Fragments

You are Shahab al-Din, the whole world of knowledge and meaning; even the eye of reason falls short of grasping how much you know. From your seasoned judgment learn the glory of your youthful fortune; a young man is worthy of being tutored by such an elder mind. The world has grown so parched from the famine of decency, that I found no eloquent tongue moist except in praise of you. When your painter's pen opens its hand to its craft, you would think you held the soul of Mani himself upon your lips. The hidden things veiled in mystery are not safe from you; why? Because your pen has revealed every secret so beautifully. Your pen reconciles the opposites of this world with one another; God be praised! Can such power dwell in mere pen and ink? The hot tempered turn pale before your gold scattering pen, for each moment your words feed a whole realm of sugar. Though the world's affairs were built on discord, I saw the whole of it united in thanking you. At once the fresh tulip and narcissus spring from its point; recalling your grace, I would one day hand it a spear. O fortunate youth, O master of talent, though you have no care for it, out of kindness lend an ear to a strange tale. From this court I need only insults and a bully's protection, not for myself, God forbid, but to deal with a certain scoundrel. In these times, no one out of baseness has the spirit to generously look after one who sings his praises. With a hundred tricks, with heart's blood, over a lifetime I earned only a paltry ruined little estate barely worth half a loaf. From the cruelty of one or two nobodies it is now more than two years that I have not moistened my mouth from its yield. What harm, in these days when kings themselves are being crushed, if by your standing I could crush a mere garden keeper? Unjust bailiffs sit in every house with their grip; for this just cause it would be right if you sent me one bailiff too. I have rendered you no service, yet each moment I trouble you; answer me quickly, have you ever seen a burden like me? I bring so much trouble that I fear you will order the doorman: shut the gate whenever you see so and so. May you live on, more than a hundred years, in the delight and desire of your heart, for men of merit rarely find a kind soul like you.

Yesterday, when I heard your horse had suddenly stumbled, my heart was bruised by the news, just as your side was bruised. Scolding the horse, I said: 'You donkey, why did you throw your master off? What a wrong you did!' The horse replied: 'After all, I'm no kinder to him than his own mother and father. So what is it you're saying to me?' 'His father didn't drop him from his back in some worse place, nor did his mother slip and harm him while she carried him.' 'My only fault is this: that at that moment, as his foot left the stirrup, his head didn't come clean off his body.'

You, to whose service I have given everything I have, both what is hidden in me and what is plain to see. In my whole life the wheel of heaven has never dared a single move against your will. It seems my true condition is unknown to my master's mind. I hope you will lend a generous ear and truly listen to your servant. A long time has passed, as long as this turban, and you still have not given me even one cloak. Your generosity has honored everyone with fine robes, the ignorant and the learned alike. How strange, can you really bear to see a young man like me in clothes like these? For every week this is my chore: to freshen up and patch this worn old thing. A good sum of silver piles up on me, spent on refreshing it and on mending. So much do I wash and beat again my own cloak and my turban. It would have fallen to shreds under the pounding of the wash if my clothing were not made of solid granite. And if this deprivation is a fate reserved for me alone, then give me the silver to keep washing and beating it, so I can finally get these off my back.

You, great one, before whose mind all the secrets of the heavens lie open and clear. This humble well-wisher came to serve you many times, meaning to sing your praises. I had strung together, ready to present, my prayers, my service, my praise and tribute. But your doorkeeper would not let me in, even though I showered him with kindness and patience. I turned back from your gate, wishes unmet, scratching the back of my neck in embarrassment. This nagging doorkeeper is our curse; such is the tale they have handed us. They say prayers can turn a calamity away, so, Lord, turn this calamity aside. But at your gate the opposite is true: here it is the calamity that turns the prayer away.

