English
In Praise of Him (Again)
Your rank rises above the sky through your resolve;
the eye of the heavens has never seen your equal.
The moon is the finial atop your grand dome;
the horseshoe of your sky-crossing steed.
You bind and loosen the world's designs;
with the wisdom of an elder and the fortune of youth.
Your pen turns your enemy's day to darkness;
the world of law grows bright from your judgment.
The stars in the sky, like the studs on your shoe,
plant kisses on the sole of your foot.
Whatever secret is sealed in the hidden world
is but a cloth in the hand of your knowing mind.
In the studded coffer of the sky,
your lofty station is trampled underfoot.
Your canopy is the shade of the glorious Throne;
your court reaches the summit of a towering palace.
The world lies beneath the hand of your resolve;
all creation is a dependent of your grandeur.
The green-clad angels of the heavenly realm
are residents in the precinct of your presence.
The new brides of the mind's inner chambers
are raised and nurtured by your praise.
The heart of the sky has filled with blood, like a bud,
from the sheer force of your majesty.
Truly, the tempting soul within
has been subdued by the sword of your purity.
The sky, that blue-robed Sufi in its nature,
is a servant at the lodge of your high resolve.
Praise be to God, for through your reign's good fortune
the world's affairs have found their steady course.
Your foe threw dust on his own head in defeat;
the sky itself lay its head before you in the dust.
Your generous hand is the goal of every hope;
the dust of your feet is a crown for Saturn.
Preserved upon the tablet of your thought
is all that was inscribed on the page of eternity.
Before the light of your luminous mind
the eye of the sun is clouded and dim.
Amid all its yeses, saying yes,
your enemy bows before you as at the primal covenant.
Your wrath is the champion of that host
whose least vanguard is death itself.
The pearl is dazzled by your bounty;
for this it is written down as beneath your hand.
Your enemy is baseless, like a fable,
yet beaten by the people, like a proverb on every tongue.
The whirlwind of your vengeance, little by little,
kindles fire out of the water of life.
You whose mind is bound to reason itself,
by whose life the sacred law is sworn.
The fire of your thought has brought
the neck of the wind into the bend of its lasso.
It has come to this: the lofty sky
feels shame before your threshold.
Out of nothingness a child is born to your foes,
ring-collared like a turtledove in mourning.
Like a sparrow held by a falcon, your enemy
will remain bound by both feet until he dies.
To ward off the evil eye today,
your enemies' house serves as burning wild rue.
In the end, all that rising your foe enjoyed
for a few days was only the last flare before the fall.
Yes, yes: a lamp without oil
flares up at the very moment of its dying.
Since the world first knew the rule of conquest,
it remembers no triumph like this one.
Under your protection our wounded soul
at last won justice from the turning fate.
The sharp-pointed spear pierced your envier's body
at every point it found.
Until the sword saw his base nature,
it set no tongue of blame upon him.
Though in your enemy's brain, out of pride,
fire and wind were forever in conjunction,
the wind died down and the fire was quenched,
for the fire of your sword gave birth to the water of victory.
We swept away the game board;
we played our hand and won it all.
Time, pregnant with strife for nine months,
laid down its burden and gave birth to God's triumph.
Your worth is the bird and the stars are its seed;
your judgment is the candle and the dawn is its moth.
Your enemy's heart, caught in the net of chain-mail,
is seed for the flying arrows.
Why does your foe rattle the chain of your anger and hate,
unless he is a madman?
For joy, your friends have become
all heart, like a brimming cup.
For flight, your enemies have become
all feet, like a comb of many teeth.
Your envier, who was king of the base,
is checkmated, for he has no home left.
God has granted you every possible triumph and victory;
now is the time for thanksgiving.
Because of you, gladness fills every body;
in all the world only sorrow is left alone.
As long as the world endures, may you be a just seat of power;
may the flood of your generosity be as far-reaching as your justice.
You through whom every heart's wish is fulfilled,
may the wish of both worlds be granted to you.
May the fire-colored tears of your envier
burn on from the flame within his heart.
Hoping for your gift, foaming at the mouth,
may even the sea stand before you as a beggar.
When I set out for the world of your worth,
may the placeless heavens be my first stage.
May the dagger of your wrath that adorns you by slaying foes
be tempered with a killer's poison.
From the breath of your creation, may my virgin thought
conceive, like Mary bearing the spirit.
Since both earth and heaven are subject to you,
rejoice, O victory, may it bring you joy.