English
In Praise of an Unbending Will
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.