English
In Praise of the Great Minister Fakhr al-Din
It's a feast day: pass me the cup of wine. Now is the time to act. What are you waiting for? Seize the moment.
My skull is pounded raw by the drumbeat; only the cry of the harp and lute can soothe it.
For a long while I have kept my mouth shut like a bud, away from wine and roasted meat.
It's time that, like the narcissus, we lift our heads from sleep and drunkenness.
Let's pile up sins once more, for piety brings us nothing.
Gone is that age when the turning sky kept torturing my heart for no reason.
Now if fate quarrels with my heart, I answer it with two cups of wine.
From now on it's my hand and the wine cup; after this, my only wish is pure wine.
Wherever I see a drink of wine, I pitch my tent on it like a bubble.
Tonight all the world's affairs have been turned completely upside down, in every way.
The one who yesterday wouldn't even drink water in secret today drinks wine openly.
And the one who yesterday sat cloistered in the mosque today lies sprawled drunk in the tavern.
The glass that is a wine cup today was, last night, a lamp in the prayer niche.
Today the master of the wine feast is the man who yesterday led the congregation in prayer.
The cup is in full swing, cupbearer! Come now, seize this season of joy.
That rosy jewel of delight, which has caught fire and glows like an arrow's spark,
rise and bring it into the field of the arena, so it may circulate; that is only right.
Lift the veil from the daughter of the vine; this cover and concealment do not suit her.
The wine you missed during the fast, hurry now and make it up.
Pour that cup of ruby wine that has the color of a rose and the scent of rosewater.
Fling dust in the eye of sorrow like the wind, drawing over it a veil of fire made from water.
Reason, despite all this loose living, would bring this fiery water to its lips.
Wine like red gold, from which the heart's grief flees like quicksilver,
its foam clenched at its brow like coral over molten ruby,
so radiant in the cup, like a sun rising out of moonlight,
joy-rousing, delicate, and bright as the face of the noble, blessed minister,
the just lord of the age, whose words outshine the luster of every fine pearl,
the one whose like fortune, ever wakeful, has never seen even in a dream.
Beside the height of his honor the sky is bowed low; before the flood of his generosity the Nile is a mere mirage.
The one whose awe keeps even the wolf's fangs from tearing the throat of the flock.
You whose praise has become the chant on every tongue, whose kindness has become a collar on every neck,
your forbearance a treasure in your rival's soul, the swiftness of your resolve like the vigor of youth,
the spring of generosity's water draws its hope, its trickle, from the well of your fortune.
If a great lord came alive again at your door, he too would be counted one of your companions.
Under your hand generosity is like a rein, kissing your feet the heavens are like a stirrup.
It is from seeing the radiance of your judgment that the astrolabe turns its back on the sun.
Your lofty ambition is a sea whose shallows the sky has never found.
If the planet Mercury were not your praiser, the sky would hurl it away from itself.
Your envier's face is red because he has dyed it with the blood of his own liver.
Saturn's name turns lucky the day you call it your little servant.
Whoever opens his mouth against you, like a pistachio, comes out red-faced like a jujube berry.
Wherever you hand out silver in giving, the reckoning stands on your fingertips.
You are the one who, in the moment of giving, holds the clouds themselves at your fingertips.
Your grandeur, praise be to God, needs no listing of titles.
Fakhr al-Din, son of Nizam al-Din, is enough; more elaboration than this is unwarranted.
How can the sea match itself against your hand? Does it not fear your generosity might rebuke it,
suddenly lift its dust away, so that then not a drop of its water remains?
When the ship of thought reaches the ocean of your praise, it founders in the depths.
Your praise would not be exhausted even if they wrote two hundred volumes over.
As long as the world's affairs are set in order, may your affairs be well-ordered in the world.
The tent of your fortune and success has its ropes tied to the pegs of eternity.
Your judgment is right in every thought; your enemy is struck down in every state.
Spend this blessed feast in joy; may you find in the world whatever you desire.
Your lips on the rim of the rosy cup, your hand at the waist of a lovely one's curling hair.