Ghazals

Get up and pour the rose-red wine, the joy that fills us within and without. Make me so drunk on this wine that I can't tell a mountain from a flat plain. Once the wine sets my head spinning, I won't count the turning sky as anything at all. The cup-shaped wheel of heaven drinks my blood; from this cup I'll take that blood right back. Spill a little more onto the ground, let even Korah's greedy mind get drunk, so that, out of sheer joy, he flings up the buried treasure from people's hearts. The wheel of fate throws down the wise, while the sky lifts up the worthless. You too, pour the wine into your cup, then strike up the measured music and dance. Draw the silken string across the harp, warm up that rose-red mount for the ride. So that, to break the army of sorrow, I can launch a night raid on the head of the wine jar.

Your face is what every heart desires; the joy of your sorrow lies upon every heart. The ring of your hair is forever tangled by the chatter of hearts. Beside the stream of your love, your hard heart has shattered the pitchers of hearts. Into the curling coils of your dark hair, fate has tossed the hearts like a ball. What is this plunder your hair commits, locking hearts up in their searching? One could follow you a thousand miles, guided only by the scent that hearts pursue. Since it keeps company with your tiny mouth, the temper of these hearts has grown so cramped and narrow.

When the tulip sprang up beside the fresh green grass, it almost seemed to be your face. The tulip spoke the name of your face, so it rinsed its own mouth with musk and wine. No rose ever bloomed except in memory of your cheek; no violet ever grew without the likeness of the down on your face. The cypress, serving your graceful height, has nimbly and eagerly tucked up its skirt at the waist. Whoever sought color and scent in the meadow was pointed instead toward your face and your hair. The bud finds its opening from the morning breeze, even though its tightness came from that same breeze at first. The sickly breeze nurtures the soul in ease, breathing in the pure, healing air. The playful movements of the sweet breeze made the bud's heart melt with laughter.

The rose has spread its finery through the garden, and lifted the veil from its face. Along the path of the morning breeze, in the shape of buds, it has scattered a hundred purses full of gold. The New Year has brought all the world's means of joy and delight together at once. The lily grew thirsty for the tulip's blood, and so it has stuck out its tongue. Like a musk pod not yet ripe, the tulip has scattered itself over every hill and valley. It has mixed blood and musk together, and cast them down as if worthless and unguarded. It is as if a startled deer, in its fear, dropped that scent on the roadside. The narcissus has flung the spittle of the clouds into the eyes of those who cannot see. At the arrival of the rose, the nightingale has raised a clamor and commotion all around. The lily has drawn its blade from water, and the rose has thrown up a shield of fire. It sank into its own thoughts the moment it gazed upon the rose's face. You would think the narcissus drank wine all night long, the way it hangs its head like a drunkard. No, no: out of shame before my beloved's eye it has thrown itself into ruin.

Whoever holds his own heart in his hands keeps all his wishes close beside him. He has no one to ease his sorrow, and the strange thing is: he himself is the comforter of his own grieving friend. How can I complain about my beloved, when all my pain comes from my own wounded heart? Whoever wants a friend only for his own sake is no lover; he loves only himself. The true lover in this world is the one whose whole existence lives and dies for the beloved. Though my clothes are soaked with tears, the fire in my chest still burns as before. I weep so much from my eyes that I feel ashamed before my own tear-filled eyes. You take my life, so take it, what can I do? By God, you too are counted among what is mine. In all your days there is not a single moment when you are not busy with your own affairs. I was apologizing to my sorrow, for my heart feels ashamed of the headache I bring you. You said: careful, do not speak this way, for serving you is my own duty.

The branch is green, the meadow glad; the world flourishes through the justice of spring. The moment the bud turns its face toward the open field, it loosens a knot from the heart's tightness. The cypress stands in service of the rose; the willow has fallen at the plane tree's feet. I am the servant of the musk-breathed lily, who alone is free from the bondage of the world. The violet's heart is broken, what can it do? It has bowed its head to the tyranny of the age. Every means of pleasure the world can give has gathered, all of it, into the cypress's hand. How can it shake an empty hand at the world? No one helps carry its load, no one lends a hand. Look at that bud with a knowing heart, how cheerful it stays even in its own sorrow. Because it knows the good and evil of this world are like a heap of flowers scattered to the wind.

