Quatrains

The enemy who takes the spear from behind on the day of battle: I have no fear of my enemies' schemes. In the Quran itself, where there is a place for fear and hope, isn't there 'do not be afraid' spoken against rebellious foes?

Sometimes the morning breeze tears loose the violet's dark curls, sometimes it shatters the tulip's cup of wine. Sometimes the morning breeze sets a shiver across the water, and then, what a gentle breath the morning breeze exhales.

Where survival demands rising up, it is your spear, not your boasting, that stands tall. And where a hard problem must be answered, it is your sword that speaks at length.

There, where every sign dissolves into signlessness, the finger of imagination rests upon its lips, hushed. There, a flirting glance keeps its arrow drawn in the bow; beware, do not go, for there your very life is at risk.

May I always hold the hem of your robe in my hand, and wherever you set your foot, may my head lie beneath it. I cannot bear that anyone else should love you; my love, may the whole world be your enemy!

I am a candle: the mark of grief shows in me, and the burning of my heart shows in my brimming eyes. It is not from mourning that my burning shows; lately weeping and laughter can no longer be told apart in me.

If I open my lips tonight and let my grief pour out, my burning breath would scorch the very stars in the sky. Come, morning, make an effort too; maybe together we can turn this night into day.

Day came, and I sealed my lips shut; I emptied my body of its restless soul. Now that the night is what keeps me alive, perhaps, like a candle, I should keep the night alive too.

You were left friendless by the one who had no friend in you, and at ease was the heart that carelessly abandoned you. From dryness you are like an empty wine cup: whoever lifts you up is already fallen for you.

I call your sorrows joy, and give the name of fairness to all the cruelties you deal me. You left, and chose another over me; honestly, what can I say about your kindnesses?

When the morning breeze saw the rose in the garden, and saw it laughing shamelessly before you, at once it grabbed the rose by its foot on the branch, then rained down thorns on it like a storm of arrows.

The holiday has come, yet my pain stays the same, and the single grief I carried has become a thousand. My true holiday is the sight of that beloved face; so what do I care for anyone else's holiday?

From the spring of union my only share was tears; the rouge that colors my face is nothing but tears. Like the sky with its sun and stars, night and day I have one eye and a thousand drops of tears.

The grief of you lives in my body in place of my soul; longing for you runs through the marrow of my bones. This has gone beyond love; if there is anything above love, that is what I feel for you.

No friend comes to me in this heartbreak, and nothing is left to me but the grief of love. And still you tell me: keep your heart light. Quiet, now, which heart? Do I even have a heart left?

Your hair, loosed to the wind like that, undid me; it tore a cry out of my very self. So much befell me from those tresses that I no longer even remember the joy of seeing your face.

This raw, foolish greed has ruined my name, it wasted my days for nothing. I ask you for a little firewood, so it can cook this raw greed of mine into something ripe.

I give my heart to you, in spite of those who wish us ill; their quarrel will never pull me away from you. And even if I should die of longing for you, I will leave my love for you as an inheritance to my kin.

Those to whom fate never granted faithfulness, our being together sits badly with them. They want to pull me away from serving you, God, may their tongues be cut out.

Your blade makes kings your servants, and leads many of the lost back onto the path. In your hand it looks like a single drop of water, but it is a flood that has swept over the heads of your enemies.

That beloved whom they worship with longing, why did they wound it as they wounded my own heart? The wound that was meant for my heart, what pain, they bound it onto you instead.

Death is an illness with no cure; its command holds sway over king and minister alike. The king who yesterday ate the finest food of Kerman, today the worms of the grave are eating him.

Whoever knew both the heights of joy and the depths of sorrow sold away his whole existence for a single sip of wine. Like the narcissus flower, the one who truly sees makes a place for that intoxication in his own eyes.

The cup kept coming and going among us, until no blood was left in our veins, no wine in our goblets. So long did it stay in the cold, like a rooster's eye, that my crown turned red as a rooster's comb.

Though our sickly state is far from well, this rebellious heart of ours is the source of our pain. Like a candle, we made peace with the fire of grief; but this fire is really water that has passed over our head.