In Praise of Shah Sheikh Abu Ishaq

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.