Anyone who doesn't drink like a flower during the season of flowers, imagine they never existed in this world at all. The keen-eyed narcissus, once it saw the ways of the world, chose nothing but drunkenness and watching. Since the breeze became a weaver of robes and the cloud a scatterer of pearls, no beauty in the world is left without necklace and bracelet. The rose, shamed by the nightingale, tore its garment; for the bird is a great talker, and the rose cannot speak. If the tulip's wine cup shattered, that is only right, since hard granite is no place for playing with a fragile bowl. When the color and scent of milk comes from the lily's lips, why then is it not swaddled like a bud in a cradle? The wild rose on the bush and the blossom's petals in the air, in their outward forms, are nothing but fixed stars and wandering planets. Beneath its shirt the rose's beauty has no color, for the source of its charm is nothing but its face. Though sparks of fire may leap from hard granite, the tulip's fire was not struck from any stone. Among the cypress and the lily a heavy goblet of wine is needed; the gathering of free spirits cannot do without weight.

How marvelous is the whole affair of your lips; how precious is the reign of your lips. So many souls and hearts, like your curling hair, fall in love with the season of your lips. It seems my lips have drunk again from the sweet, delicious spring of your lips. For years I have stayed downcast, like your own eyes, drunk with longing for your lips. In all the mines of Badakhshan there is not a single ruby fit to match the worth of your lips. By your life, if only for one night I could take your lips' edge in my embrace, the way your fine down does. Like the down on your face, I would form a ring around that glistening ruby of your lips. In the whole household of my heart only half a life survives, a keepsake of your lips. I fear you are too delicate and it would hurt you, or else I would offer even that up to your lips. Since everyone takes their very life from your lips, I wish your lips would come to use for me again. Life is sweet, and my own life sweeter still, especially when your lips are half its work. Even if the soul showed a hundred thousand graces, in the end it would stand ashamed before your lips. The turquoise sky would bow into a ring before the jewel-adorned ruby of your lips. A painting on a wall would come alive if the passage of your lips fell upon it. My soul has grown sweet and delightful because it was raised at the side of your lips. Give me a kiss, for my wounded soul has risen to my lips, waiting for your lips. Like Khidr, I would find life everlasting if I drank from the flowing spring of your lips.

When will it be? When, that I step in through your door and fall against you the way your own hair falls? So that with kisses I may plunder the sweetness of your lips and the honey of your mouth. Ah, my heart has become tangled in your hair, bound to a single strand, like the belt around your waist. The ringlets of your hair have fallen into chaos, coiled and knotted one inside another. This burnt heart of mine, heap upon heap of ash, is worth nothing in your sight. I would pull my heart free from your hair, if only I had the strength to reach your head. Tears from my eyes, blood from my face, pour down at your door every moment, so they might shape a rose from its dust. If you would only let go of my life, I would give you, from a pure heart, a heart without fear.

I don't know what the nightingale told the bud, for its heart is so full of blood and its face so troubled. Perhaps the secret it shared with the morning breeze has been laid bare, revealed one by one across its face. You would think a fire had caught in the thorns, so many are the flowers that have burst from the rosebush. Only in the cupped ring of the tulip will you find the pearls that the eye of the cloud has strung. Though the narcissus is the mischief of the garden, I am glad that in the end the mischief has fallen asleep. On the tip of the stem the breeze laid open every small secret the rose had hidden in its heart. The narcissus showed two heads on a single stalk; bless it, how lovely, both single and paired at once.

The heart of the bud is gripped by grief once more: why has the violet's back bent low? The morning breeze means to lift the veil from her face, and that is why it holds the bud back from its breath. For the meadow, the fresh line of new grass is a royal decree, as if it has claimed the whole realm of joy for its own. Did my eyes glimpse the narcissus in a dream, that its eye has grown so moist from mine? The rose's nature was kneaded from musk and wine, so from these it took its scent and color both. Its work fell into disarray because of my love's tresses, and for this the violet has put on mourning. The tulip consented to the blood in its cup, for grief has seized its heart and holds it fast. The bud tells all its secrets to the wind; look at that simple heart, taking the wind for a confidant.

With your lips, the soul becomes the prey of your hair; with your face, all that matters is the work of your hair. The spring of the sun turns toward your face; the ring of night is the earring of your hair. At the wedding feast of your beauty, reason is caught, hand and grip, in the ornament of your hair. The edge of your cheek is full of fragrance; that is not down growing there, it is the scattered gift of your hair. What can I say? Brighter than your face is the chaos your hair has stirred through all these days. You have stolen a hundred thousand hearts, and still the snare and clutch of your hair keeps counting more. On the gold of my cheek, my crimson tears have drawn a picture: this too is the handiwork of your hair. A whole world of lovers, men and women alike, longs to rest in the embrace of your hair. Since your chin is the well of Joseph, our soul is held chained in the grip of your hair.

