Tarkib-bands

Cupbearer, it is the season of joy, pour the cup of wine. Be kind, and revive these thirsty lips with your clear stream. If there is a cup of wine, give it to me, so that in its rush I make the house of existence burst like a bubble. The wretch who has no thought of the Day of Reckoning spends his life counting gold and silver, fretting over trade. I envy no one, God knows it well, except the carefree rogue who has fallen down drunk and undone. Whoever the fire of this thirty-day fast has burned, his balm is candle and wine, his cure the harp and lute. And whoever has already suffered the torment of Ramadan, I say that hell will lay no further burden of pain on him. Pour wine into the cup of delight, for Shawwal has come. The season of sermons is over; the singer's turn has arrived. It is time once more to drink our wine and forget the fasting, the night prayers, and the extra devotions. Let us dance our way out of the monastery door and fold a drunken sweetheart into our arms. Let us cast our heads like roses at the feet of tulip-cheeked ones, and give our lives for the graceful, robe-clad beauties. If the little sheikhs babble their advice, with a single sip we will silence every tongue. How long must we look at the sour face of a worthless preacher? How long must we listen to his rambling talk? With a golden cup in hand, tell me no old fables; how long must we recite tales of Kavus and Siyavush? Praise be to God, we have brought the fast to its end; we kept the feast and escaped alive from Ramadan's grip. My heart is sick of swallowing only air at night, of shutting the door, cowering, and eating alone. What torment to keep the mouth shut all day long; what misery to sip sherbet and sweets only at night. It is an ugly custom to sit all night with the common crowd, passing the cup around, eating pudding and dates. You would call me a faster if you didn't catch the smell on my breath; yet no night went by without drinking red wine. A whole month's chance to drink would have slipped away from me, had it not been fine to drink with the Christian folk. Ramadan is gone; now, from this day on, every single day we shall drink wine in the court of the noble master. Lord of the sword and the pen, the shield and refuge of Islam, pillar of the faith, our master, whom the very sun serves as a slave. O king, for whom this lofty arch was raised, and the roof of this ninefold vault set on foundations of azure. Whatever your fortune sought, it was granted to it; whatever your good luck wished, it was made ready. Generosity had gone wandering, and contentment had vanished from the world; your arm and your pen brought this custom back to life. Kings have sought protection in your sanctuary; rulers have pledged their loyalty at your threshold. The world needs the life-giving breath of your creation, that same story they told of the breath of the Messiah. It was never the custom of the heavens to nurture the gifted; this tale of nurturing they told of your generosity alone. O you whose pavilion of ambition is pitched upon the high sky, whose command has cast a lasso around the neck of the sun. As long as the earth endures, may time obey your command; may the rolling ball of the heavens lie in the curve of your polo stick. May the ruler of the seventh sphere, the one named Saturn, be the least of the dark servants who stand watch at your porch. May the lion of the sky, whose arm is as strong as the sun, be the collared slave of the dog at your gate. May Mercury, who oversees the court of fate and destiny, be among the residents at the door of your chancery. When you drain Jamshid's cup at the feast of joy, may Venus be your minstrel and Jupiter your praise-singer. It is the feast day, so make merry, that the eyes may blind of the vile-natured, faithless foe, who deserves to be your sacrifice. May the span of your life be beyond all measure and count; may the fortune of your success grow greater, day after day, forever.

