Ode 24: In Praise of Shah Sheikh Abu Ishaq

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.