Qasidas

When the turner's hand of power scattered from the glass vial pure amber over the white face of camphor, the sky, that magician, drew from beneath its cup a thousand silver pawns with a sorcerer's sleight of hand. To adorn and beautify the veiled ladies of the sky, time opened the musk pod and the heavens spread their perfume. For contemplation and thought in the holy stations, I pressed my steps forward, past even priceless reason. In the expanse of each sphere I saw a royal realm; within each tier, the seat of a lofty governor. Dwelling in the seventh dome I saw an aged one, high in rank, strong of frame, and grandly cloaked. From him the world took the rite of robe and belt, and from him the meadow drew its power to grow and bloom. Atop the sixth arch, a ruler of blessed face, not like the judges of our age, but a judge of truth and honesty. Fortunate of countenance, lucky of destiny, blessed of omen, auspicious of star, favored of counsel, happy of look. As prince of the fifth region I saw a warrior, his hand dyed in blood, his head full of the din of battle. His cutting sword tears down the foundations of hope; his unruly spear brings ruin even to lasting life. The throne of the fourth, a place fit for a king, greater than Caesar, the emperor of China, Hormoz, and Darius: I found it empty of any governor, void of a king's memory, yet his army stood at attention before the throne. Above it an idol of a thousand coquetries and charms, heart-stealing like beautiful lovers and the dolls of Cathay. At times with a spellbinding pluck it struck the harp's strings, at times it took the cup of red wine in hand. As lord of the court in the second hall, I saw a fine accountant, rich in wisdom and wit, strong in competence, subtle in thought, far-sighted, gentle of mind, sweet of tongue, and a teller of clever points. The festival crescent shone forth from the first sphere, from the edge of the Milky Way, like amber against straw.

The king of the fourth throne, whose sovereign is the sun, has the royal seal inscribed on the face of his charter of fortune. The twin stars have placed a crown of joy upon their heads and drawn around themselves a robe scented with musk. The praise-singers of heaven, in the place of their setting and prostration, have opened their tongues to glorify: our Lord is Most High. Time rushed on toward dawn, and I with the strength of my thoughts; the wheel of heaven kept turning, and I kept asking why and how. What is the point of these bright, pointless things? What is the destination of these tireless travelers of the road? Why is one fixed and another wandering? Why is one hidden and another in plain sight? I stayed lost in this thought and reflection until dawn, when the sky's face was washed with pale raw silver. Like Bizhan freed from his pit, dawn broke out of the prison of night, by the strength of destiny's Rustam and the striking hand of fate. In this narrow pass of thought, from the unseen herald a blessed voice reached the ear of my soul: O you whose mind is heedless of true outcomes, you don't grasp this much, yet you call yourself wise. The purpose of the high wheel's turning and the stars' motion, the aim behind the elements and the nature of all things, is the sacred existence of this just king, the shelter of the faith of Muhammad, the trusted guardian of God's realm: Abu Ishaq, the beauty of fortune, world, and religion, master of the face of Manuchehr and the majesty of Darius, a fate in splendor, a destiny in power, the age itself in strength, the sky in awe, the heavens in throne, the sun in generosity. The scratch of his pen oversees the treasury of the unseen; his bright mind unveils the mysteries of the sky. The bud of fortune smiles at his radiant face; the lily-tongue of victory speaks his praise. O refuge of the world, if your commanding will wished it, with one lofty gesture that unties every knot, it would clear the mind of time from the blackness of night and free the sun from its thirst and dropsy. As long as, from the influence of the seven planets and four elements, there come the five senses, the three spirits, and the seven limbs, may these three fives bring you your desire and your name, to spite the accursed envier, here in this brief inn of a world. May your art-nurturing judgment always hold sway, and your generous nature always have its wish fulfilled. May you celebrate a thousand feasts in triumph and pleasure, and live a thousand years, a thousand meanings over.

The morning of the feast, the beloved's face, the days of youth, the roar of the harp, the banks of the Zayandeh river, and a cup of wine. The longing for the beloved, the tumult of love, the fire of desire, the song of the lute, the voice of the oud, the sound of the rebec. Word of the conquest of Isfahan, the glad news of fortune, the sign of high destiny and hope of open doors. The minds of the wine drinkers seething with joy, the hearts of the lovers burning with longing. Delight in the heart, wine in the hand, rapture in the soul, the beloved tipsy, we beside ourselves, the companion undone. What a sample of fortune, what a token of luck! What more could there be for a life of pleasure? It is a windfall, so seize the chance for joy; don't let go of the wine, don't turn away from delight. Seat the sweet, charming beauties beside you, for questions and answers are pleasant with sugar-lipped ones. Drink the cup of wine, O tender soul of Obeid; this precious life rushes by, so catch it while you can. Revel in the court of the king of the world and be glad, the lord of the world, the world-illuminating sun. Glory of state and faith, crown-bestower on the throne, a sky of kindness and generosity, a king of exalted rank. Granter of thrones, conqueror of realms, taker of countries, world-conqueror, young in fortune, blessed with success. With the point of his spear he lifts the crocodile from the depths of the Nile, with the strike of his arrow he brings the eagle down from the heights of the clouds. In the days of his reign chaos has fallen asleep, like the eye of fortune of his ill-wishing enemy lulled by his glory. O refuge of the world, at the threshold of your rule the sky is the chamberlain of audience and Jupiter the doorkeeper. The nobles have girded their waists to serve your court, the kings have bowed their necks in obedience to your command. The height of your rank stands so high among the ladders of glory that swift-footed imagination cannot find its footing there. Before the sea of your generosity, the encompassing ocean of bounty is like the glimmering mirages before that boundless sea. The likeness of your face and the sun is just like the tale of the light of revelation and the glow of moonlight. The heavens have gained majesty and glory from your splendor, wisdom has learned rightness and truth from your judgment. From the awe of your wrath the mountains tremble, from shame before your open hand the sea drowns in its own flood. The blood of your foes drips from your sword; you would think drops of blood are falling from the edges of the clouds. My lord, by the light of your favor, may its shadow rest forever upon those you love. I settled in your heaven, and fortune said: 'You have alighted in the finest station and found the finest refuge.' As long as the hand of dawn at daybreak casts ropes across the sky from the blazing flame of the sun, may the rope of your life be stretched so far that no mind could measure its span until the Day of Reckoning.

