Appendices

My moon-faced love decided to go hunting and said: 'Rise, boy, and saddle the horse.' I said: 'You are well drunk and hungover from wine; what do you want with a horse in this state?' He tried again and said: 'To hunt partridge, I want to race the horse a while across the hills.' You would think the horse was made for his foot and stirrup, restless as his hair in the blowing wind. Like lightning, like Buraq, the horse flew through the air, out of longing for that silver-cheeked beauty. A hundred souls were prey to the talons of his two locks, while he spurred the horse beneath his thigh for the hunt. He rode on, and reason kept calling after him: 'For your servant's sake, hold the horse a moment.' He did not hear these words and rode on like victory itself, holding the horse in the stirrup of the lord and chief of the age. The just one, the light of state and faith, who in every battle hurls his horse against a hundred riders. A warrior who, when he raises the sword of vengeance among the Persians, makes the enemy's horse flee all the way to Zanzibar. By his hand, generosity has become famous through his gifts, and only the riderless horse remains as a keepsake of his foe in battle. O hero who, in pursuit of the enemies' lives, makes their very horses give up the ghost on the day of your charge. In the smoke of your rival's grief, his horse vanishes just as a horse disappears into the dust of a full gallop. Even if sparks from the fire of battle reach the sky, you drive your horse through the flames like Siyavash. On the day when your horse grows restless with the joy of war, beneath you it blazes like burning fire from your blade. When the champions and brave men of both ranks clash, their horses stay alive like Rustam and Isfandiyar. In that moment you strike into the enemy's line and with a single sword you cut down a thousand horses at once. Your horse turns into an elephant before the foe, and here it is fitting that a horse should move like an elephant. Before your sharp sword in battle, the enemy is like a horse before a hungry lion in the meadow. To flee in terror of your sword, the enemy, facing his death, cries: 'Bring me a faster horse.' When did an arrow ever pass by the edge of your fingernail in the moment you drive your horse through the dust? The armored enemy falls in the charge just as a horse collapses helpless from the pain of a hoof abscess. O Lord, on the palace walls of the painter no horse has ever been drawn to match your horse. On the day of battle, Shabdiz, Rakhsh, A'waj, and Yahmum, all four horses stand amazed at its gallop. And if the enemy takes shelter in a fortress out of dread of you, at once you enclose a whole world with your horse. At the gate of your enemy, from fear of your sword, the horse stands forever tail-docked and always despised. My lord, with this ode, which is a true test, it would be right if the horse took pride in it until Judgment Day. Among the people of learning and talent, no famous poet has ever ridden his horse into the field of this refrain. None but me, who tamed my mind to it the way a trainer skillfully breaks a swift-paced horse. But what use is it, when through my bad luck I roam the world forever aimless, like a horse without a bridle. When knowledge is scorned, talent serves no purpose; when the field is narrow, the horse is of no use. As long as a horse takes delight and rejoices by nature, wheeling through the green grass in springtime, May you always live in such a spring of victory that you ride your horse through a tulip field made of your enemy's blood.

You are my God and my master; when I praise you, my words bow before you. Forever beneath the seal of your love, this heart of mine grows soft as wax. On the day you scatter your gifts like loose pearls, they are countless, like the strung pearls of my verse. With such a custom of generosity, others come to know me by what you give. Truly, of all your bounties nothing is left owing to you but the gift you always grant me.

I have a horse who, far from your horse, lives forever longing for a handful of hay. He sleeps through the day as if it were night, for the whole world looks black in his eyes. For food he digs the ground for scraps of straw; that is why he is bent double. Dressed in rags, dust upon his head, he never stops crying out from hunger. His back is spared the saddle at least, since an empty belly is his only refuge. From now on he will not walk a single step, for that cornered creature has no strength left in him. Yet in a race he would beat this horse, you will see, the horse that is the king's own companion. In his belief there is no worse place beneath the sky than this stall. No hay in it, no barley, no green grass; what kind of stable is this in the end? He has forgotten even the tale of barley, for it is so long since he last saw any. This is the state of barley, plainly told; he has not eaten hay for a month or two. To break his fast at night, all that is set before him is a mouthful of grass and well water. One day a Yemeni blade would eat him up ... (line incomplete) He bites at my face, because he mistakes my hand for hay. The whole world, down to the mud wall of the stall, bears witness to his hunger. If you would come to his rescue, come now, for his condition has gone past all bounds of ruin. Do not be fooled that he still breathes; it is a single breath, and then he is no more. Say the opening prayer once and bring him hay, do this for him, for he is innocent.