The many arts of kindness shown by my lord, the noble Majd al-Molk, made me his servant, and cost me nothing. I was shamed by his slender pen: before I had even come near him, he rose to his feet for me. Though I had not yet bowed to serve him like a curved wine flask, he filled my mouth with laughter, brimming like a cup. What sorcery is in the tip of his pen, that with a single word it made me fall in love with him? Though I had no easy way to feel at ease in his presence, still it left me longing for that place. With graceful courtesy, from afar and with fingertip kindness, he greeted me first, outdoing me in nobility. When his gracious address raised me high, the heavens honored me beyond all measure. With the tip of his pen, which strings together the jewels of art, he arranged my scattered affairs like a necklace, giving them order. When the sun of his glory shone on me from afar, I was a crescent, and he made me a full moon. The tenderness with which he singled out this servant left me bound in gratitude for his boundless generosity. What excuse can I offer for a care I hardly deserve? Through him fate took revenge on me for all its past cruelty. With a single greeting he sent, remembering me, he set all the world's well-being under my name. When the dawn of his fortune smiled upon my face, it filled my arms with stars, as if it were evening. I have no words of apology in this matter; my helpless hand has laid itself upon my head, holding the reins. I still hope to put my thanks to him into verse, for his kindness has turned every affair to my heart's desire. I will trouble your noble self no further, for good manners, my teacher, have made me deliver this message.

You, whom even the sun's cutting blade obeys, its power and sharpness bowing to your command. Before the majesty of your station the heavens stand helpless, their seven spheres stalled in their work. In the dark night of disasters, your mind is like the dawn breaking, a hand of light shining through. Your love in the hearts of gifted people burns like thirst in the scorching desert. Though my failing is so great that it has passed beyond any hope of pardon, My holding back was never a choice of my own, for a human being is a servant bound by fate. One can grasp this much, for even in acts of worship a duty can be missed and made up later. All of this is so, and still I wait for you to turn toward me with a look of favor. When the true dawn presents its clear excuse, the stars forgive it and look away. From your generosity my hope is this: first your forgiveness, and then your approval.

You who by wise counsel guide the will of kings, you who, in truth, are the model for all scholars, chief of the free and the pride of faith and nation, from your hand every craving finds its plenty. At the palace of your worth, Saturn and Venus stand as slaves and servants at your gate. The moon on your threshold is like a slender eyebrow; Mercury attends your presence as a boon companion. Your noble being in this desolate world is like meaning hidden in the heart of a name. Folded within your smallest subtle point lies the accumulated wealth of ages of sages. The narrow eyed beauties of Khallukh and Yaghma wear the ring of servitude in the ear of your magic pen. Before the riddles of your mind, even the eye of the sun stands baffled and unsolved. The heavens would halt their turning if your command reached them, apart from us. Exalted lord, whose threshold the assembly of the heavens itself calls a sky above the sky: The army of winter has arrived and undone the sun's warmth and the strength of its heat. It has locked the water beneath planks of ice, and stripped the branches bare of their garments. The warm spring of the sky that measures the heavens has grown as feeble as my darling's languid eyes. Faint and weak, from behind the veil of cloud, it only gestures with a coy wink. The sky, so fair of face, tucks a brazier of ether under its skirt to keep warm. You would say that earth and sky have folded shut, bubble upon bubble, one against the other. The flame of fire is like refined gold, while our page has turned to raw, pale silver. In the domain of the garden the growing power has been dismissed from the work of sprouting. From the thunderbolts' crashing, the snow lays cotton wool in the ears of the deaf, solid rocks. The stream of the Milky Way, frozen over, has become a dark tangle of the stars' hair. They have all become sun worshippers, the fools of the age and the wise alike. No one has any desire left for shade, even if that shade were cast by the phoenix. From cold the body is frozen like indigo and madder dye, congealed in the sweat of its own blood. One who has a fur coat, like an egg in its shell, draws it tight around himself, and yet, whoever, like that other man, is naked, is now seized by fits, now falls into a faint. And the one wrapped in quilt and night sheet is not, by night, as snug as a date's pit in its fruit. You will soon see him like a walnut, his skin gone dry and hard as leather from the cold. In this bitter, killing frost my own clothing is senseless and empty, like your promises. Since no one stuffs the wretched cold's mouth with anything but fur, be kind and generous. Clothe our back, for you have always been the warmth and support at our back. Though there is a flaw in a rhyme or two, which was not the practice of the ancients, forgive it, for in such a tight strait there is no telling apart my aim from yours.