Happy is the lover who spends a moment with his beloved; joyful the heart whose sweetheart eases its sorrow. I am drowning in the blood of my own heart, while another has her at his side as his companion. A lover may travel to strangers' cities, but not like me, whose whole desire settles nowhere, for she is his city and homeland. For anyone wounded and torn from his beloved, whatever king approaches, she alone is his true king. Ask my eyes for the image of her stature, for that graceful cypress grows along the banks of my tears. I am the breeze that longs to drift toward her; I am the dust of the road she walks upon. Many an uproar has risen from the figures of beauties, but none like this turmoil she stirs in our age. When will my heart return to my wounded breast? The poor captive is bound in her musk-scented chains. How could the name of Obayd ever leave the minds of the tender-hearted, when his delicate verses remain his legacy? How could the quarrelsome heavens do him wrong, when after all his lord and king protects him? The king of the world, a second Alexander, Jamal al-Din, whose dagger-wielding servant is the very sun. Master of the seven realms and sultan of the six directions; these nine heavens rest within his power. At his threshold shines fortune and faith; and beside him stands the court of victory and triumph. What you call a star is but the surge of his army; what you address as the sky is only his curtain-keeper. From whatever side his banner appears, it seems victory sits there awaiting him. Lightning leapt out from the flash of his dagger, for its own brilliance was ashamed before that gem. The sea seems narrow and the mountain light in weight where his ocean of giving and mountain of dignity stand. This heaven, which the ninth firmament sets as its dome, is but a pillar of his generosity, and Sirius one of his emblems. O king whose pen pours out such abundance that this sevenfold sea is only a vapor of his oceans. Your sword said, 'I will cut out the roots of your enemies'; and reason confessed, 'This is indeed his work.' The turning sky, which once held people under its protection, today lies captive under his protection like a prisoner. Your fortune is a heaven whose celestial bodies obey it; your fortune is a hunting hawk with the whole world as its prey. With a single splendor your judgment opened the seven realms of the world, a judgment before which sun and sky stand ashamed. Lord, may the heavens turn forever to your wish and will, as long as they orbit around the center of the earth. May your life be so long that the ancient scribe of nature says his ledger holds countless lifetimes for you.

Good fortune walks hand in hand with the fortune of our world conqueror; the world bends to the will of our triumphant king. Sultan Oveys, whose majestic qualities lie beyond all our guessing, imagining, and thought. You are the king whose word, if you speak it, would be enough; the whole world has been brought to life by the grace of our speech. The foundation of justice stands firm and the arm of faith is strong, thanks to our clear judgment and our subtle, discerning mind. The pillars of tyranny and the rules of cruelty are torn down by the dread of our arrow and the world seizing dagger. The face of the earth, once drowned in the flood of chaos, today rests under the shelter of our mace and spear. By the command of the Creator we are the support and refuge of a whole world of people; our kindness is all embracing and our generosity boundless. Fortune is a servant who grew great in our company; good luck is a slave born of our own house. The key of the realm and the guarantor of every man and woman's bread is our sword, our arrow, and our gem scattering pen. Wherever there is talk of military affairs, the blade's edge is our tongue and the pen is our interpreter. Old and young have all followed our counsel, since the judgment of age here serves the fortune of youth. The sun became king of the sky only because every morning it keeps vigil at our threshold. Now that the seven lands of the world are ours, fortune beats the fivefold royal drum in our name. In whatever direction our banner appears, divine aid rides beside us and victory shares our reins. From the carpet of dust to the height of the highest heaven, whatever hero turns his back in flight, it is our bow that did it. Every wish we have asked of our God, success has pledged that it is under our guarantee. Everyone in all the world, like Obeyd, rests at ease under the shelter of our protection and safety. O king, the age of chaos, unrest, and tyranny is gone; and today, the finest of all ages is our own age. In time of war, from all who slay our enemies rises the fame of our greatness and our name and mark. God in His grace has answered our prayer, for the prayer for your life is the chant upon our tongue.

The breeze arrived and spread the scent of roses through the world, and the nightingale, from longing, filled the garden with its cry. The spring wind unclosed the heart of every bud, and the willow cast its shadow over the running water. Longing for the bright dark of the rose set a fresh fire once more in the weeping nightingale's wounded soul. Like a Sufi, the blossom danced to the nightingale's song, then threw its robe toward the gardener. See how the color of the cupbearer's cheek and the glow of the wine's ray cast their reflection on the rose and the redbud. The freeborn lily, though it has ten tongues, stood amazed, wondering who tied the seal of silence upon its tongue. Since the proud cypress has shown off its wealth again, one gladly lays down heads at its feet in delight. The drunken narcissus set the golden cup on its head, once it opened its eyes and cast a glance upon the world. The spring wind, the coming of Nowruz, and the scent of roses stirred the tumult of joy in old and young alike. When the bud opened its lips to praise the king of kings, the cloud dropped a thousand pearls into its mouth. To scatter as an offering, the rose gathered gold in its skirt and cast itself into the fortunate king's assembly. Sultan Jalal al-Din, whose bread, in a time of giving, sends a shivering fever through the nature of sea and mine. That lion charging king, whose command threw the lasso of authority around the neck of sky, earth, and time. As soon as he girded his waist for rule upon the royal throne, fortune tossed its cap of joy up to the heavens. He entrusted his planning to the hand of good fortune, and left the ordering of the realm to shrewd, subtle wisdom. The specks of dust boasted over moon and sun, once he raised the parasol of his shade above this dusty world. Today the fame of the king's generosity has cast the name of Hatim of Tay onto every tongue. My king, by the blessing of praising you, every pearl the sea of my mind casts ashore turns fit for royalty. Whoever did not become the dust beneath your feet, the hand of misfortune flung into the pit of shame, weakness, and disgrace. When my speech tried to describe the grandeur of your rank, it made the heavens doubt their very existence. Obeyd will no longer complain of the cruelty of the age, since good fortune has cast him upon this threshold. He had been drowning in the rising waves of a sea of grief; your kindness carried him to the shore of safety and peace. May the span of your life be everlasting, for the age has laid the foundation of your reign to endure forever.

