Fragments

When you open this book to read your fortune, let Obeyd's verses give you the answer. Look to the first letter of the seventh line; do not turn away from the wisdom of the great. Among its letters, the one found in the opening chapter is surely a sign that the door will open for you. But the ones I will name, the letters not among them, it is best if you avoid what they point to. Tha, jim, kha, za, and then shin, za, fa, and God alone knows what is right.

The crown-granting king, ruler of the world, Amir Sheikh, whose fame for good fortune and generosity filled the earth. A king like Kay-Qobad, a warrior like Afrasiab, he took his realm as Shah Sanjar and Shah Ardavan once did. He backed the faith with the strength of wise, seasoned counsel, and seized the face of the earth with the arm of youthful luck. In pleasure he set up the manner of Khosrow, in rule and justice he took up the way of Nushirvan. He raised up halls and palaces, gardens like paradise, and sat there happy, lifting the cup in joy. Every servant who found a place at his door came to think himself a mighty prince, a lord of his age. Now look at the trick fate played: how ruin took the reins of his fortune. Suddenly a sea of disaster surged and boiled, swallowing his kingdom, his treasury, and his son together. What burning and weeping shattered that structure! What smoke of grieving filled that great house! That garden mansion, whose color, scent, and splendor lent the highest heaven its glory, has now come to this: where the nightingale once sang, a black-hearted crow arrived and made its home. The palace from whose glory the phoenix drew good fortune, now a stray dog has whelped there and the owl has nested. From the ways of time and the stability of the world, Obeid, one could take a thousand lessons from this. Poor helpless man, since in any case he has no power, let him blame neither the stars nor the sky. Happy is the fortunate soul who set no heart on the world; at peace is the mind that turned away from it.

All I have is debt, nothing else at all; my expenses are endless, and gold I have none. Let the world take all its pleasure and delight; I have no news of any such thing. I know no craft of my own, and even if I did, without good fortune, skill counts for nothing. Once the reins of will slip from your hands, there is only worry and the search for bread, nothing more. Take refuge at His door, Obeyd, for this wandering door to door leads to nothing.

Lord of the world, pillar of the faith, Amid al-Mulk, you are the one whose glory the very heavens turn to for refuge. Fate obeys whatever you point toward, and destiny is content with whatever pleases you. Anyone who lets the light of your judgment enter his mind has no need to look into the world-revealing cup. Whoever gets a handful of the dust of your threshold would be a fool to even glance at the philosopher's stone. You are the one before whom the sky, for all the height of its rank, keeps its back bent under the weight of your greatness. Whoever takes shelter in your protection, why should he worry about the shameless turning of the days? Refuge of the world, more than ten years have passed since this servant took up the name of your well-wisher. He has no patron but you, no master but you, no friend or companion in the world but you. He expects no welcome or greeting from anyone except from your kindness, which words cannot contain. He is not like other people who, wherever they go, find an open door and lift up their heads. He will never leave your threshold for any other place, though he could find a seat before both the low and the noble. In the age of a vizier like you and a king like this, is it right that the heavens keep him in such distress? Sometimes it chains my feet with debt, sometimes it afflicts me with obligation and poverty. No lord ever takes me under his care, and no king casts a glance toward this beggar. So now Obayd, like the enemy of a great lord, has no gold, no robe, no tent, no beast to ride. He has neither the means to keep company at court, nor the tools and provisions to retire from it. I grieve at my own luck, for through its ill omen my little affairs always run backward. The bow of the heavens shoots arrows of misfortune at me, and the noose of time keeps me bound in calamity. How can I hope for ease from time, when even you, my lord, are free of any concern for my state? Is it fitting that a man be so wretched and destitute when he has a master and guide like you? Rescue me through the goodwill of your friends and servants, for such work belongs to the resolve of pure-hearted friends. When you find the chance, if it seems wise before the king, say: 'So-and-so has set his hopes upon your court.' Live a thousand years in fortune, for the faithful angel himself lifts his hands in prayer for the increase of your glory.