As long as the morning breeze opens its hand, let it loosen a knot from our heavy heart. Every blossoming the world receives from flowers comes from the breeze unfolding its breath. Every pattern and design in that meadow the breath of the morning breeze has spread open. You might think the tulip is spring's perfumer, unsealing a pod of Tartary musk. The smiling meadow is throwing a feast; that is why the bud has unfastened its collar. Who has wounded the heart of the iris, that it has opened its tongue in complaint? Out of empty hands, the poor plane tree spreads its palms like a beggar asking for alms. Hoping its own flower might grant a little gold, it opens its hand before it in prayer. If the cloud held no burning heart within, why would it pour water from its eyes?

What your love has done in this world, I swear to God, not even the turning sky has done. What grudge does your love hold against my heart? It stole my heart and now it's after my life. That is no beauty mark; it's the reflection of my eye, printing its mark on your delicate face. Your hat is rightly called a night-cover, since it hides your dark hair away. The sun throws down its shield before your face, even though it wields a hundred blades at its side. Ever since the sky learned coquetry from you, it has spent years perfecting the art. Why has that curling, twisting hair of yours knit its face into folds against me like that? It teased me, then took my life; truly, it has caused me such loss.

Anyone who has longed for her face has wished for a flower to bloom on the thornbush. My heart's loss of itself is exactly where it should be, because it has longed to see her. As long as my heart is captive to being apart from her, it has wished for death a hundred times over. Tell whoever has wished for this fate to come and first look at the state I'm in. Whoever asks for love without its pain has wished for a rose without its thorns. In my chest is a heart that eats itself alive, because it has longed for the sorrow of the beloved. It flees into the shade of her hair, as the breeze longs for the rose garden. Reason cannot cook up the dream of union with her, no matter how much it has wished for it. Know that I rain down tears like the seeds of a pomegranate, for her ailing, drowsy eyes have wished it so.

Your face is made of moonlight, your lips of sugar; each is lovelier than the other. How could anyone dare to kiss your face, when even to glance at it is a bold thing? It isn't that your waist is missing from its grace; the wonder is that a belt somehow finds a waist there at all. So the evil eye won't reach your lips, on every tongue their name is 'sugar.' A single kiss from your sweet lips and teeth, dear boy, is worth the blood-price of both worlds. Why do you call my face unwashed? My face is washed in the blood of my own heart. You treat me cruelly and I beg you: don't. You tell me it's good for me, and that is worse. I make my peace with your face and your teasing glance, for in you the rose and the thorn go together.

Today your face is lovelier than any day before, and your sweet lips are more delightful than my very soul. The sick, drooping look in your eyes, that drinks blood all day long, today even a fragment of it is sweeter than every other day. My heart welcomes the reaching touch of your curling hair, and the veil torn by your heart piercing glance is sweeter still. I begged you to give back my wounded heart, and you mocked me: 'Keep it. The ache you carry gets sweeter for you every day.' I am better off with the pain of your love, for even the candle is at its finest with tears in its eyes and a burning flame. Though your temper toward me is never quite kind, after all, the gossip that teaches me pain is still sweet to hear. Gazing at your face and drinking wine in your memory is always sweet, and in the season of Nowruz sweeter yet.

My heart aches with longing for the beloved's face; I never reach that love, and that is why I suffer so. Every pain and torment comes from this near side of love; once you stake your life on it, the work grows easy. If you are no true lover yet boast of love, what you call perfection is nothing but flaw itself. The first condition of love's path is a seeing eye, for the beauty of the beloved is no work for the blind. Once your sight is open, many veils remain, and you must come to understand each one of them. When you have passed, one by one, the veils of arrogance, the veil of your own self is a hundred thousand times as thick. When your own being packs up and leaves your sight, even a clod of clay becomes a mirror of the beloved's beauty. When you enter love's inner court through the door of sincerity, sin becomes pure worship and unbelief becomes faith. Love drives futile sorrows from the heart; when the love is true, the very pain is the cure. Through love's spirit one can live forever; blessed is the heart whose life is sustained by this grace.

The one whose command my head obeys, my heart is the ball he strikes with his mallet. I gave my heart to grief over him, and I would give my life too, if only her lips and teeth were truly hers. Whatever turmoil my heart is in, it is the reflection of that scattered, tumbling hair of hers. When you see Venus and the moon together, know it is the string and the ball caught in her collar. Whoever seeks her mouth, that fountain of life, dies of thirst, just as my heart does. The sun's own spring of light, for all its brightness, is but a single drop from the well of her chin. In loving her, patience, that once was drawn as tight as a bow, now hangs looser than the knot of her broken promise. The heart that beat so hard within my chest, I saw at last that even it was not one of his men. So let it be, if my heart is not under my command, for whatever it is, it belongs to her anyway.