When dawn unfurls the banner of the sun, it gilds the shrine of the heavens with light. Time kindles the torch of the angels, and the sky puts on the garment of the pure spirits. The blessed king of the planets, in a fortunate hour, once more sets out for plain and mountain. Like a troop of fair-skinned Turks charging an Abyssinian army, like the King of Rome marching on Zanzibar. With the wound of a sword that conquers kingdoms, it breaks a thousand gaps in this blue fortress of sky. With the heat of morning's warmth the world sets the tinder of night ablaze, filling it with sparks from the sun's flame. Out of the tenderness of the red dawn, time gathers a thousand fresh tulips into the sky's lap. The heavens hold the cluster of the Pleiades on their palm, hoping to scatter it as an offering at the king's feet. The clarity of dawn wins the hearts of lovers, and the breeze of the morning wind strikes up the tune of spring. Nowruz has come, and the time has arrived for the heart to long for garden and tulip field. The morning breeze tells the tale of cypress-tall beauties; the meadow recounts the story of rose-cheeked darlings. The bride of the rose shows her beauty from her litter, and coquettishly, radiant, sets out for the stream. The cloud, from its bounty, fills the necks and ears of the garden's veiled ladies with royal pearls. With a single song the frenzied nightingale's cry unsettles a thousand heartbroken lovers. Whatever the breeze whispers before rose and tulip, it tells of the scent of Tatar musk. The fresh narcissus waters at the mouth with delight if it casts a glance upon this glistening verse. The plane tree, hands raised day and night like me, prays for the fortune of the triumphant sultan. In such a fine season, what shall I say of the one who gives up sweet, life-giving wine? One who drinks no wine, what joy will he ever find? A heart that does not love, what else has it to do? I am the slave of the eye of that idol who, wine flask in hand, takes another's hand and walks through the meadow. Sometimes content with a kiss from those ruby lips, sometimes settling for the smallest touch of them. Sometimes he tells again the story of joys gone by, sometimes he laments the misfortunes of the times. One moment he hears the reed's mournful cry, the next he cures his hangover with a cup of wine. Not like me, whose heart burns with the fire of longing whenever it remembers the company of comforting friends. My bosom brims over with the blood of my eyes when my startled heart recalls my homeland and my beloved. In this exile and wandering, as I am now, who will kindly ask after me and give me worth? Obayd can do no better in such hardship than to lean on the grace and mercy of the Creator. Let him not chase fleeting wealth too far, nor put his trust in this borrowed rank. Let him wash his hands of the world's affairs with the water of repentance, forgo provisions, and choose a quiet corner. With sincerity let him turn his prayer, like the faithful Gabriel, toward the court of the king and sovereign. Perhaps the favor of Abu Ishaq, king of the world, will fill his heart with hope of the ruler's kindness. The beauty of this world and the faith, whose threshold's dust the proud sky wears as a crown of honor. A second Ali, unmatched, from whose fierce charge in battle even the mountains beg for mercy. O refuge of the world, whoever is fortunate prays, O sultan, for your fortunate life. Time has named you Jamshid, giver of crowns; the heavens address you as sun of the mine of bounty. When reason imagines your arm and your sword, it recalls the tale of valiant Ali and his blade Zulfiqar. On the day of battle, your enemy before you is like a fox that dares to fight a lion. Whenever the one envious of your rank seeks a position, your justice points him to the gallows. When your generosity flows, it shames a thousand Hatims of Tayy over a mere loaf, beside the ocean of your bounty. No sinner despairs before your pardon, no greedy man is left waiting at your door. Boldness has passed all bounds; now it is better to keep this speech brief and turn to prayer. May the axis of fortune and faith rest upon your glory, as long as the sky keeps turning around the earth. May your life endure beyond all reckoning, though an accountant should count a thousand years.

When they part the amber-scattering veil of night, they open the door of that blue-walled chamber of sky. They draw the gilded curtain across the heavens, then from before it they open the jewel-embroidered screen. With the wounding blade, those who dwell in the eastern land conquer whole territories from the armies of Zanzibar. The blossoms, the moment they open their eyes, loosen their tongues to thank the spring breeze. When the buds fasten the belt of beauty at their waists, a thousand cries burst forth from a thousand souls. When the willows draw their swords from the sheath, what blood they draw from the heart of the tulip field. In their longing after a year-long fast, the beauties of the meadow break it with sips of sweet wine. Gently they open the vein of the redbud and the rose's cheek with the sharp tip of the thorn's lancet. The tulip and rose would blush with shame in the garden if the beloved lifted the veil from her face. The garden air, the scent of the rose, the spring breeze, they loosen the knot within my wounded heart. Nature's caravan traders, by the hand of the morning breeze, open a thousand pods of Tatar musk. To offer praise and prayer to the king's presence, the lily loosens its tongue and the plane tree its hands. When the schemers bind up trouble against the heavens, by the blessing of the fortunate king's judgment they undo it. If his glory and awe shout out at the age, they would break the very succession of night and day. And if in wrath he glances up at the skies, he would break the caravan of the seven planets of the sphere. When the lightning of his sword flames against his foes, his friends loosen their tongues in a hundred pleas for mercy. On the day of battle, when his slaves unleash their fury, they seize the land from Cairo all the way to Kandahar. When in vengeance they bind the belt of war, in a single charge they undo a hundred knots from the mountains. Should a thousand fortresses of bronze rise before them, they break them open by the strength of the dagger-wielding arm. Refuge of the world, it is your blade and your arm that set this axleless sky turning on its axis. By the grace of your hand and heart, at every moment a whole world is freed from the chains of fate's misfortune. Your warriors rush roaring upon the enemy's head, like a lion let loose to hunt. May they all find prayers for you written in my ledger, when they open the record book on the day of reckoning. As long as men know good and ill to come from God's decree, and the wise open their eyes to draw a lesson, may you be triumphant, and may fate's stewards, one after another, open every choice in your favor.

Before they set this task upon the glazed blue vault of heaven, and shaped this arched, honeycombed dome of nine glassy layers, before they drew the First Intellect out from the word 'Be!', and brought the forms of all beings into view from nothingness, the lower world was flooded with intellect and spirit, and the shapes of the heavenly bodies were given their raw matter. They dressed the stars in gold-woven satin, and made the mountains a robe of granite and hard stone. They arranged and adorned the realm of the spirits, and toward it the angelic beings turned to gaze. They spread out this luminous green plain in the midst, and made this round arch a vault of seven green porches. They brought good and evil into the world of coming to be and passing away, spoke the name of Adam and made mention of Eve. In the midst of the dome of this turning monastery of a world, they hung the blazing orb of the sun like a Christian's lamp. Before they laced the heavens together with stars, and set in them sun and moon, Mercury and Gemini, they engraved the name of Sheikh Abu Ishaq son of Mahmud Shah as a coin upon the silver face of the sky. Whatever belongs to holding the world and to kingship they have prepared for the presence of the Sultan. The angels of the throne have read upon his banner 'Victory is from God', and the holy ones have taken 'We have granted you a conquest' as its meaning. Conquest and victory have become his constant companions; fortune and high rank have taken shelter at his court. The servants of divine decree and the tracers of destiny have rejected whatever his judgment has set aside. The four elements, five senses, six directions, and seven heavens serve at his court, by nature and by their own will. Surely they have never heard the sea-hearted king's generosity described, those who out of ignorance called the mine or the ocean generous. From that piebald steed of the days, our restless nature the king has branded and marked among his own tamed horses. High and low alike have offered prayers for him at dawn, and those dawn prayers have left their marks. O world-conquering sun of the seven realms, by whose greatness your servants are given the titles of Jamshid and Darius, the heavens have taken a ray from the light of your banner, and have made his name the sun and the world-adorning moon. The stars of the sky, for the sake of honor, at every moment have made the dust of your feet a healing salve for their seeing eyes. From the tip of your pen, in reviving justice, they receive those accounts once attributed to the life-giving breath of the Messiah. May you reign forever on the throne of fortune, world-holder and crown-bestower, for this is the wish the angels of the throne have asked of God Most High.