Lord of fortune, chief minister and pillar of the realm: you whose every thought turns out to be the right one. My master, from the beginning binding fate itself set your being above all the world's reckoning. You are the chief for whom, with each breath from the dust of your door, the heavens open a thousand gates of triumph and victory. Whoever bows his neck in obedience to your command, fate names him a king and master of men. But whoever does not settle at your threshold like a doorstep, the flood of ruin wrecks the house of his life. Cruelty and turmoil turned their reins away from the world at once, as soon as the fame of your justice and generosity set foot in the stirrup. Every high office left behind by Asaf and Jamshid, your arm won by sword and pen. The sword that splits your enemy, what a jewel it must be, that on the day of battle it stirs a whole sea of dread. What miracle is its stroke, that scatters heads to the wind; what fire is its lightning, that roasts men's souls. Whoever came before you with a request, your pen, out of kindness, answered him with a gift. O king, the sudden rising of the lucky star that, like triumph and victory, turned toward your exalted presence, when your moon showed its lovely face, it was like the sun's disk shifting into the sign of Aries. The very moment it resolved to appear in the kingdom, fortune galloped ahead of it on a double mount. So that the hand of the age might scatter its gifts over his head, it filled the casket of the sky with lustrous pearls. The sun's worth rose high by sharing his name, so heaven's spirit offered the sun its congratulations. May he prosper forever in your shadow, for good fortune already made him blessed from the start. May your rule and your life last forever, and this prayer God, in His grace and mercy, has granted.

Fortunate vizier, whose crown becomes a proud head: when the dust of your feet reaches this green dome of the sky. Every weary soul finds its cure in your kindness; every heart, through your generosity, reaches what it longs for. God has granted this realm a chief like you as its daily bread; through your name, the pillar of Islam rises to the highest place. My king, your servant Ubayd keeps his eyes on your grace, hoping that by the blessing of your glance his affairs will rise high. If it serves the interest of this well-wisher with the king, present his case when your banners reach their fullest glory. I remember a few lines from the verses of others; perhaps one or two of them are fitting, if they suit this moment. 'The man content in this age with a single loaf of bread grows greedy the moment he reaches this exalted court.' Yes, from a well one wants nothing but water; but whoever reaches the sea demands a cargo of pearls. May you triumph forever, so that if your enemy so much as glances back, sudden death overtakes him. May the span of your life last as long as it takes the roaming sun to reach the sign of Gemini a hundred times over, again and again.

No generous soul is left who might free my troubled heart from the chains that the turning world has locked around it. I used to imagine that the one thing I longed for could be granted to me by the king. With that hope I went to the successful sultan, thinking his gifts would set my affairs in order. But no door opened for me from the king or his minister; only the Maker can open a hidden door from the unseen. Obeyd, ask your needs at that door alone, for in His mercy, if He shuts one door, He opens a thousand more.

If your judgment goes wrong in the science of numbers, why blame anyone else? What fault is theirs? The mistake is yours, my friend, so think this through better: you read the letter nun as one hundred and six, when in fact it stands for one hundred and ten.

My whole life slipped away in flutes and music, and all the while I said: What a pity, my youth and my years are scattering to the wind. Now I have given my heart over to sighs and moaning, but what use is it? God's decree is God's decree; come what may.

Obayd, do you know why this hundred petaled rose laughs at daybreak all around the meadow? Despite the tight knot of its bud and its aching heart, there is a wisdom in it; it does not laugh at the passing breeze. Seeing how steady the sky stands and how the world runs on, it laughs at its own brief life, and at our heedlessness.

The one who raised the heavens and set the stars in place, who created mind and soul and made humankind. He tied together the threads of all creation, then hid the loose end somewhere in the middle.

