Ushaq-nama

God, as long as the moon, the sun, Mercury, and Saturn shine down from this turquoise vault, may the king who adorns the eastern world remain, and may the earth endure for all the time that is left. As long as the blazing sun holds mastery over this lotus-blue royal palace, as long as the four elements are the substance of the world, and place has its six directions as its foundation, as long as there is a path from essence to accident, and formless matter takes on shape and design, as long as above this dark grey earth these nine enamel-blue heavens hang suspended, may the world obey the king of the world, and may the heavens serve the fortunate king. The moment my mind first took up the pen and set its patterns on this fine Shushtar silk, when the master, Nature, gave it order, I wrote the king's name across its border. The king of kings of the world, the ruler of all creation, the lamp of the lineage of Adam, the blessed pearl of the sea of kingship, whose being is a sign of divine grace, whose mind is the center point of meaning's compass, whose heart is where the lights of meaning descend, a second Jamshid, the beauty of this world and the faith, Abu Ishaq, sultan of sultans, the auspicious, justice-spreading king, the world-conqueror, the sun of the seven realms, crowned kings are the servants of his court; his threshold is the place where sovereigns bow down, in his retinue, on every side, sits a wearer of the crown; each soldier of his is a prince or a king. On the day of feasting he is like Jamshid on his throne; on the day of battle he is like the blazing sun. His throne raises its steps to the heavens; his stride reaches the place of Fereydun. Before him every proud head is bowed low; every pheasant from his garden becomes a royal falcon. May the heavens rise high through him, and may his enemy never have strength. May his gate be the shrine of good fortune, and his sanctuary the Kaaba of all hopes. If fortune one day becomes my friend, if my slumbering luck awakes, at that court I will cry out about this heart: fellow Muslims, come to my aid against this heart of mine. I have a heart that has given up on life, that has abandoned hope in both faith and unbelief. A wounded heart, a gatherer of grief, a calamity, caught in the snare of love for the beautiful ones. A frenzied heart, a restless shape, a maddened heart of chaotic doings. I have a heart that has borne the pain of separation, that has suffered sickness from the beloved's eyes. A heart with no shame before God, no modesty before the faces of people. It nests in the house of love's torment; it is the dwelling place of the homeless eye. Steeped in blood, a soul of melancholy, an old, incurable patient of love. Forever drunk like the eyes of the lovely ones, a pagan by nature, a worshiper of idols. Chaotic in its ways like the tresses of infidels, dark-faced and in scattered, miserable days. Always bewitched by the affliction of love, its whole being from head to foot a single drop of blood. It chases no wealth and no rank; it never turns its face toward any right road. At every moment grief drives it to a hundred laments; for the beloved's down and beauty spot its life pours out. It has no fear of its own madness and willfulness; like the ignorant, it fears no disgrace. It is dazzled by every playful, coquettish one; it never cares for name or honor. Whoever cherishes it like the apple of the eye, it repays their secrets with the blood of the heart. It always wants itself wounded within; the more misery it sees, the more it craves. It always keeps mourning as its trade; it always has love on its mind. If from afar it sees one tall as a cypress, it falls at their feet and gathers up its pain. When it takes the hand of one with pomegranate breasts, it dies before the pomegranate of that garden. For the sake of the beautiful ones it gambles away its life; to the unbelief of their tresses it loses its faith. You would say it has the habit of the moth: it takes no care for its own life. I am forever wounded by its thoughts; I am forever sick from grieving over it. Everyone finds their way by the light of the eye, but my poor heart has fallen from the eye into the well. My heart has killed me; to whom shall I cry out? I have become the captive of the heart; from whom shall I seek justice? I am drunk and helpless at the hands of this mad heart; inside my chest I worship my own enemy. Without having seen a single grain of the beloved's charm, I am caught, caught in the snare of the heart. May no one have a heart so broken as this; may no one face so hard a matter of the heart. Because of this heart I have become the companion of sorrow; God, find some remedy for this heart of mine. My heart has thrown me into grief over a beloved; it has cast me into the snare of love for a rose-cheeked one.

An idol with a radiant face and a blessed spirit, a monarch ruling over the city of beauty. The most exquisite among all the exquisite; from her sweetness even sugar gleans a harvest. Her cheek has fashioned itself into the rose-petal of beauty; her stature outshines the graceful cypress in its pride. Her hyacinth hair has made the rose its home; from the corner of her moon-face hangs the star Suhail. A swaying cypress in the springtime of grace, an elegant pheasant in the garden of heart-stealing charm. She has scented the road with ambergris; her hair casts a canopy of shade over her rose-like cheek. Hidden in a string of pearls, a casket of rubies: her sugared words are food for the soul. Her two eyes like two enchanting sorcerers; her two tresses a caravan of Tartary musk. Her mouth, in truth, is smaller than nothing at all; the tips of her curling locks are twist upon twist.