They kept telling me, again and again, about the master's many favors toward me, but I never saw a single trace of that favor show up in my life, for better or worse. Perhaps, in the belief of these great men, the name and the thing it names are one and the same.

Last year you wrote me a few lines, and because of them my life turned sweet and joyful. Be kind and write to me once more, for a second letter would be even lovelier.

At the memory of your generosity, in the banquet of the heavens Venus has drained cup after cup of wine. The forearm of your pen, drawing from the well of the inkpot, lifts up every desire and fulfills its wish. At every moment the greatest star of fortune hands over its messages to you through good luck. Your kindness, in all its varied grace, has set snares along the path of every heart. Your wrath has shattered from the root every tooth, choking your enviers with their own longings. From dread of you the tips of arrows sharpen, and the hair on your enemies' bodies stands on end. There are many famous people in the world, but Sad al-Din is the original; all other names are mere copies. Every hour the movement of your pen grants the kingdom fresh peace and calm. Your open-handed generosity constantly pours rewards upon people of skill and art. To me, your well-wisher too, you have granted a kind of reward in these days. It is not hidden from your enlightened judgment that the essence of honoring lies in seeing it through to the end. Though by my nature I am bound to avoid this sort of pressing and asking, if this promissory note is not honored by you, then it is just me, my poem, the trouble, and my nagging. And if I bring you more trouble than this, then you know best, and there will be curses too.

You hold your honor cheap and your wealth dear, ...to base things. Your great wealth comes from your own lowness; so don't let it swell you with the drunkenness of pride. And it is from the loftiness of my ambition that I bear this poverty and empty hands. Wealth is like water, and water always feels the pull toward the lowest places.

Your sharp resolve rushes on like a life in a hurry; like the turning of fate, your gifts come without measure. The tip of your pen has become the maker of all forms, and your generous hand the master of every neck it sets free. The north wind claims its gentleness from your grace, and the height of the sky owes its rank to your worth. It is from your wrath and your kindness that the tulip busies itself with fire and the narcissus with water. Against your bright judgment, what use is the sun, except to grow hot and fall into restless confusion? Your dark-faced pen stands ready as a servant, from whom no hidden secret stays veiled. No discernment is left in the age, so that reason might still tell your words apart from a lustrous pearl. The heavens, a mere speck beneath the shade of your glory, draw the sun's blade only in service of your wish. Your enemy floats upon the sea of his own tears, short-lived, unsteady, and hollow-headed like a bubble. If the flower bud took warmth from your justice, the morning breeze would not dare tear the veil from it. O foremost of the age, you know that this humble servant has never come to trouble your presence. From my post and my work I hold only a small village, whose cup has been ruined by the cruelty of fate's cycle. In the days of your reign, when out of fear of your justice the tulip dashes its wine cup against the stone, it would be no great wonder if your justice restored this ruin through a fair accounting. It is a good deed; and if you lend your favor to it, the servants will offer prayer, and God will grant reward. You have no need of this servant's prayer, for prayers that are answered are already bound to your soul.

My great patron, generous chief, your rank rises beyond any title. I am wronged and have no helper; look to the plight of my broken heart. I earn my keep through poetry and the gifts of the great among my companions. This is no true sufficiency; it is the shame of the ancestors and the disgrace of their heirs. If you do not come to my aid, then it is just me, the long night, and the prayer niche. I know the beloved and bountiful one will drive off the injustice done by the cruel plunderer.

