English
In Praise of the Vizier Rukn al-Din Amid al-Mulk
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.