In Praise of Wine, Turning to Praise of the King

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.