Cupbearer, bring the wine and fill the cup to honor the feast; pour it, for only wine can do justice to this day. The feast has shown its face and come again; joyful is the reunion with the beloved, and sweet is the morning of the feast. It has arrived in splendor and set the ground for joy once more; a hundred thousand of God's mercies upon the custom of the feast. Drink wine at the banquet of the king of the world, then with the ear of your soul hear the toast: long live the feast. The feast has come and granted a whole world its wish through wine; may the world always bend to the will and desire of the feast. The blessed feast has turned its face toward those who watch, and shown the crescent cup again to those who drink. Better that on the day of the feast we take refuge in wine, and settle the account of past pleasures with morning drink. Let us find a private corner with the old wine seller, and leave the monastery to the sheikhs for a while. Let us take the feast's due from the sound of flute and reed, and win our heart's desire from harp and lute. Whatever weariness Ramadan has left in our bodies, let us cure it with a cup of clear wine. Since our days are sweet through the king's good fortune, let us pray for the king of west and east. Sultan Uways, ruler of the world, triumphant king, the sun that spreads justice, the Jamshid of the age. The commander whose slave is even the emperor of the heavens; across land and sea the realm of kingship bears his name. The state of all the world's people, the livelihood of man and woman, stands upon his all embracing justice and his common bounty. The face of the earth, from the blazing sun of disasters, rests in the shelter of his pen and his sword. The disk of the festival crescent that all the world admires is but the horseshoe of his proud, graceful steed. The world has bowed its neck in obedience to his command; the turning heavens and the tamed stars are under his rule. O aged wheel of heaven, follower of your young fortune, the people of the world rest easy in your time. Before the universe and space were created, and before this golden vault of the sky was raised, before the foundation of this vast, arched dome was laid, and the carpet of the earth spread out within it, for the sake of the victory of faith and the order of the realm, your being was chosen out of the whole world. A kingship of justice and fairness like your rule and judgment, no one has ever seen, no one has ever heard of. May your fortune and rank increase forever, for by your good fortune the people of the world have found peace. Your threshold is the resting place of triumph and victory; it is the summary of the daybook of your era's fortune. O you whose majesty the sky leads by the bridle, and whose palace of fortune the sun serves as a slave, before the stars and the elements existed, the treasurer of destiny had laid up the treasure of good fortune for you. The architect of kingdom and nation and the key to fortune is your subtle thought and your problem solving mind. Each day the sun falls upon your threshold, hoping that at dawn it may glimpse your face. I close my words with the verse of others, because praying for you is an obligation upon all people. «As long as there is fortune, may your fortune endure; as far as your wish reaches, may the world bend to your will.»

From the blossoms the beauties of the garden have veiled their faces; the young brides of the meadow have adorned themselves with gold and jewels. It is as if nature's painters have traced fresh designs of ruby and gold upon the rose branches. So many canopies of sweet herbs are spread through the garden that they have blocked the eastern sun's path across the lawns. No wonder the rose boasts a tyrant's power, for under the king's justice they have folded their hands respectfully in its marketplaces. The birds of the holy garden, for the sake of honor, have bound the charm of the king's praise around their wings. Look at the rose enthroned in the garden, a crown woven on its head; it has drunk the water of life and won the kingdom of Alexander. Once again the cypress holds its head high in the garden, and the rose consoles the lovesick nightingale. The dew-fresh tulip holds its cup, yet every moment, like the drunken, the narcissus casts its bold, roving glance. See how the water-carrier cloud, coloring garden and meadow, keeps washing its robes clean like the Sufis at every prayer. The morning breeze leaps into the garden at every dawn, reaching out its hand to the young brides of the sweet herbs. If the cypress boasts of matching my beloved's stature, it is no fault: it offers that support only through its height. The garden's painter arranges all kinds of sweet herbs, each moment preparing them for the sultan's feast. Sheikh Abu Ishaq, the crown-bestowing, triumphant king, sun of the seven climes, shadow of the Lord. You who have come as heir to Solomon's kingdom over the world; the sky, like the earth, has come under your command. Whatever fate had power to ordain, your power has mastered; whatever destiny made hard has come easy before you. The pearl fled the sea for refuge at the door of your generosity; the gem left the mine and came begging before your hand. Anyone who lets a thorn of rebellion enter his heart finds his mind scattered like the tangled locks of the fair. Every arrow the wheel of fate lets fly from its ambush strikes the armor of your enemy's very soul. For your envier, in the idol-temple of grief and the frenzy of misfortune, giving up his life is all that separation from you has earned him. In no age has a king like you arisen; no such protector and refuge has ever risen for realm and faith. You whose sword and pen are the champions of the throne of kingship; you whose lofty resolve makes its nest at Saturn's summit. Your exalted presence is the abode of peace for fortune, and the sanctuary of your court is the safe haven of the kingdom. Day and night, to scatter offerings at your feast, the mine nurtures its jewels in its heart's core and the oyster its pearls in its mouth. From dread of your wrath, in the depths of the encircling sea, the fish forever wears mail and the turtle its armored coat. If the lightning of your sword casts its reflection on the fourth heaven, the gall of the shining sun turns to water at once. I have read a verse that must be offered here, a precious pearl from the tongue of Anvari, that lord of his age. «You who have received Solomon's kingdom from God to the end of time, whatever you sought, save an equal, you have gained through God's grace.» As long as the heavens turn, may your reign endure; may the ball of the sky lie in the curve of your command's polo-stick. When they light the candle in the bedchamber of your glory, may the sun's disk be but a moth to your chamber's candle. May the ancient old man of the wheel, whose whole wealth is a single grain, be a gleaner in the harvest of your bounty and grace. In eternity past, fortune made a pact with your majesty; until the Day of Judgment may it hold to that covenant with you. May every sudden calamity that descends from the sky fall entirely to the share of your ignorant foe on earth. May the holy spirit whom the people call Gabriel be, like me, forever praying for you and singing your praise. May the heavens be, and remain, obedient to your every command and prohibition; may your enemy's home and household be, and remain, forever ruined.

