In Praise of Rukn al-Din Sa'id, and a Description of the Sun

What is this glowing body that rushes through the years and months? A brave horseman, victorious, triumphant in every battle. Each dawn its flame sweeps clean the courtyard of the sky; its face is the fountain from which the world's light springs. Its reign begins to fade past noon; its fortune is overturned by the coming of dusk. Every evening the stomach of the west devours its disk like a meal; each night, with its blade, it turns the twilight of the sky into roast. Sometimes it rests in the well like Joseph; sometimes it returns from the belly of the fish like Jonah. At times it shines like a fiery basin at high noon; at times, with the wound of its blade, it holds a whole world in torment. By day it robs the road openly with its sword; by night, veiled, it tunnels beneath the earth like a thief. Its body is like a shield, yet a sword-wielding shield; its form is a spring, and that spring is ablaze. For one day, this eye and lamp of the age lets a thread of light run from its mouth, like the wax dripping now and then from a candle. It trembles over the world's head out of the love in its heart, yet because of its fierceness it is always addressed as a dagger. Contemplate its form and it is the beloved, the candle, the basin; imagine its body and it is the cupbearer, the goblet, and the wine. Like gold drawn thin as silver, or bread taken from water: fresh of face, sword-wielding, at rest amid all its turmoil. A wondrous disk that becomes the seal upon the faster's mouth; a strange seal that burns a whole world with its heat. It draws a golden line upon the board of the earth so that the reckoning of years and months stays clear at least. On the white page of dawn its shape is like gold on paper; in the black of night its ray is like a sword in its scabbard. You would think it a cake of soap, with a basin and warm water, so the sky may wash the black dye from the tresses of night. There is no relying on it, for it is unsteady: at each month's start it comes leading a new moon at its stirrup. All year and month the mountain sits by the road, spreading its skirt to gather flecks of gold from the sun's abundant bounty. In its coming and going it tramples our lives underfoot; with its passing, our years hurry away. It has a sleepless eye, full of fiery lashes; and the wonder is that its light fills all other eyes with tears. Like the master's fortune, it is the enemy of sleep; so with its blade it drives slumber from people's eyes each morning. If the swords of kings lift gold from the dust, its blade playfully scatters pure gold upon the earth. Who is it that kisses the master's threshold each dawn? It is clear: the sun, the sun, the sun. The threshold of Rukn al-Din Sa'id, leader of East and West, chief of sun-like rank, a master lofty as the heavens. Though the sun is bold enough to stare into the lion's eye, before his awe it turns yellow and trembling and hides its face in a veil. If it tried to compete with his loyal mind, the hot-footed sun would be stuck like a donkey in the mud. Does the sun dare enter by way of the roof, if one day the sentinel of his wrath should challenge it? If the sun of his fortune cast a shadow upon water, its body would never rise up in the shape of a bubble. A sun beyond him: does this even fit in the mind? Would anyone ever permit such an overreach? That one never breathed a breath except off the path of error; and this one never once stepped outside the way of the right. O you whose inkwell's blackness gives birth to a sun like dawn; O you whose sword-hand is like the greed of a slave-owning master. The sun has drunk a sip from the cup of your grace, so it keeps falling against door and wall like a drunkard in ruin. It weaves a rope to bind itself to you; that is why the sun's beam is always spun tight and pure as thread. Sometimes, ashamed before your judgment, it sinks into the earth like a nail; sometimes it twists in awe of you like a taut cord. Had the mountain's blade not been your hand's apprentice for years, when would it ever have grown rich enough to give? If your banner did not hoist the sail of the sun's ship, the sky's Nile would suddenly dry into a mirage. The shadow loses not a mote to the sun if your justice enforces the rule of accountability in the world. If your judgment did not wish it, in an instant the sun's guardianship of day and the moon's watch over night would vanish. By your heart and hand the horizons of the world are made prosperous, for the one shines like the sun and the other pours pearls like a cloud. Until it catches fire from the sun of your mind, how could a shooting star dare raid the assembly of the sky? Suppose the sun did gild the world's horizons with gold; from its gold one cannot make a case on any grounds. Generosity: it is your generosity that from your face and eye down to the enemy's has seized all the pure gold and lustrous pearls. O exalted one, in your praise a poem was composed so fine that the sun, like Mercury, recorded it in its book. My mind's warmth comes from the sun of your glory; otherwise, how would a nature like mine have this fire and vigor? The presence of the sun is sacred law; were it not, I would make my claim: poetry is of this order, so, in God's name, who dares reply? The shadow of your good fortune must endure forever; if the sun refuses to shine from the sky, let it never shine at all. So many people offer good prayers for your life that the sun keeps rolling within their answered prayers.