Light of the faith, you whose very being is a mine of art; and what is that mine? It is nothing but pure jewels from end to end. Whoever carries the love of you in their head is kept alive, like a candle by the light of the heart. For the young bride that is your mind, the sky's caskets are brimming with ornaments. Amber comes from the sea, so why wonder? Your sea of poetry sits at the very heart of amber. Since it saw that jewel-bearing nature of yours, the sea's hem is wet with shame. You ask for poetry, but your servant has for some time now grown distant from verse and poets. If poetry once had its glory, in this age it is strangely scorned. Wherever there was a circle of learning and virtue, all its ears are now deaf and shut to it. The nightingale of my nature sings less, because the branch of generosity is stripped of leaf and fruit. The ship of those with talent has run aground, for the waters have found another channel. That is why I keep silent like a lily, for this crowd, like the narcissus, has eyes fixed only on gold. In any house where a daughter is born, silence there is fitting and proper. Why should I not be silent, when out of my words so many daughters have been born at my side? As long as the work of art stays like this, pity the poor soul who nurtures meaning. Still, I have sent a few lines in your service, so you may know this servant obeys your command. In serving you I need no excuse; your own kindness pleads on this servant's behalf.

You are the master for whom the best key to the vault of hidden secrets is your problem-solving mind. Where your face is, there lies the delight of the heart and all knowledge; where your judgment turns, there the moon and stars bow down. Your resolve travels only the stages of good fortune, as long as the light of your clear judgment is your guide. The alchemist sun and the jewel-bearing sea, when you look closely, are each truly your beggars. How can reason reach the rank of your greatness? Where its end lies is only your beginning. The parts of the universe pray for you, for your endurance is one of the pillars of all creation. In your absence, every dawn at the door of need, my soul holds the scroll of your praise like a litany. A heart full of hope faces you, while both my eyes, brimming with tears, are turned behind you. The soul within my body is bound firm by your love; the life that slips away spends its passing on longing for you. Though at your court I do not stand in that high favor, how could I ever be a stranger when my heart knows you so well? When I listen, my whole desire is talk of you; when I glance, my gaze is fixed on seeing your face. For a long time now, at the doors of the people of this age, the whole measure of my breath has been your praise. I fear it may leap out from the balcony of my eye, these few drops of blood that are the seat of my devotion to you. When I dare to knock boldly at your door, the doorkeeper of your grandeur asks: who are you to be here? You have granted the decree that your customs hold sway; the custom I cannot do without is your good pleasure. Do not hear this humble plea from me; hear it from your own generosity, which calls out that this one is the dust of your feet. I have spent the ready coin of my life on the road of your praise, and the little that remains, that too is for you.

You are a world of grace and generosity, lord of all masters of art; your gifts, like your merit, have no end. The long life of hope comes from your brief pen, for the garden of your kindness blooms and smiles from its weeping ink. The bounty of favor opens only through your pen; that pen is nothing less than the vein through which your goodness flows. It is clear from your grace that you are the very soul of art, for your nurturing of art rises from deep within your heart. Layer upon layer of jewels in your musk scented script, like tears from lovers' eyes on the night of separation. Your world of grace is the resting place of the soul, and wherever you step, a garden and green meadow spring up. Your radiant judgment is both shade and sun; your keen mind is both fire and sweet basil. In your grace and generosity, listen to my story, for my mind wanders lost in this affair. A share of Karamabad that is rightfully mine has for two years now lain ruined by the cruelty of fate. You, whose pen holds the very law of generosity firm, do you know why forgetfulness has crept into that pen? My grief is that this grant is being written on the bark of a poplar; what is written on a leaf is easier still to erase. Show your kindness and renew it with your signature, for that alone is my livelihood in this world.

I don't know what has become of your wealth, that it lies scattered like your restless mind. You hand it out a single coin at a time; it's clear this is the end of your life.

The trickster sky, from behind the veil of the unseen, has pulled another joke: everyone, say a prayer! Another daughter has arrived for me, and all at once the joy of living faded and the water of life drained away. If the fruit of my loins keeps to this pattern, I will find no hint of cure, no scent of rescue. If there is to be no more than a second daughter like Rabia, it would be better that such blessings pass into nothingness. From now on no pleasant words will be born from me, for the daughters of my thought have turned into thoughts of daughters. God made daughters to follow the funeral bier, from the very day the heavens began to turn. Burying daughters has always been counted a noble deed, whether they are alive or dead.