When they let the banner of dawn go streaming, they scattered gold from the sun across the horizons. The managers of the sky's affairs, from the direction of Khotan, sent an army marching out of the darkness of Ethiopia. The many colored sky rose up in a hundred garments, as they made the dawn's curtain out of plain silk. When the canopy of the eastern king appeared, the army of night hid its baggage in the mountains. When the rooster of dawn beat its fiery wings against the sky, they drove the raven of night homeless from its nest. When the sign of twilight glow appeared from the sky, they filled the mountainside with fresh redbud blossoms. The travelers of the heavens fled toward the western land, retreating along the roadside of the Milky Way. At that moment the mirror of dawn was wiped clean of rust, as they gilded the sun's blade and set it scattering gold. The outfitters of the sky poured a hundred thousand strings of pearls as an offering before the canopy of the fortunate king. The champions of Khotan turned their faces on the world and drew their arrows against the enemies of the king's fortune. At dawn, with the sun's flame, they thrust burning fire into the mouths of his enemies, like a candle. At that time, from sincere hearts, the angels each moment prayed for the king's fortune from the depths of their souls. The sky, the stars, and the sun made a healing balm for the eyes out of the dust of the king's steed's hooves. The beauty of the world and the faith, king of the seven climes, at whose court fortune and good luck have joined together. A king of kings whom the court of divine majesty addressed as king of all sovereigns of men and spirits. The sky bound the order of his service upon itself; it made the collar of the stars into the leash of obedience to him. For his bright mind and blessed judgment, heaven and earth made him their conquering king. Refuge of the world, from the generosity of your hand and heart they have made all people guests until the Day of Judgment. Since the first morning of eternity, the stewards of fate and destiny have pledged everlasting fortune to you. The old sky grew young and the senile age grew fresh again, when they took refuge in such a young fortune. Every secret they hinted at, of your kindness and your severity, the tongue of your pen and your spear made clear. When in eternity the fates drew the sword of wrath, they first tested it on the head of your foe. At the time when the architects of destiny, by their power, built the six directions and the seven heavens, they gave the sovereignty of the earth to your high rank, and made the army of justice the guardian of the age for you. When they built the palace of your worth on the first day, they set the crown of the twin stars as its lowest step. Atop the roof of your glory they set the ancient sky, night and day, as a watchman, like the dark keepers of gates. In the age of your justice, the tale they told of Darius and Ardavan became a mere legend on people's lips. Those who told the story of the sea and described the mine drowned in shame before the cloud of your bounty. May your seat of glory endure, for since eternity they have made it the throne of justice and the home of safety.

A charming breeze blew in and carried the scent of life; it brought the garden news of the coming parade of flowers. The season of Nowruz arrived, and the blessing of its coming brought a sign of joy to every heart. The blossom laughed open again, and the grace of its laughter brought delight to the grieving hearts of lovers. The breeze grew tired and weak and nearly collapsed, so heavy was the load of garden flowers it carried. The nightingale, praising the face of the tulip and the rose, brought a thousand songs and melodies into its story. I am the servant of the good fortune of one who sits at the edge of the meadow and reaches out for what he wishes. At dawn, when the east wind, for the beauties of spring, brought a canopy of clouds over the field of grass, what dew it scattered on the violet's curls, what tender water it poured on the face of the Judas tree! From longing, the frenzied nightingale said to the rose: come, come, for your absence has nearly killed me. The blossom sent word to the morning breeze: rise, come, for without you I can hardly draw a breath. The rose became king of all flowers in the garden only when it found its way to the court of the fortunate sultan. The beauty of this world and the faith, whose radiant judgment brought defeat upon the moon and sun of the sky, Time itself, though old, grew young again, because it took refuge with such youthful fortune. The lily is set free of blame for this reason: it spoke the name of servitude to the king upon its tongue. The doors of safety and prosperity opened to everyone who turned his face toward this fortunate threshold. The sun embraced the whole world because it took shelter beneath the shade of the master's parasol. Refuge of the world, your justice brought the people of the earth a warrant of safety from the cruelty of misfortune. Your blessed pen, scattering pearls and perfume, brought the beggars news of a royal treasure. Your hand filled the lap of greed and need with pearls, when your generosity welcomed hope as its guest. You are the very sign of miracle and fortune: consider, whoever imagines even a hair's breadth against your will, Fate has drawn its blade from the sheath, aiming for his head, and Destiny has fitted an arrow to the bow to kill him. Your enemy sought crown and throne from the heavens; the age, in pursuit of him, brought the gallows and the rope. Whoever rebelled against you, the turning sky suddenly dragged him headlong to your court. The world had been emptied of manliness and humanity; the loftiness of your spirit restored that custom to the world. Live forever, just as you desire, for the age has brought you the glad news of everlasting fortune.

When God first raised the curved arch of this sky, He set within it the homes of Venus, Mercury, and Saturn. With the hand of His power He made command the polo mallet and the sphere its ball, spinning it across the field of His craft. He placed the sun's flame in the treasury of night, and lit the lamp of the moon from the lantern of the sun. He cast the dice of time upon the six directions and set the seat of growth within the four pillars of the elements. His will, by grace, gave the body a soul; His purpose, by generosity, taught the dust to speak. For the grand procession of events, His decree hid a thousand branching paths within creation. From the dawn of eternity to the end of all time, He placed the reins of the realm at the command of the king of Iran. The young and fortunate world-conqueror, Sheikh Abu Ishaq, whom heaven itself named king and sultan. A man of fate's own majesty and might, whose command puts destiny itself to the test. Beneath the shade of his generosity, the blessed dome of his rank shelters both the shining moon and the radiant sun. In no age has the eye of the sky seen such a crown-bestowing king, though it has circled the dust of the world for long. Anyone who set his heart on the world-guarding king became as safe as game within a sanctuary. When his hand entrusted the world's good and evil to his sharp swift sword and his musk-scattering pen, Every matter that seemed hard turned easy, and every affair that was difficult became simple. By the king's justice, whoever ruined even an ant's home through cruelty found his own head crushed like a snake's. The tale of Khosrow Parviz is like this: a demon coveting the throne of Solomon. Look at the sultan's very miracle: whoever claimed rebellion or plotted ingratitude against him, Before his foot even reached the stirrup of pride, he was spurred straight into hell, his stirrup in torment. Refuge of the world, good fortune has, until the day of reckoning, sworn its pact with you like your own servants. From the moment your bow became the backer of justice, oppression fled to the wilderness like straggling vagrants. When your wrath and your grace left their mark on all creation, in that very time when God laid the world's foundation, Fate made a hell from the flame of your wrath, and destiny drew the water of eternal life from a single drop of your grace. In the age of your justice, only one remains in twists and torment: the one who, like the curls of the beautiful, keeps a heart in disarray. Wherever your lofty name has traveled, it has won praise; your generous soul has shown kindness to everyone alive. May the world be to your liking and the friends of your glory thrive, for the arrow of the heavens has sacrificed your enemies. May your life endure so long, until the day of reckoning, that one hundredth of it could never be counted.

