Ode 8: In Praise of a King of the Age

When they part the amber-scattering veil of night, they open the door of that blue-walled chamber of sky. They draw the gilded curtain across the heavens, then from before it they open the jewel-embroidered screen. With the wounding blade, those who dwell in the eastern land conquer whole territories from the armies of Zanzibar. The blossoms, the moment they open their eyes, loosen their tongues to thank the spring breeze. When the buds fasten the belt of beauty at their waists, a thousand cries burst forth from a thousand souls. When the willows draw their swords from the sheath, what blood they draw from the heart of the tulip field. In their longing after a year-long fast, the beauties of the meadow break it with sips of sweet wine. Gently they open the vein of the redbud and the rose's cheek with the sharp tip of the thorn's lancet. The tulip and rose would blush with shame in the garden if the beloved lifted the veil from her face. The garden air, the scent of the rose, the spring breeze, they loosen the knot within my wounded heart. Nature's caravan traders, by the hand of the morning breeze, open a thousand pods of Tatar musk. To offer praise and prayer to the king's presence, the lily loosens its tongue and the plane tree its hands. When the schemers bind up trouble against the heavens, by the blessing of the fortunate king's judgment they undo it. If his glory and awe shout out at the age, they would break the very succession of night and day. And if in wrath he glances up at the skies, he would break the caravan of the seven planets of the sphere. When the lightning of his sword flames against his foes, his friends loosen their tongues in a hundred pleas for mercy. On the day of battle, when his slaves unleash their fury, they seize the land from Cairo all the way to Kandahar. When in vengeance they bind the belt of war, in a single charge they undo a hundred knots from the mountains. Should a thousand fortresses of bronze rise before them, they break them open by the strength of the dagger-wielding arm. Refuge of the world, it is your blade and your arm that set this axleless sky turning on its axis. By the grace of your hand and heart, at every moment a whole world is freed from the chains of fate's misfortune. Your warriors rush roaring upon the enemy's head, like a lion let loose to hunt. May they all find prayers for you written in my ledger, when they open the record book on the day of reckoning. As long as men know good and ill to come from God's decree, and the wise open their eyes to draw a lesson, may you be triumphant, and may fate's stewards, one after another, open every choice in your favor.