Generous one, the thanks I owe for your gifts cannot be set down truly by the pen. Last night, waiting for your promise, a single breath stretched from nothing into being. Whoever gets a morsel stuck in their throat, help them along, for they have done no wrong.

I am a stranger, weary, and helpless, my Lord; from the bounty of your grace, send me one draught of healing. Like a tulip I am drowned in my own blood, in the fire of longing for you; send a gentle breeze from the world of eternal life. Your servant has gambled his soul for the scent of your mercy; from the hand of your forgiveness, send the gift you promised. Though a wound on your path is itself a balm for the soul, still grant us a share of the sweet medicine of your mercy. Since the blood of my soul was spilled upon your path, send me its ransom from the treasury of your grace. You are the physician who knows my condition; I dare not tell you to take this pain from me, or to send the cure. Whatever you know to be best for me, whether it is healing or death, send it, my God.

Last night a cry suddenly rose up: war has broken out yet again. I watched death after death, until even the living had no way left to turn back. With one of the learned, a man for whom untangling the knots of reason comes easily, I said: my friend, do you also see how chaotic the state of the world has become? He said: yes, it is the conjunction of the two ill-omened planets, and this hostility is the result of that. I said: but aren't all seven regions of the earth turning beneath the spinning wheel of the heavens? Far and near, forever above it, lie the orbit of Mars and the course of Saturn.

Why does it happen? For God's sake, at least this much we can understand: That the effect of every planetary conjunction the astrologers call unlucky lands right on the great mosque of Isfahan. And whatever they claim comes from the two auspicious stars, its effect falls on Qom and Kashan. So you may know this is all nonsense: everything is destiny and the decree of God.

A friend told me: be content, because the greedy man is always sad. Yes, contentment is a fine thing, but in the end you still need something to be content with.

When the story of a tyrant is read aloud from someone's book, look how both men and women heap curses on his soul. So today, do not do the cruel things that he once did, or else tomorrow all those same curses will fall upon you.

How wonderful is my love, by God, no one can match her; if I love her, she is worthy of it, by God. Truly, her burning passion is worth a hundred kingdoms; and even her anger and bitterness beat a hundred peace treaties, by God. For the freshness of her speech and her lovely words, one could gladly become the dust beneath her feet, by God. My soul kept longing to be with her; yet all of that longing was a mistake, by God. My heart would have unlocked the chains of its sorrow, but alas, the turning heavens gave no help. What do I hold in my hand that fate has not lodged in my heart? What task is there that this world has not made hard for me? To whom can I say that in this whole world I find no sign of a single kindred soul? In grief I have no companion; in need of counsel I have no wise friend. I cannot set foot outside my house for a single day without sinking knee deep in the mud. Rise, my heart, let me load my things onto the ox and leave, for I have no reason to stay in this place. I took two hundred wounds without a single groan; what happened, O Lord? I committed no sin. A single breath from my heart could set a world on fire; one gasp of mine could burn down a whole household. I dare not write down even one tale of my grief, for I fear the very tongue that reads it would burn. If one night I let a sigh escape my chest, it would set even the stars of the sky ablaze. What is it I carry in my heart, this thought of her, that every night burns a soul away for nothing? It would be fitting if within this chest of mine I had no heart left to burn a soul. Suppose my heart did break its vow, yes; but what grudge did the heavens ever have against my heart? I had a grieving, sorrow eating heart that I loved more than my own life. That heart of mine was a single branch of hope, one I kept ever moist with my tears. As long as I had any trace of her, I carried a whole world of turmoil and uproar within me. I searched long, and when no trace of her remained, all at once I tore my heart away from my heart. By God, if I ever caught news of her, God knows I truly held some word of her. Perhaps there never was a heart inside my body; or else, where did it go, if I ever had one? What message did he send from my own heart to me? What greeting did he bring me from my own heart?