The curve of her brow brings life to the soul; her sleeve is embroidered with the art of stealing hearts. God shaped her from pure grace. In God's name, what divine tenderness! With a wink, her drunken eyes reveal the ways of intoxication and the testing of spells. The dust the wind carries from her street becomes healing balm in the eyes of souls. When she shows her face like a shining moon, go to her and beg, keep begging.

From the first day those trouble-bearing eyes set my soul on fire with love for her, I let go of my heart, my life, my youth; I gave up every hope of living. I grew so mad with love for her that in my madness I became a legend. Reason kept saying: you dazed, sick fool, keep the pain of her guarded deep in your soul. If you must give your heart, give it to her, and surrender it to whatever humiliation comes. Sometimes blaze up with love like a candle, sometimes burn with love like a moth. Do not worry if your liver fills with blood, for from the fire of the heart the eyes fill with tears. Be ruined by love, for then you are made whole; be love's slave, for then you are set free. The story of love has no ending; reason has no desire but to love. Drink nothing from this world but the cup of love; remember nothing but the tale of love. A heart that feels no love for a beloved, do not call it a heart, it is worth nothing. Whoever has no longing does not know that a heart without love has no joy. Why should the heart nourish anything but love? Without a burning fire the heart grows cold. Let there be no such heart that holds no fire, no desire to brighten the gathering. Go, hold your head high in the play of love; in the street of love, gamble away name and shame. For reason has no better calling than this, and in the world there is no finer thought. I heard the counsel and gave my heart to love; like the dazed, I am drunk on love's cup. I handed the kingdom of my soul to love; I called out love's summons to the whole world. And if I threw my heart into love's snare, I became a target of sorrow and lost my heart. From now on her street is Kaaba enough for me; the arch of her brow is my soul's prayer-niche enough.

One night my longing ambushed me, and grief set my heart boiling from within. My body wrapped itself in the belt of an unbeliever, and my restless heart stirred up chaos in the world. I became a total stranger to reason, mad like those drugged on opium. Like her curling hair, I made restlessness my habit, and took to wailing, sighing, and lament. I scattered bloody tears from my lashes, and with that water I tried to douse the fire in my heart. I found no rest from crying out and weeping, and I had no fear of insult or disgrace. My clamor left the ear of the heavens stunned, and the smoke of my sighs darkened the sky. Again and again I tasted the poison of separation, and drew a line of erasure through my own existence. All night my task was to circle my beloved's dwelling, like a pilgrim rounding the Kaaba of the soul. My inmost self whispered its secrets to her image, and, burning, read out these verses once again.

My heart can hold no more of this uproar, my head can carry no more of this longing. Tell your sorrow to let go of my soul, for that madman can't survive another raid. Because I ache for you, my crazed heart holds a grief so heavy even solid rock couldn't bear it. Every night my lashes push out such a flood of tears that even the sea couldn't contain it. Come tonight; don't say tomorrow, for this matter can wait no longer, not for today, not for tomorrow. I'll throw my head down at your feet like a curl of hair, if only your hair would not turn its head away from me. How could Obeyd ever find release from this pain, when the ache of his heart admits no cure?

On those dark nights, restless and undone, I cried out and wept until my grief was almost spent. Perhaps my sighing reached that slender, flower-bodied one, who caught the sound from the corner of the rooftop. She took pity on my weeping and, gliding gracefully, turned toward those beside her. She quietly asked one of those playful, angel-faced ones to tell her the whole story. Who is this poor, love-sick soul, lost in a raw, hopeless longing that only brings him pain? Who is he searching for in our street? Why does he keep circling around us? Who left him so sleepless and without peace? What bait was scattered to catch him in this snare? Who left him with no food and no sleep, and from grief turned his eyes to weeping blood? Whose glance shot the arrow into his soul, so that the hunter himself became the hunted? What flood blocked his path? What bold, teasing eye led him astray? She was answered: this man who has lost his heart comes drunk to our street every single night. Sometimes he rolls in the dust like the drunk, sometimes he bows down like an idol-worshipper. No one hears from him anything but moaning; in his madness he tells his secret to no one. In this pain he has no one to rescue him; no companion but his own cold sighs. All through these dark nights, he moans at times, and at times he weeps bitterly. By night he keeps company with the stars, and when day comes he turns away again. He forever streaks his face with tears of blood, and no one knows this poor man's state. With a laugh she said: this raw one has stumbled; it seems he has just now fallen into this snare. No true lover weeps so pitifully, nor sinks to such humiliation and self-pity. His flame burns far too fiercely; it seems his mind has come undone. Such a frenzied one is slow to find any calm; such a sick one is slow to find a cure. In this state, our street is no place for him; a madman like this needs to be put in chains. Where will he find the key to this lock, the balm to soothe this wounded heart? Who would seek friendship with someone like this? Who would mend the fractures in his soul? You imagined a heart, you played at honor; you wasted your pity on one already at peace.

