English
In His Praise
Gone are the days when tyranny darkened our light, and sorrow settled in beside our hearts.
Gone is the time when, as if from every door and wall, fate raised the sun like a drawn sword against us.
Gone is that season when, like a bright red flower, our pale faces were crimson within from a heart's blood.
At last that heart, which had been strained and tuned like a harp in torment, breathed a note of joy like a flute.
At last the one whose heart was tight with grief like a bud opened its mouth in a sweet laugh like a flower.
That man whose share of pleasure had been mere wind grasped in the hand, like a plane tree, now dances foot to foot in delight.
The one whose heart lay crushed beneath a stone in grief, like a tulip, now rises up in joy, like a tulip.
The sun of grace has shone again from its house of honor; the Jamshid of the faith has found the ring of fortune again.
The world has taken on another nature, the times are changed: the sultan of religion, the king of the sacred law, is triumphant.
Is it truly us, who have received our heart's desire from fate? I can hardly believe this state has come to me.
The age of the master's justice and his sun-bright sword: look how bold and shameless this dazzle is.
No, rather it is the care of the master's saddle-strap that keeps his dagger drawn like an armed guard's.
Thanks be to God that for the king of the sacred law all the means of success and fortune are provided.
From the faces of his enemies and the lips of his friends, the ground of his court is all crimson and all gold.
He sits on the golden throne like a gem in a ring, while his foe bends its back before the world like a knocker on a door.
A hundred armies of foes, and from him a single act of resolve; a whole city of sin, and from him a single turn of mercy.
Fortune has turned its face to this court again, and made the world witness to its own servitude before him.
The turning age left two stages behind for him, when his swift, light-reined purpose set out on the road.
What last year slipped from the army's grasp, this year he won back from the hand of misfortune.
When strife marched from existence into nothingness, he first made its resting place from his four cushions of state.
The foe had set up a strange board of chess, but through his own blundering he ruined the whole game.
The black hand had the upper hand and faced him down, then left the square, meaning to declare check.
Just then his good fortune showed its shining hand again, and when the foe looked up he was suddenly checkmated.
It was a hell, and all at once it became a paradise: by the blessing of his joy-bringing arrival, Isfahan.
You whose ambition has planted its foot on the crown of the heavens, you whose form has taken its place in the heart of meaning.
You whose wind of vengeance is like night snuffing out light, you whose bright judgment is like dawn where the sun takes counsel.
Both the mirror-bright dawn and the musk-dark night have become pupils learning your speech and your script.
The servant's waist and your envier's leg are bound tight, so long as in this age your pen unties every knot.
How could the sun find its way to the window of dawn at night, if your judgment were not its guide?
This fountain of life that has become soul-refreshing is, if you look, but a single droplet of your kindness.
Now you too, along with all the world, give thanks for that pillar of grace and generosity God set with you.
What greater favor of God upon you could there be than this: that your going was such, and your coming like this?
Whatever task your standard points toward, the face of the sky is ground down to its very teeth to do it.
The sun's lamp is soon snuffed out at dawn's first breath, if it dares glance against you anywhere in the world.
When someone would test out ruin and fortune, let him judge by your enmity and your friendship.
Every unworthy wretch who plots against this threshold soon finds his own just reward tucked in his sleeve.
Every light head that grows heavy against you, they lighten of its burden by parting it from the neck.
We have seen it many times, and it never ended well: the fate of anyone who schemes against this house.
Since all your work is like the sky, what can the foe do, unless he could tear a breach in heaven itself?
Your enemy's deeds follow at his own heels, until they lay in his lap exactly what he deserves.
Joseph came out of prison and Jacob back from his journey, and they rejoiced at the sight of one another.
The horizons of the sacred law took on new splendor and beauty, when the sun of his face rose over the mountaintop.
He is rising ever higher, and so, like his father's name, the mountain lifted its head high, its foot a shield in his infancy.
It is no wonder if he made his place on the mountain's peak; yes, no surprise that a gem should rest on a blade.
So it might carve his place, servant-like, from its own shoulder, the mountain had girded its waist from the very beginning.
The sea is his birthplace and the mine his origin: who ever saw a gem more renowned than this?
Every gem born hereafter from the mountain's core will have its cheek turned crimson with shame before this jewel.
In the cradle, like Jesus, he worked his miracle; on Sinai, like Moses, he rose in rank.
Just wait and see how his affairs will turn out: the very start of his work was an ascension.
He came out pure gold, cleansed of all flaws, when the wheel of heaven tested him against the mountain stone.
The mountain stands proud, firm, and green because for a day or two our master rested at its side.
The money-changer of the sun had filled the mountain's skirt with gold and gems to scatter before him.
The mountain held firm before the radiance of his face because it learned the way of steadfastness from his dignity.
His foe wished to lay siege to his high glories, but found no way to it except his own fortress walls.
If his foot struck stone, now the sky itself has fallen at his feet to beg his pardon.
Though blood has dripped from the stone at parting from him, the world's desire was fulfilled when he came forth from the stone.
We have bought your service with our very soul, and chosen it for the good fortune of both worlds.
We do not count our service as a favor to you; we were ourselves created for your service.
Fairness at your court is only a pretext; otherwise, through serving you we have reached the sphere of Saturn.
In your kindness, forgive us if we have drawn any dust from your retinue across our eyes.
Do not drive us off like strife, for in the end, like safety, we too have run a while at your stirrup.
Besides the sighs of the breast and the fire of the heart, we have tasted much of the world's cold and heat.
It would be fitting to lay down heart and soul as sacrifice, since at last we have seen you as our heart desired.
That you are lord of the age is proven to the heavens; the marks of your kingship are clear across the horizons.
As long as fortune exists, may your fortune last, and as you wish, may the world go according to your will.
And if my heart beats for the sun rather than for your love, may this bright noon turn black as an Ethiopian night.
Your hidden foe is the farthest of the west's ends; may his foot be caught, like a clever bird, in the snare's trap.
As long as there is white dawn-thread and the order of time endures, may the means of your sovereignty be set in order.
Every blessing and good fortune born of your presence, may it all be scattered before the coming of the master Nizam.
Since a rough stage has turned easy, may your mind hold the saying: 'the noble are ever generous.'
Though the servant is far from your presence, may this throng crowd at your gate year in, year out.
May Isfahan never be without the sun of your fortune; may the world not exist on any day your shadow is gone.