It is lovelier than the gardens of Iram; it is the shrine of excellence and the sanctuary of art. Its dome is a crown fit for Saturn's height, even though its scale is modest and small. In the strength of its pillars, it locks arms with the mountains themselves. Time leaves no mark upon it, and disasters find no way to pass through it. To adorn the paintings on its walls, the sky and sun stitch in lapis blue and gold. You would rightly say that by its very design it is a copy of paradise with its eight gates. It is where the sun of good fortune rises, the resting place of happiness and victory. May the master of the world dwell in it forever, as long as the heavens keep turning on their axis.

You, earth, are the very sky of Saturn; your threshold is the prayer-direction of every hope. You are the lofty roof, the ever-inhabited house; beside you all else is worthless and neglected. The mirrors of the heavens are polished bright by the mere reflection of your walls. Your carved vaulting holds the moon and sun tucked under its arm like two small tiles. The pilgrim's hand and the ring of your door cling to each other like a ball to a mallet. Before your sun-emblems the moon and the sun are like counterfeit coins beside true alchemy. The howling storm of Judgment Day cannot bring the least crack to your walls. If, to adorn the world of dust, life descended to earth from Saturn's sphere, then to grace the world of the divine, this building rose up in place of the heavens. A Kaaba built by Ishmael's hands, through which the faith itself was raised to high standing. In this world of coming and passing, fortune and good luck arrive by no other gate. When the wheel of heaven took up its doorkeeping, it said: seek no better house of good works than this. When the world's chief granted audience within it, the sky declared: to blessed places belong all fortunes. He is the support of the nation, the pillar of the faith, whose generosity a revealed verse describes. From his rank the planet Saturn draws its worth; his glory has become a proverb through the ages. The honor of excellence comes from his threshold, just as the sun draws its from the sign of Aries. Lord, grant him years of life so many that the reckoning of numbers falls short of counting them. When the tip of his pen began to scratch and write, all the knots of hope were untied at once.

Lord, you know that in all these years of my life, not a single day has passed the way I wished. I have endured every kind of hardship and pain throughout my life, more than anyone could count. And now death has come close, and inevitably all my affairs are falling apart, one against another. This world has passed as you well know, and the next, I fear, will pass a hundred thousand times worse. Lord, what would it matter if such an existence had never been, since nothing in either world ever went right because of it? And though these words should not be spoken, my God, like my other sayings, let this one too go and forgive me.

Mufti of the faith of kindness, you whom even the heavens long to run alongside, holding your stirrup. Every dawn in spring, the morning breeze washes the faces of the flowers with the water of your grace. I have brought a question for a ruling to your presence, for everyone seeks their answers from you. If someone asks this humble servant, this pilgrim, 'What did you gain from this journey?', what should he say?

You great one whose resolve broke the heart and back of this mean turning sky. Fate, out of the honesty of your fairness, raised up the ceiling of the heavens on its pillar. Whoever set his face to fight you, know that his stubborn luck brought him down. And whoever nursed the dream of rivaling you found the end of his effort turned upside down. A guilty man aimed to kiss your hand, and bent his back into a curve like the letter nun. The tip of an eyelash struck the eye of the law, and out of stillness drew tears of blood. From the lancet's cut the blood came out of the skin, and danced to a rhythm of shifting colors. Yesterday the lancet, from your blessed hand, like a hunter came at the moment to draw blood. A Khizr was led toward the water of life, since keen fortune became his guide. The fingernail of the blade struck the vein like a plectrum on a string, and the basin gave back the sound of an organ. Lightning of the lancet, through the split of the cloud of grace, brought forth a vein of rain the color of tulips. I said: that hand was a sea, so why did it bring out rubies from within, like a mine? From the jasmine branch a redbud blossomed; now the heavens have brought in this new custom. A twilight glow emerged from the column of dawn, as the hand of power put it to the test. A necklace of ruby from a rod of crystal, the diamond's point conjured up by magic. How did the bloodletter's hand bring molten fire out of the heart of frozen water? It struck me as strange, and this state made my wonder grow greater every moment. At last a very fine meaning brought a versatile thought to my mind. It said: no, the master's hand is a sea that crushes the pride of the Oxus with its waves. The lancet is a dark diver that fate sent down, humbled and head first. When it plunged its head into this sea, it brought up a branch of coral from within.