After a lifetime in which my heart drank blood, reason left and the heart alone kept working. When grief closed off the heart's very breath, with a hundred spells and a hundred tricks and schemes, I tamed a swift-winged eagle and sent a message to that idol of beauty: You who are both my life and my heart's beloved, longing for you rules the private chamber of my heart. Your beauty is a fountain of light for the soul's eye; may no evil eye ever reach your face. I am that heartsick one who, out of restlessness, cries and wails at your threshold. I hold no wish that goes against your will; I have no place to be but your street. My heart forever craves you; within me burns love and yearning for you. The magic of your eyes has led me astray; the dimple of your chin has cast me into a pit. I have become a captive of your dark, musky hair; have mercy, for I have become your helpless one. How long must my heart seethe and my body writhe? How long must my eyes stay full of blood from longing? How long must I wander, dazed and disgraced, spinning aimlessly like the turning sky? Have pity on this wounded, wandering man; have pity on this grieving, ruined man. See my disarray, tangled like your own hair; see how lost and bewildered I am. I have no comfort but your kindness; from your eyes I get nothing but heartsickness. If, for a moment, out of old friendship, the candle of your beauty would give me its light, I would become a moth and die at your feet, I would die before your graceful height. A single speck of your sun is enough for me, and a single leaf from that garden of paradise is enough. I do not ask to sit beside you for even a moment; I would be content just to see you from afar. When you lay out all my circumstances, and recount my story point by point, recite this heartfelt verse from Homam's poems before that heart-brightening moon. Since these lines serve the purpose here, borrowing from the masters is no shame. Say: he speaks, that sleepless, restless one, from the moment he suddenly, from the rooftop,

I saw your drunken eyes and lost myself. Tell me: is there still a heart in me that can speak? My heart is already gone, and I fear the day when even your love slips from my grasp, unfulfilled. This sweet promise of a living heart, will your lips grant it to me, or leave me broken? Be kind to your lover for a moment; from whom else could such kindness ever be learned? If one day I could see your lovely face, my tongue would fall silent before the whole town. If Homam gives up his life for love of you, say of him: that young man died and found release. Turn your ear my way and see behind you: by your scent this weary one is drunk, past all shame.

That eloquent bird with its pure heart, once I began this tale before it, grew aware of my heart's sorrow. It turned to fire and rode away on the wind. It went to the quiet chamber of the one who is my peace, slipping away, hidden from every eye. It told her the tale from every angle, telling it beautifully, like a master. Moment by moment it recounted my grief to her, though it spoke only a drop of a whole ocean. Whenever it recalled a hint from this story, that jasmine-cheeked beauty cried out at the words. With artful skill it kept its distance from plain speech, and by that art it preserved her modesty.

Suddenly her hair fell into disarray; she grew angry, and in that turmoil she said: Tell that sick man who has no cure; tell that madman who has no rest: Since you carry a mad longing in your head, madman, give up your longing for me and move on. This scheming is not your affair; mind your own head, or you will lose it. Where would you ever find light in union with me? When did a fairy ever befriend a demon? When did a beggar walk shoulder to shoulder with a king? When did a weed ever embrace a cypress? You are the moth, and I the heart-lighting candle; and when has a self-consuming moth ever reached its candle? If your heart is caught up in the affair of love, if within you the passion for love burns...

The burning of my love will set your soul on fire; it will burn all of you, the seen and the hidden. Beware the cold sigh and the burning heart: one of them freezes you, the other burns you. Do not try your tricks and schemes on someone who will burn you with a hundred tricks and schemes of his own. Do not light a candle with your own hand, for it will set your whole night, your whole bedroom, ablaze. What fire have you hidden under your skirt, that the same fire will scorch your collar? You gave your heart to my union, and I fear the torment of parting will suddenly burn you. It will do you no good when you finally say that this faithless Obeid has burned you.