Obayd, how long this greed for wealth and rank? The world is fleeting; go and leave it behind. Like true men, shake the world's dust from your skirt, and pull yourself out of this whirlpool to safe shore. Move your things from the mosque to the tavern lane; make your home in the street of those who prosper.

Good fortune to this blessed palace; may it stand and thrive until the trumpet of the last day sounds. Joy to the feast of the silk clad king, a feast that delights the heart and brings light to the eyes. The beauty of the kingdom and the faith, the young and fortunate king; may the evil eye stay far from his throne and crown. The scratch of his pen holds time in its command; the turning heavens obey the force of his orders. May his fortune always triumph over his enemies, and his lofty banner forever stand victorious.

What difference does it make if you come to me at dawn, when night and day are all the same? Reach for the wine, for from now on, every day, the open meadow and the sight of spring are pure delight.

Since you have held me dear in this world through your kindness, Lord, and laid so many blessings upon me, a poor wretch who owes you thanks, hold me dear in the next world too, for as they say: 'A robe half fine silk and half coarse sacking is no pleasing thing.'

Others enjoy pleasure and joy, while I suffer the misery of debt. Everyone has some business at hand, and I am the one plagued by debt. I owe both what I owe to God and what I owe to people; should I settle my religious duties first, or pay off my debts? My expenses run past all limits, my debts beyond all bounds; should I worry about my spending, or worry about my debt? I flinch at no document except the record of my liabilities, and I dread no person except a witness to my debt. I owe money across the city and I owe across the district; I owe money in the alley and I owe inside my own house. From dawn to dusk I stay lost in thought, wondering where on earth I might suddenly find hope of clearing my debt. People flee from debt, but I, in all sincerity, after my prayers and pleas, ask God for a loan. My good name scattered to the wind like a beggar's dignity, from begging a loan at every beggar's door. If the master does not put in a good word for me before the king, how can poor Obeyd ever find a cure for his debt? That master, the glory of the state and the faith, whose generous hand alone no one in this world ever saw as the true remedy for debt.

Woe is me, for day and night I have become the constant companion and friend of debt. For a long time I circled around everyone, hoping to find some balm for my debt. In the end, no one could free my soul's leg from the tight shackle of debt. I found no sound solution anywhere that could rescue me from the grief of debt.

Those ruby lips, that slender waist of yours: the very thing the keen-eyed long to see. The ache of loving you, awake or drunk, is all that those who sit alone desire.

How pleasant it is, in this blessed hall, to leave a mark and set out a gathering. Remembering the feasts of the young, fortunate king, to sit in joy and give ourselves fully to delight. Like me, to give your heart to wine and the beloved, and open your arms wide to your friends.

My heart, stop enduring blame for the sake of family and other people's children. Settle down in your own town in peace and good health. You already tested that ungenerous crowd once. Whoever tries what has already been tried ends up in regret.

In years gone by, from the land around me, a little something would come from every side. In my room there was dry bread and greens, and they'd be there when a friend dropped by. Now and then even wine was on hand, if a companion or a lovely guest arrived. Now I have nothing left, neither dry nor fresh, of all that once used to come my way. Nothing is left in my house but me, and even I wouldn't stay, if some errand called.

You coin, dusty from the mine you came from, without you, life itself is forbidden to me. You comfort of the soul, strength of the heart, you source of every pleasure and delight. How long must Obeyd go on without you, his body surrendered to helplessness and want?

To sit here in joy and triumph, to celebrate in this royal palace. Blessings upon the king who bestows the world, a second Solomon, another Jamshid. Abu-Ishaq, the young and fortunate sultan, may he long enjoy his youth.

The sacred fortress of Dar al-Aman, in all the world there is nothing to match its height, like the sky itself. But given who I am and the poor mule I ride, honestly, climbing it is a catastrophe, and no small one.

God, I still hope your kindness will keep my little kingdom of pleasure alive and thriving. Turn the curse of piety away from me, and keep the fate of repentance far from my door.