When my beloved sets out to spill lovers' hearts, the eyebrow and the sidelong glance take up the arrow and the bow. With those bewitching eyes he steals my peace of mind away, and with his musk-scattering curls he plunders my heart. When his slender waist trades secrets with the belt, again, like a spy, it slips its way between us. Sometimes he draws a lovely violet line across the rose; sometimes he shades a field of tulips with fresh hyacinth. If, drunk, he goes into the garden, the reflection of his cheek spills blood upon the fresh rose and the redbud blossom. Ashamed before him, what can the cypress show beside the stream? It rises from the meadow while the rose hides its face. When the lily passes by, leaning with its hundred tongues, it sighs with regret over the grace of the walking cypress. Ask his disheveled hair about the state of my heart, and it will tell it strand by strand, one thread at a time. Hear the story of my sickness from his eyes, and they will grow faint just describing my condition. One truly stricken with love, who nurses his passion, comes out ahead even when he loses his own head. In the street of love they call a man a mere pretender if he clings to his own head and worries about his life. I still hope that, by the king's good fortune, one day my beloved will welcome me into his embrace. Sultan Uways, whom the heavens address at every moment as King of the World and Emperor who takes the earth. A king beneath whose banner's shade the phoenix of victory nests to win good fortune. The dust from his proud steed the ancient sky, out of pride, makes into a crown for the head of the highest stars. It would be sheer ignorance for anyone, in his presence, to sit and tell the tale of just King Nushirvan. O emperor, on the day of battle, from dread of you the mountain groans in terror and the sea cries out. Beware the moment when your mace and bow face the foe: this one furrows its brow, that one makes their head heavy with dread. Saturn, the castellan of your sky, every night stands guard in servitude at your court. Jupiter won its fame as the greatest of lucky stars because day and night your name is the prayer on its tongue. For the sake of your army, Mars forever prepares the sword, the coat of mail, and the horse-armor. The sun became the world-conquering giver of light only because each dawn it bows down before your threshold. At your feast, which gathers all the kings of the world, Venus lends her hand to the musicians. Last night people gazed upon the festival's new moon because in the sky it bears the mark of your steed's horseshoe. Your generosity guarantees a thousand years' provision to anyone whose name simply crosses your mind. The nature of Obeyd is like a royal treasure; forgive his verse if its rhyme grows lavish. May victory and triumph forever be joined to your court, as long as the light-giving sun keeps its meeting with the stars. May your life be so long that the gift-bestowing sky makes you grow old a hundred times and young again each time.

The world is fine, the meadow lush, the nightingale glad; pour the rose-colored wine and come what may. Whatever is fated from these seven turning heavens will not, in all six directions, grow less or more. Enjoy your moment with flute and reed; why, like the flute and reed, throw your life to the wind? Take a lovely one by the hand and let go of the age; be servant to a cypress-tall beauty and free of the world. The earth once ruined by winter's bitter frost turns green again with the blessed arrival of spring. For the beauties of the meadow, a hundred thousand scents of paradise were sent by the hand of the spring breeze. When the painter of flowers laced up the bud's coat, the morning breeze gently opened the musk-pod of Khotan. Among the grass and blossoms the tulip dances, and by the running water the boxwood shows itself off. Scattering silver coins over the heads of the grass is once again the work fallen to the gentle spring breeze. From the color and scent of the meadow, you'd think it a paradise, the lofty court of a king of royal blood. The young and fortunate world-conqueror, Sheikh Abu Ishaq, whose youth the old wheel of heaven cannot recall its like. His lowliest servant equals a hundred Rustams; his least attendant, a hundred kings like Kay-Qobad. There is such awe in the edge of his gleaming sword that from its force steel itself turns to water. My lord, until the day of resurrection God's grace has placed the reins of fortune and wisdom in your command. Like a candle, whoever rebels at this court, do not wonder if fire takes hold of his very being. Your wind-swift steed runs neck and neck with the breeze; your lightning-hurling lance was born twin to fate itself. The lion of the sky forever longs to strike up a friendship with the dogs at your gate. On the day of battle, every arrow loosed from your arm stitched a hundred enemies together at once. The people's wishes are fulfilled by your generosity; may God, in His grace, fulfill your heart's desire.

Drink your wine, for the season of spring is coming; the promise of joy is arriving with the times. From the clouds fall drops of the water of life; on the wind comes a breath of Tartar musk. To brighten the gathering of friends, the tulip comes bearing a cup of sweet wine. In the garden the blossom laughs with a hundred lips, for the grass springs up and the flowers come into bloom. The song of the birds rising from the meadow sets the minds of lovers boiling with longing. The bud tears a thousand shirts from desire when the nightingale's cry reaches its ear. In the garden you would think a cat prowls along the branches, claws spread, coming to hunt its prey. Wherever it passes it brings the dead to life: the breeze that comes from the banks of the stream. Now, like the bud and the rose, everyone with a living heart comes to sit in the shade of the willow and the plane tree. Treasure the waterside and the company of beauties, now that the season of kisses and embraces has come. I am the slave of the fortune of the one who, drunk, comes to the meadow leading by the hand a beauty lovely as a painting. The rose parades in the garden, gold on its palm, coming to the court of the world's king with its offering. The beauty of the world and the faith, before whose gate the sun comes each day like a servant. Lord of kings, whose fortune receives its aid from the presence of God. A king whose news of good fortune and triumph comes down from the height of the blue vault of heaven. The sky is but a treasury of the gardens of your threshold; how could the highest heaven even count in comparison? On the day of battle the sun, that sword-wielder, at every moment begs for mercy from the wound of your blade. From the wind of your spear, fierce as fire yet flowing like water, your enemy comes, heart burned, laid low in the dust. Wherever your banner goes, victory and conquest come to greet it from the right and the left. The blessed shadow of your world-conquering canopy disdains even to keep company with the sun. Whoever looks upon his own servitude to you feels shame at the very names of Rustam and Isfandiyar. From the sayings of others I offer a single verse, one whose recitation here serves the purpose well. Enjoy your life and give your heart the promise of joy, for the scent of your good fortune drifts through the age. Live a thousand years in triumph, for your fortune comes successful to whatever you set your mind upon.

