In Praise of Him

Since my beloved drew that dark line of down across the rose of a cheek, my mount of patience is saddled and ridden off at every moment. The heavens, with hennaed fingers, keep raising the finger of astonishment, biting the star cluster of the Pleiades before that radiant face. Though the field of love makes even a king move his face like a pawn, and reason a mere foot soldier, his beauty advances it like a queen. You planted poison inside a box of sugar: see the bitterness of the answer that sweet ruby lip delivers. The dark curl of his hair robbed every perfume caravan the dawn breeze carried from Tibet and China. If he lets that dark line of down display the whole of beauty, he turns the pages of Mani's painted gallery into worthless scribbles. When the heart seeks escape from the chains of his infidel curls, it turns its face to praise the pillar of faith and religion. One whose resolve outpaces the racing steed of the sun; one whose calm the wild colt of the skies cannot match. So, my life of the world, how shall I contrive to reach you? How long shall I bleed my eyes and heart in the grip of your absence? The viper of your curl coils over emerald green: why should I keep casting spells, dazzled, upon your onyx eyes? If for one night I could clasp both my arms as a collar round your neck, I would make the dust of my feet a mantle for the sky's own shoulders. And if one night I became the cup bearer of your sweet ruby lips, I would drug separation with the opium of your curls in the cup of union. My heart, a ball in the polo curve of your hair, found the field too narrow, so how can it gallop about with patience? The fire of your love has kindled the ether within my heart: to quench it, how can I turn my eyes into a rushing river? Since praise of the world's high lord is woven into the core of my heart, with his help I will drive the torment of your love out of it. King upon the throne of knowledge, pillar of faith, chief of the world, the shade casting sun, the minister marked by royal favor. You from whose generosity sea and mine cry out in dismay, you from whose nature the fountain of life and the river of paradise flow. You cast the dice of your judgment into the bowl of heaven, and from the reflection of its pattern these seven stars arose. So that a mediator might string the necklace of the rational soul, pearls and gems rose for reason from the casket of your speech. And to perfume the senses of the dwellers of holiness, a ball of ambergris rose from the dots of your script. From every thorn the breeze of your nature grazed, at once, by the aid of your grace, a branch of narcissus sprang up. Is this a pen, or a stalk of sugarcane? For from its tip a hundred boxes of sugar rise for the parrots of reason. For the eye of Saedi, I mean for his very self, each month a crescent rises from the sky like the crescent mark of a horseshoe. Before your bright judgment, what is the sun? A mere flame. Beside your pearl scattering nature, what is the sea? A worthless beggar. You, the hope on whose bounty the destitute rely, the resource whose ample means come from that open handed grace. The nine heavens would be trampled to nothing in the dust of non existence if the seven firmaments dared match your rank for a single moment. The couriers of thought move only at your command; the shining ones of the sky bend their desire to your decree. The hand of fate would tear away this dark blue veil of the heavens if it failed to show your bidding obedience from the soul. The tip of your pen brushes the tress of the hidden lady of the unseen; the world of coming and going lies beneath the sole of your ambition. Without the curved calligraphy of your knitted brow, the heavens place no trust in the decree of the court of events. Whoever does not serve Saed as closely as letters cling together, may both his eyes be void of their black centers, blank as an empty circle. Ever since the enemy saw the candle of your fortune ablaze, from that grief his heart is stone and his harvest burnt to ash. You who by high resolve stand above the turning of the world, and by your noble essence are the crown of Adam's children. Your generosity has easily solved the hard riddles of poverty; your judgment is the trusted keeper of the guarded secrets of the unseen. The gleam of your countenance is the envy of the light of Moses; a breath of your grace is like the reviving breath of Jesus, son of Mary. You have made the stars of the sky a sword of your resolve; your grace has become balm for those the age has wounded. From your blessed, auspicious arrival at the banquet of the heavens, Venus's harp cried out in joy through its high and low strings. And to watch your procession from this enameled canopy, the shining ones came to the roofs of the seven celestial vaults. The banner of your rank, its finial beyond Saturn, went out and returned again under the shelter of God's grace. On this journey you rose ever higher like the sun, whose end, from the farthest reach, is always a fair homecoming. O lord, may the lofty palace of your worth flourish; beside it, may this polished marble mansion count as the humblest foundation. In the school of faith, where wisdom kneels to learn, may the scratch of your pen be the master of the speaking soul. Whatever silver and gold lie hidden in the belly of the mine, may all of it be marked as the gift of those two open handed palms. Since greed grew drunk and ruined from the cup of your giving, may the inhabited quarter of the earth flourish beside your justice. You whose thanks and praise are the refrain on every palate and tongue, may your eternal being ever be far from those the age has wounded. Whoever, like the lily, unfolds a tongue in your service, may he stand forever free from the bondage of fate, like a cypress. The lowly one whose water the fire of your wrath has spilled, may the harvest of his life be scattered to the wind by the hand of your awe. May the influence of the heavens turn away from your realm; may the business of fate's court depend upon your effort.