Tarji'at from Another Source

We are drunk on the wine that never runs dry; we are the young sapling in the garden of joy. We are not bound by your song alone; we are the parrot with sugar-sweet speech. We are a mirror hidden in felt; we are the flash of that mirror's light. Knowledge cannot reach our essence; we lie beyond thought and imagination. We drain the cup of love's own poison; we sit alone in the alley of ecstasy. We are the prey that falls into no one's trap, yet we are caught in the snare of a curl and a beauty mark. Longing for those rose-cheeked faces has bent our backs like a crescent moon. We are the water of life that revives the soul; we thirst for the one lawful drink. We broke our vows and our piety; we sat down face to face with the young tavern-keeper. We are free spirits, wine-drinkers, drunk; we settled, tipsy, in a quiet corner. The vow we made last night, tonight we broke for the craving of wine. We seek the face of the wine-seller; at the dust of that door we are lowly as dust. We saw the ring of the beloved's hair, and tied on the belt of devotion to it. Do not think it strange that we are drunkards and idol-worshippers; that is simply what we are. We turn from the Kaaba forever to your idol; idol in our arms, we are always drunk. We long for the flirting glances of the beautiful; we are slain by those half-drunken eyes. For a lifetime, among the fire-worshippers, we ring the bell and bow to the idol. We broke our vows and our piety; we sat down face to face with the young tavern-keeper. We are rogues, drinking companions, lovers of the fair; we are drunk and fallen among the Magians. We have no sign and no name; in the alley of love we are without trace. When we grow drunk on the pure wine, we shake the dust of both worlds from our skirts. We close our lips to talk and debate; we do not know the fable they call knowledge. Except for the down and beauty mark of the lovely ones, we read no book at all. We are in love with the faces bright as the moon; we are slain by the glances of idols. We have escaped repentance and piety; we are wine-drinkers, rogues, and happy. For a lifetime we have laid our heads on the threshold of the tavern. We broke our vows and our piety; we sat down face to face with the young tavern-keeper. Last night that playful beauty came, with a thousand coy airs and graces. That teasing eye, steeped in charm, opened the tavern door. Suddenly her gaze fell on me; she said, 'Who is this? Speak up.' I said, 'I am one wretched with dark fortune, marked out among love's sorrow-drinkers.' She filled the cup and said, 'Sit down, take it and drink, and keep this secret.' I too drained a cup, and she too began her sweet coquetry. I gave up hypocrisy and piety, and became a close companion in the beloved's court. We broke our vows and our piety; we sat down face to face with the young tavern-keeper. We carry the longing for rose-red wine; our hearts are brimming with blood. There is no one so lovestruck as I beneath the gilded dome of the sky. Why ask about the tale of our love? Even Majnun is a madman of our street. We have torn the robe of piety; ascetic, no longer chant your spells over it. Cupbearer, by the idol you worship, fill a goblet with rose-red wine. Pour, so that for a moment I may be ruined and freed from the grief of how and why. Drunk, I will stumble into the market, and now let it all be plain to everyone. We broke our vows and our piety; we sat down face to face with the young tavern-keeper. Your love stripped away my peace; it stole my heart and took my will as well. The cupbearer gave me a brimming goblet and wiped the dust from my mirror. The heaviness of my half-drunk eyes lifted the last trace of the hangover from my head. Her hair, like the morning breeze, swept to one side, lifting the cloud of secrecy from the tulip's face. Drunk, she sat in the garden's courtyard and raised a cup of delicious wine. She filled a cup and gave it to me; it lifted the grief from my restless heart. We broke our vows and our piety; we sat down face to face with the young tavern-keeper. We worship the beloved's narcissus eyes; we worship those languid, drunken eyes. We sing the lament of longing; we worship the plaintive melody. We care nothing for the fine black script; we worship the soft down on the beloved's cheek. Wounded of heart and broken in state, we worship the beloved's tresses. We tear at our wounded chests; we worship the one who wounds our soul. We worship the cupbearer of the tulip-colored cup in the season of spring. What have we to do with green shoots and flowers? We worship the tulip-cheeked one. We are Maghrebi, and we worship that beauty by night and by day. We broke our vows and our piety; we sat down face to face with the young tavern-keeper.