The whole universe is a single speck before the sun of your craft; your grace aids the mind and gives life to the soul. Every speck has become a king and every drop a witness, once your kindness turned its gaze upon the black earth. In all creation, whatever people boast about, except serving you, is empty filler and nonsense. With your remembrance, which is the soul's companion and the heart's spirit, we need no Kaaba and stand pure of idols. Though I am lowly, rebellious, and full of sin, I still hope your mercy will grant me the robe of salvation. Happy is the one who becomes intimate with you, and to whom a light comes from the radiance of the Chosen One. O master, whom even the king of the heavens serves; your rank is where 'two bow-lengths, then he drew near.' As long as the ages turn, the turn is yours; as long as the universe has a name, that name is yours. As far as reason can reach is your due honor; as far as imagination can travel is your grandeur. The clear glow of morning and the darkness of evening come forever from the light of your face and the shadow of your dark hair. Beware, do not withdraw your kind gaze from the world, for this too is a ruin left in your care. They beat the drum of your good fortune upon the heavens, and for your sake the herald cries out, 'Were it not for you.' Blessed is the time of one who loves Abu Bakr the Great Truthful, who walks in step with him on the path of faith. Bright as the sun and true as the honest dawn is whoever sincerely loves Abu Bakr the Great Truthful. In the arena where men speak of purity and loyalty, who is there that matches Abu Bakr the Great Truthful? Set aside everyone else on the road of sincerity and acceptance of the faith, and show me who surpasses Abu Bakr the Great Truthful. In fairness, my troubled mind falls short of any praise worthy of Abu Bakr the Great Truthful. He whose whole work was piety and detachment, both the Prophet's companion and his friend in the cave. When Umar girded himself for Muhammad's faith, he shattered the necks of the arrogant. The harvest of the wretched unbelievers was blown to the wind when Umar drew his fire-scattering sword. The sun of faith rose to its peak of perfection the moment Umar cast his shade over the Muslims. His hand struck the neck of the tyrant in Mecca and Caesar in Rome, when Umar became the champion of the faith's realms. Both a heaven of knowledge and a sun of justice, Umar, father-in-law of Muhammad, the Prophet of the last age. He who made the Prophet's sacred law shine with his sword, and made the foundation of faith firm with his own arm. Highest paradise is the dwelling of modest Uthman; the gardens of Eden are the home of modest Uthman. The moon gathered a harvest of light before itself, only to glean from the harvest of modest Uthman. The candle that lights the night-chamber of his soul is the bright inner light of modest Uthman. The shameless one who is an enemy of modest Uthman is an enemy of God, of the Prophet, and of himself. Until the hem of resurrection and the day of rising, Obeyd's hand clings to the hem of modest Uthman. He who first spent silver and gold for the Prophet, then gave his life and head to strengthen the faith. Ali is the sultan of the saints and king of the pure; Ali is the chosen one admitted to God's sacred sanctuary. His Zulfiqar is the torch lighting the highway of faith; Ali is the swift rider in the arena of 'there is no hero.' The one in whom knowledge, forbearance, and generosity found their seal, Muhammad's cousin and the Lion of God, is Ali. And the one who washed away the dust of unbelief with the water of his sword, the champion of faith who forced open Khaybar, is Ali. Poor Obeyd is the dust at the door of the one who is among the dogs at the threshold of Ali the Chosen. God forbid I should seek refuge in anyone else; the love of Husayn and the affection for Hasan are enough for me. O heart, seek your opening from the door of the pure ones; seek fortune through the blessing of following the Chosen One. And if you wish to give your soul's eye its polish, seek healing balm in the dust of the Prophet's feet. Flee into nothingness and turn away from being; seek the summit of the throne of eternal kingdom in self-annihilation. Well-being is a treasure that even kings never attain; if you want that treasure-map, seek it from the beggar. People are utterly helpless, so take refuge in no one; whatever you desire, seek it from God. Any kindness shown to people, let it be done as God does it, so that perhaps He may suddenly cast a glance our way.