It would be better if you went your own way and chose patience for this road. From now on, stay home like sensible people; don't be anyone's madman like this. Don't act bold before my drunken eyes; a fox has no business hunting lions. Don't play love with the snare of my curls; this is a game that stretches on and on. Whoever fails to know his own standing suddenly loses all he has. How could a wretched beggar like you ever reach union with a king like me? What comes of tearing your collar, of shedding tears and pouring dust on your head? This frenzy will get you nowhere; all this crying and wailing will do you no good. I don't care if your heart turns to blood; these tricks and spells have no hold on me. Whoever loves will find pain: red tears and a pale face. You, this wretch with neither honor nor name, what sort are you, and of what stock? You, Majnun, who bear the name of lover, hold the wine of my longing in your cup. It's better for you to sit with my pain, for if you saw my face, you'd gamble your life away. Haven't you heard, you who are far from reason, that the moth cannot bear the light? Go, make peace with sorrow and disgrace, for endurance is what makes lovers.

When these messages reached my ears, I lost all reason and sense completely. Longing for her set a fire in my soul, and my heart poured a sea of blood from my eyes. Yet every moment my heart kept promising that soon I would come to know her closely. If for a day or two the heart finds no joy, as long as the beloved is my fortune, there is no grief.

Once again, driven by that burning you know well, in all my helplessness and weakness, I went in private to that wise one, and once more began to tell my story. I threw myself at his feet in humility, and said to him, out of my restlessness: What would it cost you to comfort a wretch, to set right, with a little kindness, a poor man's affair? Be generous, take the hand of one who has fallen; by your mercy, make a free man your servant. Set a helpless heart free from grief; heal the sorrow inside one who aches. If from this door some help should come to me, by the grace of a caring soul like you, Then take flight, my hunting falcon; make your move and perhaps bring her into the snare. Tell her: your bewildered one says this, the one who has become a prisoner of your love and your absence. What is lost from a king's realm if a beggar comes upon a treasure? Let Majnun's heart find its wish in Layla, let Alexander drink his cup from the water of life. Let poor Farhad at last reach Shirin, let the fairy-faced one show her face to Golshad. Let Jacob open his eyes upon Joseph, let beloved Vis appear to Ramin. Let Vameq's soul be revived by Azra; no grief then, and his joy knows no bounds. Let Aurang sit happy beside Golchehr, a flower in one hand, a rose-red cup in the other. In just this way, let this poor Obayd too, his heart a stranger, be made a friend of love. Let him come to know a companion like you, and find his light in your union. Fortune has favored you, your luck is bright; it has never held you in longing from dusk till dawn. How would you know the tale of my sickness, my eating my own heart, my sleepless nights? If some grief should ever seize your skirt, if love should wrap itself around your heart, Then you would understand the state of the poor, and read the book of their affliction. You too live by a hope of your own; what harm if you fulfilled our hope?

Once more that enchanting, swift bird set out, as I bowed my face to the ground before it. Out of friendship it stepped onto the road, and pledged its very life to the task. It moved gracefully toward that free-standing cypress and, with sweetness, loosened a clever tongue. Saying: You, fresh bud in the garden of youth, you are the soul to my heart, the life to my soul. Your beauty is a fountain of light to the soul's eye; may the evil eye stay far from your face. Your delicate charm gives off the scent of amber; your fragrance has turned the whole garden into perfume. The hundred-petaled rose dies at your feet, and the tall pine falls dead before your stature. The musk of Tartary is shamed by a single strand of your hair; the moon and sun have thrown themselves onto the dust of your street. May you always be happy and blessed with fortune, and enjoy your beauty and your years. To me you are both soul and life itself; so do not treat me with coldness any longer. Listen to the counsel of one who nursed you; value what you have, for it is precious. While young, take full advantage of youth; seize your share of joy while its turn lasts. It is the young who follow the path of love; have you ever heard of an old man falling in love? A young person who never found joy in loving, know for certain, has thrown his youth to the wind. With kindness, win people's hearts to your side; never wound anyone's heart while you can help it. Do not hurt that helpless stranger; no one holds their own friends as enemies. See how gracefully the wise, who string words like pearls, have put this saying into verse. When you find a buyer for your indigo, if you are still on the Nile, unload your cargo.

