Another Poem in the Same Vein

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.