Which generous, honest soul among you would come to me and put in a good word or two before the honored lord? For your servant, being decent by nature, rarely writes filthy or obscene verse against anyone. But now and then, just as payment in kind, his temper flares, and when the need arises, he writes satire too. There is no blame, no fault at all, in the one who freely lets his pen praise or condemn the world.

Never keep company with common people, for they will shrink your good name down to their own small measure. Even if company with the common crowd were paradise itself, death would be better; let the death of the common be far from me.

How splendid: even the highest heaven ranks beneath you, and every kind of praise reason can conceive falls short. You are the one whom art itself calls its stronghold, safe from the sudden blows of fate. The sky turns joyfully on itself because it counts itself equal in worth to you. Why would anyone bother with sun and cloud, when they know the road to your hand and sleeve of giving? Where the vanguard of your generosity marches on the path of gifted people, what enemy could hope to lie in ambush? The heavens, whose deeds follow your judgment, treat your favor and anger as the very source of love and hate. Not one speck of the sun stands apart from your shadow, for it knows its own brightness depends on this. By your shadow the sun has become known and honored, since everyone judges a companion by the company they keep. How could the guide called imagination reach your court, when it knows the way only as far as the seventh sphere? In many years the bright-hearted sun cannot grasp the fine point that your far-seeing mind takes in at once. Great one, this humble poet is a follower of your fortune; heaven counts my soul as pledged to your love. He brings less trouble to your presence because he knows the weariness of that gentle nature. I shorten the long night by praising you; the honest dawn is my true and faithful witness. I bring my words to your seat, to which they are devoted: only someone who knows the worth of this precious jewel. People of fine taste know the value of graceful words, as the jasmine petal knows the worth of the morning breeze. There are many poets, but only the one with true taste can tell the water of life from a filthy ditch. God knows whether I can find, among these poets, anyone who even understands the plain meaning of dark-eyed beauty. How can I bring my words to one so careless that, with great effort, he still mistakes left for right? What difference is there between me and others, in the eyes of one who takes Rostam's warhorse for a lump of clay? How can anyone seek a cure for their pain from someone who counts a thorn as sweet manna? All my humility comes from expecting nothing from anyone; reason knows this story of mine for certain. When expectation is cut off... the one who reckons himself lower than this or that. I kept putting a question to the old sage, reason, for he is the one who knows the cure for a grieving heart. I asked: who is it that can share the sorrow of gifted people? He answered: Baha al-Din, the master, knows how. Do not withhold your kind favors from this poet, for he counts them as his only treasure in the world. I know you as my patron and pray for you; God in His glory knows this of me.

You of praised qualities: over the army of the needy, the flood of your generosity always holds sway. To the question that was raised in your service, give me an answer: whether you act or you speak.

Surely this tree is cursed, for it bears nothing but sorrow as its fruit. Yet I feel drawn close to this tree, just as Adam was drawn close to the forbidden tree.

You who judge the ways of generosity and grace, what is your ruling in a case like this? Concerning a man so helpless and undone that everyone who sees him feels pity. He lies sick in some forgotten corner, measuring out his life in empty breaths. The cost of his illness cannot be avoided, and on top of that his house needs repair. And winter's arrangements press right behind, a season that carries the scent of disaster. Yet he has not enough silver left even to polish the surface of a mirror. In such a plight, would it be right for him to ask his wealthy patron for some gold?

Whatever of these formal words remains, time has left it in my hands. But what good is it, when time won't grant me even a breath to speak?

You have hidden yourself so completely behind your beard that no eye has seen anything of you but your eyes. Besides your beard, you shameful man, no one has ever seen a hairy shield concealing such a secret.

From the first down on the cheeks of the army's Turkish beauties, this one gain will stay with me forever: that from now on, out of shame before their faces, the down will never dare to rise on the cheeks of those Turkish beauties again.

Whoever is nearer to you know that he is the poorest and most needy of all. And whoever seems farther from your presence is, through your grace, ahead of everyone. Though the left hand is closer to the heart, the strength of the right hand is greater.