Ode 7: In Praise of Shah Sheikh Abu Ishaq

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.