Lucky is the breeze that carries a hint of my beloved's hair, that brings the lover word of the friend who eases his grief. It brings the nightingale, robbed of its heart, the good news of the rose, and to the garden the glad tidings of early spring. Happy is the one who carries a greeting to that land, and from that land brings a message back to this. If only the spring breeze would take the trouble to be a messenger, and show some kindness to these weeping lovers, so it could tell of my state at the beloved's door, and remind the friend of me, cast off and heartbroken. It was not by choice that I parted from the beloved; it was the misfortune that fate lays upon a helpless heart. I am a stranger in a city of strangers, hardly worth counting; who bothers to count a stranger with neither status nor means? In such hardship, Obeyd has no better recourse than to turn his face of helplessness toward the door of the Creator. Perhaps his high fortune will wake from its sleep, take some bold step, and bring good luck into play, so that it may steer this wretched, weary ship of a life ashore, out of the crashing waves of the times, when fortune, prosperity, triumph, and victory turn their faces toward the court of the fortunate king, the beauty of the world and faith, a monarch who on the day of battle forces even the wheel of heaven to beg for mercy under his arrows. The mountain shakes with fear and casts down its ridge, if the scorching wind of his wrath turns toward the highlands. In his moments of grace, his amber-scattering, kind breath puts the musk-deer of Tartary to shame. Refuge of the world, you are the one for whose passing train the ninth heaven would offer up a crown of honor. When the royal canopy of your banner casts its shade over the world, destiny showers conquest and victory upon its head. Any wish you put to fortune to test, it delivers to you at once, without hindrance or delay. Whoever your favor takes into its stronghold is safe from the cruelty of this tyrant, oppressing wheel of heaven. The one who envies your rank craves a throne and crown, but time brings him only the rope and the gallows. Your enemy plants a sapling, and to kill it he comes bearing bow, spear, sword, and a hail of arrows. Your blessed pen forever draws from the sea of generosity and bounty, bringing royal pearls for the ear of hope. All sing your praise whenever anyone brings the goods of poetry to the marketplace of the age. I bring a prayer before you, for everyone brings a gift according to their strength, their means, and their power. May you endure forever, so that time may bring your fortune the good news of lasting prosperity.

The dawn breeze is set on the garden; it breathes out, and each breath is an elixir for the soul. Good news has come: the sultan of flowers, under a lucky star, has set his heart on the meadow and his mind on the rose garden. Reclining gracefully by the running stream, the willow is his fan, the cypress his canopy. The jasmine tells tales of a beautiful woman's cheek; the meadow holds the freshness of paradise's pleasure ground. All night the narcissus's eye will not sleep, for the lovesick nightingale keeps up its wailing. The newborn tulip has not yet fully bloomed; why then does it sulk against the young grass? The glow of my beloved's face in the cup is like water rising to blush across the red judas blossom. From the reflection of her face, the tulip has a tale of heartache that it whispers to the rosebud. Freedom and pride are attributed to the cypress because it keeps the way of the upright. The lily stretches its long tongue in the meadow because it carries the amulet of the king of kings' praise on its lips. Surely the cloud learned its generosity from the king's giving, for it has a flowing nature and a hand that scatters pearls. Jalal al-Din, glory of world and faith, a monarch who on the day of battle has victory as his attendant and fortune riding at his side. A king whose robe of rank and wealth of dominion bears the mark of eternity and everlasting exaltation. High of station, ocean-hearted, whose measure of worth stands far above the twin stars of the heights. Before his giving, not for a moment can any treasure hold true, whatever the keeper of sea and mine may possess. Refuge of the world, whose royal sun of the sky owes its light to kissing the dust of this fortunate threshold. The phoenix of fortune became truly auspicious the day it made its nest beneath the shadow of your canopy. The head that openly rebels against you, the heart that harbors enmity toward you, Fate draws its sword from the scabbard to take that head; destiny sets its arrow in the bow to kill that one. Suppose some king of this age commands a countless army and a boundless realm, who in the world has such talent as you have? Who in the world has such a father as you have? Ubayd, whose hopes without your favor rest upon this young fortune of yours, will swiftly, though grown old, attain his wish through your ambition; what grief could the turning misfortunes of the sky give him then? Though the rhyme has run thin, what does he care, when he holds a hundred royal treasures of meaning? By the grace of God I hope so much that He keeps you always a king, exalted, beyond doubt. May your blessed, noble being endure, and may He keep it safe from the harm of the sky's calamities.

The rose is showing off again, turning toward the open fields; it is young, eager for pleasure and for being admired. A thorn at its side, its feet stuck in mud, yet it laughs sweetly. Look at the grace this freshly grown, elegant rose carries. The water, ripple by ripple, weaves chain mail like David; the breeze has the reviving power of the Messiah's breath. The tulip dancing at the edge of the meadow seems a new bride wearing a splendid, precious gown. The tale of the cypress is long; it can't all be told, for that is a story whose head reaches the Pleiades. The way the nightingale wails so mournfully in the garden bears a kinship with me, the love struck, heartbroken one. The garden has every delight ready and prepared, but truly happy is the one who has all his own means ready. Count today's coin as a gift; don't let it slip away. Unlucky is the man who frets about tomorrow. If my idol passes through the garden, showing herself off, with that face, who cares to look at rose or tulip? What beauty is this that her form and features possess, and what grace this that her stature and height command! I said in jest, 'Your curls hold my heart captive.' She said, 'Look at this good for nothing, what wild fancies he has!' The teardrop of my wounded, aching heart in grief for her is blood that belongs to the innermost core of the heart. A whole world has become her servant, and she, in true sincerity, longs to serve the wise and noble master. Rukn al-Din, the lord the moon serves, the sun's slave, with the heart and rank of Hatim and Darius. In this world no peer or equal to him has been or is, by the God who has no partner and no equal. The enemy melts at the lightning of his spear, even if his body were steel and his heart solid rock. My lord, the dust of your feet, which dwells in our eyes, has become the kohl that adorns the eye of the heavens. Wise old mind is your companion, young fortune your friend. Blessed is this elder who holds such youthful fortune. Your pearl scattering, sea like hand at the hour of giving is like a cloud that carries the bounty of the sea. Before your judgment, how can anyone boast of radiance? Who is the sun that it would have such daring and nerve? It is the ring of your service that the new moon wears; it is the belt of servitude to you that Gemini bears. In truth, my lord, in this age it may be said of you that through your generosity everyone enjoys a happy life. Now and then, out of kindness and grace, some favor, this servant longs for from the service of his master. Keep favoring those who pray for you with your gifts, for prayers offered in sincerity carry real effect. Every patron who has a poet servant like me will earn a good name in both worlds forever. May you always have your wishes fulfilled, and pass your days in joy, for a whole world holds allegiance to your court.

As long as the sun's shield keeps scattering gold across the sky, may it remain a slave to the shadow of the king's canopy. The world conqueror, the young and fortunate Sheikh Abu Ishaq, who is the king of the world for as long as the world lasts. It is fitting that anyone who is a servant of this triumphant king should raise his head to the heavens in pride. My lord, the aged sky itself longs to live under the protection of your youthful fortune. The humblest servant at this court outranks a thousand kings like Jamshid, Darius, and Ardavan. For the beggar and the pilgrim, your blessed pen unties the knots at the door of a royal treasure. Your world-crossing chestnut steed, swift as lightning, has victory as its attendant and good fortune riding beside it. In battle, when you drag enemies to your camp, no one turns his back to you, except perhaps in a mere thought. With blows of your heavy mace, crush the heads of your foes, as is the way of discerning kings. Like the curls and eyes of the beautiful, whoever stirs up trouble is left scattered and helpless by the king's justice. On the day of war, behold the prince's valor; for rarely does a king turn out to be a true warrior. Obeyd would gladly give his life at the dust of your majestic door, not just one life, but a thousand, if he had them. May your life endure, for sweeter than anything is eternal survival and everlasting fortune.

