injustice.
My own choice threw me into this worthless place;
how splendid, then, my sight, my mind, and my judgment!
In this farmland I saw one hateful rule
that by itself uproots me from the very foundation.
There is a harvest scattered to the wind, and when it was divided,
the grain went to those shameless whores, and the wind to me.
The child of my mind has put on a paper robe
and come to your court, so that you may grant me justice.
May servitude to you be my duty forever,
if the master frees me from this closing verse.