English
Ode 17: In Praise of Jalal al-Din Shah Shoja
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.