As long as time endures, as long as the earth stands firm, the king of the world, Abu Ishaq, will rule triumphant across the earth. Victory and conquest will always march at your army's right hand and its left. Every hope you place in God will be returned to you tenfold, a hundredfold, a hundred thousandfold. Wherever you wage war, your enemy's fortunes will turn to ruin. Whoever refuses to serve you will be held prisoner by fate. In every task, the effort is yours, but the victory comes from the Creator. If any slanderer exists under such a reign, let it be only the musk pods of Tartary. In such an age of justice, the only thing disordered will be the curling locks of the beloved. And if now and then some weakness falls upon us, it will be gentle, like the breeze of spring. This boldness of mine has gone too far now; let me keep the rest brief with a prayer. May your kingdom offer prayers to the heavens as long as the heavens keep their turning.

The world flourishes by the grace of the triumphant king, the sun that spreads justice, the Jamshid of our age. Sultan over the four elements, Solomon of the six directions, master of the seven lands, architect of the nine heavens. He rose so gloriously that the gardens of Eden envy him a hundred thousand times with every breath. The stars turned favorable, the heavens grew kind, fortune became helpful, and the days agreeable. Every tyranny has withdrawn from the world like a bent bow, and injustice sits alone in a corner like an earring. Now no body suffers the cruelty of fate, and no heart carries the dust of the earth's oppression. Gone are the days when the leopard hunted the deer; now the lion settles peacefully among the wild asses. Tyranny and injustice hid away in the land of nothingness once the justice of the world's king became manifest. Sultan Uways, the world-holding king who bestows crowns, that famous son of a king and grandson of a monarch. A king whose blessed canopy's reflection shames the moon and puts the sun to disgrace. A Rustam in courage, whose arm and blade in battle recall Heydar the Charging and his sword Zulfiqar. The horizons were drowning in a flood of turmoil; he lifted them clear of the rising waves of disaster. What a miracle his sword is: at the heat of its wound the mountain wails in terror and the sea trembles in panic. What a swift courier his pen is: a thousand times each moment it runs from Zanzibar to China, from China back to Zanzibar. His sound judgment prevails like destiny; his binding command triumphs like fate itself. O king, the harvest of the sea and the coin of the mine hold no worth in the eye of your high ambition. The Artist of creation, to fashion the satin of the nine heavens for your court, made his hand golden-embroidered for you. Good fortune is a faithful servant at your door, a relic left at your presence by your ancestors. Prosperity is a loyal ally who, with a sincere heart, has made a firm pact with your triumphant destiny. A high mountain would speak of patience only after you; a wide-hearted sea would offer royal pearls only after you. Before your faithfulness the fresh spring seems soiled; before your generosity the wild flood stands ashamed. The whole purpose of creation is your noble being; O you in whom all creation takes its pride. On the day when, from the roar of the warriors on the battlefield, the sea boils over and the sky begs for mercy, that day the heads of the rebellious are trodden underfoot, and the bodies of the brave are laid low in the dust. The thunder of war drums echoes through the sky, and the lightning of the blade strikes sparks into the hearts of lions. The tempered arrowhead breaks through the coat of mail; the spear's point passes clean through the armor. Heads rain down from the air like hail, and blood pours from the hills like a torrent. On such a day, when the mountain itself shakes in dread of the arrow's wound and the shining sword, your triumphant arm, at the heart of the battle, raises dust from the champions and wrings screams from the brave. Your sword, in that hour, from the blood of the fallen champions, heaps mounds of the slain and turns them into fields of red tulips. My king, Ubayd, who praises you with his whole soul, admits, though, that his tribute falls short. He holds much hope in your exalted majesty, O you in whom everyone in the world places their hope. As long as water flows and wind moves along its path, as long as the mountain stands still and the earth holds firm, and as long as that light-giving orb we call the sun keeps circling around the center of the earth, may your rank and glory forever increase, may your fortune and your life endure without end. May good luck ever stand at your right hand, may ease and success forever attend your resolve on the left.

The caravan of early spring has reached the meadow again. Rosy cheeked cupbearer, come, bring the rose colored wine. Bring that wine like pure ruby, for with its help life stays a constant pleasure and living turns sweet. It lifts the spirit and makes the heart glad, a water of life that leaves the sober drunk. Companion to young and old, friend to king and beggar, kind to everyone, agreeable with all. Pleasing to the smitten, a must for the lovelorn, a helping hand to the burned, a comfort to the grieving. Good for the digestion, a painter of the imagination, light to the eye and an earring to the ear. That season comes around again, when in garden and field tulips rise from the soil and roses break out from thorns. The morning breeze hauls the sweet herbs into the garden; the hand of the air scatters Tartar musk. The gracefully glowing tulip holds fresh ambergris at its heart, the sweetly smiling bud has a harvest of roses at its side. How lovely the work the bride dresser of spring has taken up: the meadow's foot in henna, the jasmine's hand adorned. The heavy eyed narcissus trembles in every limb, for at dawn, hungover, it drank too much water. Ah, how beautiful it is by the flowing stream: the reflection of rose and redbud, the shade of willow and plane. Whoever in these days swallows the pain of restraint and won't drink openly is a tyrant to his own soul. The stingy worldling gained nothing from a whole life, the pious ascetic never tasted the joy of living. Lord, if you mean to grant us comfort and delight, life is nearly over, how long must we keep waiting? How long can one keep hoping, standing at the roadside with hopeful eyes fixed on the path of hope? Grant a chance for pleasure, so we may take our due from the colorful face of the rose and the sweet lips of the beloved. A morning drinking party is fine, especially in rose season; the joys of youth are fine, especially in times like these, for through the King's justice, once more there appeared order for the age and stability for the world's affairs. The King of fortunate destiny, Shah Uways, who is the manifestation of God's grace, the shadow of the Creator. The moon, nested in the heavens, is a servant at his gate; the king of the blue fortress, the sky, obeys his command. Indispensable as the soul, wish granting as wisdom, victorious as fate, triumphant as destiny. In him the people of the world place their hope until doomsday, in him humankind takes its pride forever. Before his skill in battle and his generosity at the feast, Rustam son of Zal is put to shame and Hatim of Tayy abashed. His heart brightening crown carries a sign from Khosrow; his auspicious throne remains a keepsake from Jamshid. On the day of war, when from the horses' hooves the earth's back fills with crescents and the sky's face with dust, the charge of the lion fellers tears mountains from their place, and where blood pours the boiling reaches the thornbush. From the terror of the war drums' thunder the mountain swells with pride, and from the lightning of blades the plain grows full of sparks. The backs of the brave bend like a polo stick, and the helmets of champions roll in the dust like polo balls. In the ranks of battle, from the dust of the road, the world conquering sword of the King sets earthquakes in the hills. When he draws his sword of vengeance, they bow before him: Rustam who conquered Turan, and Qaren who wielded the dagger. At the tip of his arrow the sun grows shaken, and at the edge of his sword the heavens cry for mercy. Lord, as long as time's turning may endure, as long as earth stays still and the heavens revolve, may the rank of knowledge stand high through his fortune, may the arm of faith stay firm through his support. May his bounty be undying, his justice ever growing, his realm lasting, his sovereignty enduring.