Your promise has eased my mind and freed me from grieving over all that is lost. Yet my anxious heart is not at rest, for it knows that delay breeds trouble.

Be straightforward, and adapt yourself to fortune, so it bends you like a bow to match its will. Don't overreach, and don't be sharp and pointed, or they'll fling you away like an arrow.

For a paltry little pension I have troubled you again and again. Not a single coin of it ever comes through, and I know full well that you are aware of it. Either this stalling of yours comes from helplessness, or it is sheer stinginess that blocks this small sum. There is no wool in your cap; your cap is as empty as your father's head.

Generous one whose foundation of power stands higher than the peak of the mighty heavens, Among the generous you hold the same honor that souls hold over lifeless bodies for me. As long as the cloud of your generosity keeps weeping, the field of my hope keeps laughing in bloom. The cold has grown so fierce that the breath in your nose rasps like a file. The sun, that candle of the sky, is weak and dim, like the lantern of a thief. The day, short like me from the cold, is barely half of what it used to be. Spit freezes in people's mouths; from the icy breath it turns to a block of ice. The bones in my body chatter from shivering, clacking like my teeth. Whoever owns a fur coat and woolens holds his head high like a wealthy lord. In this hair-splitting frost, cotton wadding is as useless as wool laid against an anvil. Warding off cold by a hair's breadth, that is what tells the wise apart from the fool. My chin trembles until every hair upon it shakes. Shine a sun of generosity on me, for in this cold my own skin has become my prison.

You, sky of glory and generosity, Izz al-Din, the age's one and only: your hand and pen move in step with destiny itself. The new moon has become the world's point of reference, since its slender curve matches the brand upon your horse. Whatever your noble judgment gestures toward, the way of the heavens is simply to obey and comply. By your good fortune even opposites made peace, so that joy and skill now embrace each other. Your servant stays devoted to this court in heart and soul, even if in body he is far from its threshold. In any matter that has sought the help of your standing, your delay too springs from sheer contrariness. Even so, pay your servant his due, if this attentiveness comes from the side of true friendship. And if it is love by nature, what more is needed? For you, who share such affection with lordship itself. For God's sake, send a single rider; do not blame me, for your own step is what mends my ruin. The rider of tyranny has wrongly seized the whole world; a single rider of justice would end all this distress.

Chief of the free and noble, Shah al-Din, so generous: mines and oceans became like the palm of your hand from your giving. Your enemy is closed and heartsick with envy of your rank, like a bud; greed grows drunk on the cup of your bounty, like a narcissus. The house of Gemini, whose height has no equal, now stands like a lowly threshold beside the pavilion of your fortune. Every worry and grief left the heart of anyone who in all their life sat with you for even a moment. Foul fate drove me far from serving you with its dark dealings; may the face of this base, groveling sky turn black. Since fate flung open the door of separation from you upon me, the wheel of heaven shut its door of joy and delight in my face. A long time has passed since your kindness remembered me; truly, from grief over that, my soul tore loose from my body. I cannot reach you, and no letter reaches me from you; I know there must be some cause behind a trial like this. I know a scrap of paper is no great sacrifice for you, for your kindnesses toward me have always been constant. Either the tongue of your pen has been blocked, like my road, or your scribe's hand has broken, like the foot of your servant.

You whose words are jewel bearing, next to yours any effort in the world is like digging in a barren mine. Day and night the work of your heart warming nature is to tear the roots of sorrow out of your friends' hearts. If you have an enemy, then Mars, the warrior of the sky, is busy digging their grave. Enduring the separation from your service is like clawing through mountains and anvils with bare nails. There is no cure for parting from you but union, like drawing out an aching tooth to end the pain. Without you, far from your face, my only trade is to bite the back of my hand in grief. If I go on living in this separation, it is not living at all; it is dying by inches.