The shadow of your hair spills down and my reason loses its way; I am a slave to your face, which shines like fifty suns. Ever since my eyes made me aware of your beauty, I have lost all awareness of myself; only God is aware. The lasso of your hair pulls me toward it because your hair is dark as jet and my face is pale as straw. The shadow of your beauty always falls over the sun, just as the sun's shadow falls over the moon. Your lip is caught fast in my teeth's longing, and chasing it, this grieving heart is forever at the mercy of my rival. Patience and wits have left my side, and before them my heart set off; now my eyes wait watching the road. In this lifetime, union with you cannot be found, for your promise is long and my life is short.

Moon of my dreams! There is not a single moment free of grief for you, not a moment when my heart is not tangled like your hair. As long as your hair and your graceful form lean together, no one's back or figure stays without its curve. I swallow the grief of losing you, and yet I am glad, for whoever carries grief for you carries no real sorrow at all. Who ever laid a hand on the edge of your curling hair without their heart turning as radiant as your face? I will not spell out my grief with a pen, for the pen has two tongues and cannot be trusted. My tales are long, but who can I tell them to, when I have no companion? In this world my only companions are the dawn and the morning breeze; beyond these two I have no friend at all. I should not tell my secret to the dawn, since its tongue has no firm lock to hold it. Nor should I tell the morning breeze, for the breeze drifts everywhere and keeps no confidence either. So I will go and tell it to your image instead, for who could I trust more closely than that?

My dark-hearted beloved has a face the color of tulips; tight-natured like a bud, and narrow-eyed too. Those weary eyes are like something sick, and each flirtatious glance carries a hint of limp and weakness. My love, enough with all this cruelty; everyone you look at has a reputation and honor to guard. I am always in a rush to be with you, even though on your side there is only delay. You are so hard-hearted, yes; you could be patient if you wanted, for there is stone inside you. Your two eyebrows are shaped like a bow, and every glance within them is a sharp poplar arrow. Why do you aim bow and arrow straight at me? Is there some greater war still left between us? When your tongue starts moving to make excuses, you would say one lame man is leaning on another. Whoever takes their color from your face has green freshness, a smiling mouth, and rosy cheeks, like a flower. I said my body is moaning in pain; you said: what is wrong with it? Bless it, it wails as sweetly as a harp!

The one sick with missing you is in a sorry state; while you are far, no peace is possible. In your time no one has shown a sign of it: who has found rest while longing to reach you? Among all the days the world has known, my day is a dark day, an empty one. My face pale as straw, my heart searching for love like a scavenger; every lover ends up caught in your sack. You grow angry at whatever I say; still, my friend, I have a question for you. Are you truly like this with your servant, or are you simply bored with the old tale of lovers? With every turn of the wheel of time, the grief of losing you gives my hand a fresh slap. The moon said: me and your face? Yes, well, everyone carries some fancy in their head. You tie a golden belt around your waist, even beside one as frail and broken as me.

You don't have the slightest concern for me; your heart takes no interest in my good or bad. What wrong did I do? On the dust of your doorstep even the dogs have a place, but I have none. You have countless lovers, it's true, but in devotion not one of them equals me. How can I find a way to reach you? How would I know, when this matter isn't in my hands at all? Don't tell me to be patient in my grief; that is beyond my love-crazed heart. You're excused: through your long nights you have no word of my eyes that measure out the dark. In the pain of longing, my heart remembers nothing; in your easy pleasures, you give no thought to me. My heart has lost itself in longing for you, yet your heart holds no longing for me at all.

From you I get nothing but heartache and blood of the liver. What can I do, my love, when nothing else comes of this? No one can tie a sash around your waist, because there is no waist there at all, nothing but the edge of the sash. Just remembering your lips is sweet to my mouth, though the taste of sugar never comes from the word 'sugar'. You said: look at the moon and the sun instead, if looking at my face gives you no pleasure. Though both of them are bodies of the utmost brightness, what I want from you is something moon and sun can never give. I asked your curls for my heart, and they only coiled tighter. Say it, don't be ashamed: if it isn't here, then say it isn't here. However much I speak with you, I get only a headache; none of what I long for, my dear, ever comes to pass. I offered you: one kiss from those ruby lips, and my life paid in full. Why this delay? Is it that nothing is to be had? I have given up all hope of you, for no wish of mine comes true without gold from you, and gold there is none.