At dawn, when from the eastern edge the blue-walled king sent his Roman army marching toward Zanzibar, the black tent of night was torn apart, and from every eastern quarter the banner of day appeared. The lovely golden-winged, silver-nested body of the sun turned the plain to silver and the mountains to gold. Like divers in this sea of silver waves, its light plunged in and scattered gleams on every side. Withdrawn from all people, secluded in a corner, I had freely chosen the quiet of solitude, drowned in the sea of wonder, caught in the whirlpool of thought, my discerning eye fixed on the shapes of the heavens, having shaken off the affairs of the world in true sincerity, keeping only to the prayer for the king of the world. I heard a soft chant from the dwellers of the sacred realm on their way; I saw an army of hidden travelers passing by, all clad in enlightened hearts like luminous spirits, all marked head to toe by purity like the spiritual mind. On the ninth green arch of heaven they were beating drums of joy: 'Here comes the victorious banner of the fortunate king!' Champion of realm and faith, sky of justice, sun of religion and knowledge, shadow of the Creator, Sheikh Abu Ishaq, lord of the world, sun of the cradle of power, king of sea and land, sultan with the might of the heavens, kings ride at his side and champions in his stirrup, lion-catchers on his right and lion-hearted men on his left. The world cannot do without him, and it bows its neck to him; he is the darling of the Creator, and a whole people hopes in him. Every treasure of fortune stored in the vault of the heavens, the treasurer of destiny has scattered over the dome of his canopy. Every image the age ever saw drawn on the pages of possibility, the painter of fate has painted onto the face of his banners. His servants conquer kingdoms, his attendants bestow them; his friends prosper, his enemies are ground into dust. Faith and world attend his banner day and night; all the world's people take shelter in his fortune, month upon month. O king of kings, the dust of your threshold, out of pride, boasts over the crown of Saturn's palace itself, your hand, scattering pearls, and your gem-showering fist are like a wind in autumn and a cloud in spring. Moon and sun are shamed by the light of your face's reflection; sea and land are put to shame by a drop of your hidden bounty. Anyone in the world who speaks without your gracious will, the moment your gaze falls on him, fate wipes him out. For the coming of your victorious, world-seizing banners a whole country longs and a whole world waits. As long as this bright full moon has its course through the sky, as long as this round vault turns above the earth, may the pillars of your glory stand flawless like the settled earth, and may the days of your life be countless like the turning of the sky.

Nowruz, the festival, arrives and carries the scent of spring; may a blessed wind blow toward the court of the sky commanding king. Master of the four elements, king of the six directions, the sun of the seven lands, the shadow of the Creator on earth. Sheikh Abu Ishaq, sultan of the world, keeper of the age; a world conquering monarch marked with the ways of Jamshid and Fereydun. A king whose spear's blow, on the day of battle, throws the age into turmoil and drives the heavens to beg for mercy. The lightning of his anger is restless, the wave of his wrath relentless; the flood of his giving is beyond measure, the sea of his kindness has no shore. His praise lies beyond any meaning words can hold; his generosity surpasses any figure that can be counted. The moon at the gate of his command is a swift messenger who obeys; the sun, before the beauty of his glory, is a dagger bearing servant. O king, the eyes of the world's people are bright because of you; your gatherings leave this world a memory of Kaykhosrow and Jamshid. The sun boasts of your world seizing judgment; the heavens take pride in the dust of your threshold. Fortune and prosperity attend your servants on the right; victory and triumph stand beside your slaves on the left. You grant kingdoms, and thus kings became conquerors of lands; you grant crowns, and thus kings became wearers of crowns. The ninth sphere, the vaulted arch of this dome shaped sky, they have set aside to serve as the ceiling of your lofty court. On the day of battle, from the thunder of drums and the flash of sharp swords, the mountain is set trembling and the sea is thrown into distress. The stature of the heavens bends like the curve of a polo mallet, and the helmets of lion slayers roll in the dust like the spinning ball. The face of the desert grows weary from the wounds of horses' hooves; hill and plain turn into fields of tulips from the blood of the brave. The spear tears the bodies of warriors from their bodies; the arrowhead's sharpness passes through armor and out of souls. Your sharp dagger turns the plain into a sea of blood; the fire of your wrath raises dust even from the sea. May your life be beyond measure and your joy everlasting; may your fortune be triumphant and your glory endure.

The fast is over, the cold has gone; spring and the feast are here. Where is our cupbearer? Tell him to come and bring the wine. On the morning of the feast, pour me a cup, for through Ramadan we burned ourselves up with prayer beads, piety, and begging pardon. Any moment that passes without wine, a lover, and music, reason's accountant refuses even to count. It is a treasure, count it as treasure, seize the chance: wealth, youth, love, and the scent of spring. Come and set up the feast of joy, for how sweet they are: wine, green grass, running water, and the face of a beloved. For each cup you fill full of wine, in all sincerity, you will repeat a prayer for the fortune of the king of the world. The beauty of this world and of the faith, Shah Sheikh Abu Ishaq, master of the world, the king who holds the whole earth. A star among the armies of destiny in his charge, and fate's own power; a sky in giving, a sea in bounty, a mountain in steady calm. A ruler whose sword keeps the order of the world, a king of kings whose justice turns the very heavens. The echo of his glorious fame gave the mountains their stillness, the shooting star of his swift resolve gave the wind its rest. From the force of his spear the stars tremble, and from the gifts of his pen the world is filled with generosity. When his steady judgment cast its shadow over the sky, the setting sun's coin was proven pure and true. A refuge of grace, so generous that when he moves, the world and all it holds seem cheap and worthless. My lord, you are such that, faced with your greatness, the heavens declare: 'There is no rival to him.' The least courier of your court is the moon, a ring in its ear like a servant; the humblest slave of your command is Arcturus, holding the lance. As long as the moon, the sun, and Saturn keep their path and orbit in this rust-green garden of the sky, may you live in triumph and good fortune as long as you wish, enjoying life, high rank, youth, and luck. Your enemy trapped, your friend content, your fortune young, the heavens obedient, the world your servant, and luck your companion.