When the free cypress heard these words, she answered: 'Listen, wise old teacher,' 'I am the candle that has a hundred moths. Why would I care about this madman?' 'There's no use in telling this tale, in repeating the story of such a lunatic.' 'Who would pick up a snake with their bare hand? Who would take a stranger as their lover?' 'Someone so unhinged gets along with no one. What kind of person would fall in love with him?' 'If I somehow came to terms with him, how could I ever hold my head up among people again?' 'He is an ignorant man lost in fantasy. The man who wants me chases impossible dreams.' 'Anyone who sits down even for a moment, any day, in any place, with such a scattered mind,' 'will soon give his enemies what they wish for, and end up disgraced among the people.' 'Tell him, as a kindness, to leave this street. How long will he keep hammering cold iron?' 'His heart is unripe in the game of love. Let it boil away, since it is only half-cooked.' 'If you truly must have a sweetheart, someone your heart accepts,' 'go and find someone as plain and colorless as yourself, some madman with no name and no honor to lose.' 'From this door you'll gain nothing you desire. Your soul will burn in this raw, foolish passion.'

Once again that master of enchantment began to weave a fresh spell over her. He answered her: You proud cypress, do not play the coquette any further with heartsick lovers. There is a captive who longs for you, whose mind is forever lost in desire for you. How long will you keep trying to destroy him? Fear, at last, his burning sigh. It is enough to kill this helpless man with grief, to snuff out his lamp with a cold wind. Let him taste something of your lips; perhaps then his pain will find some calm. I am that old man from whom young people learn the ways of love. I am the physician for the suffering of love's sufferers, the cure for love's incurable ache. I console those who have given their hearts; I find a remedy for the helpless. I know the cure for the lovesick and mad; I know a thousand spells drawn from this old tale. Listen to me: treasure your youth, for no one is given a second life. So do not humiliate your own lovers if you cannot bear humiliation yourself. Why pour fire on this heart already burned? From now on, give up this harshness and severity. From this fire you will see nothing but smoke; you will grow full of regret, and find no warmth. A whole spring is not worth the trouble of one thorn; the entire world is not worth causing pain. No one holds a grudge against the kind; no one wages war by such a code. Take pity on this poor, bewildered youth, a stranger, wounded, and powerless. His heart is bound to love and longing for you, worn out by love and longing for you. How can you find it right to keep him apart, to drive him from your door with scorn? Suppose he never wins his wish from you: why should he have to die in separation? I do not ask that he sit beside you; only let him glimpse you once from afar. What custom is this, to treat a friend so cruelly, to turn friends' hearts against you? For a while be a companion to a stranger; for a moment be kind to one who is kind. With this warmth he kept working on her heart; he breathed on it, and softened the iron. This exchange went on between them for a time, with much back and forth from either side. For every excuse she offered in the matter, he set before her a fresh reply. When he had recited enough of this to her, the sweet-lipped idol was left with no answer. By cunning, the bird was caught in the snare at last; the startled falcon came to hand at last. That lily-natured idol, out of her willfulness, behaved just as Nezami describes: With one eye she poured out boundless coquetry, while with the other she made a fresh vow. Though her scolding smashed glass against stone, her ruby lips fixed the price in the midst of the quarrel.

When she came to an understanding with her confidant, she opened her lips and spoke to her freely. With great modesty she said: my dear friend, go and comfort that heartsick soul, win his heart back. For a fresh love is kindling in my heart, and my heart burns for his helpless state. The fire that flickers in his lamp, burns even hotter in my own mind. If love's flood swept him away, I too am drawn toward that same flood. If sorrow for me has worn him down, I too am bound to him with all my heart. If you want the truth, my heart is his; for who is there who would not love the one who loves? If now and then I put on airs, I was only testing the worth of his faithfulness. Now I have turned away from that defiance, from drawing a dagger on those who love me. I have grown weary of cruelty and betrayal; that is over, and I have let it go. If a thorn pricked him on our path, if some hurt from me reached his heart, may he find a whole life in every wound, and a rose garden in every thorn. In my kindness beg his pardon many times, go gently to him and say: dear friend, if your heart aches with love for me, I too, from grief for you, fear I may die. Your longing keeps me from any task; I have no other love in all the world but you. The sorrows you endured have come to an end; you have reached the treasure you were seeking. Do not put off the promise of our union to tomorrow; clear the chamber of every stranger. Sit down and wait for me, but do not let this secret spill to anyone. It is better to guard your good name, and better to hide your secret from everyone. That night he did not sleep from making so many plans, turning the matter over in every possible way. He kept telling the story of me, the madman; all night long he told this tale to himself.

At dawn, when the morning breeze wiped the darkness from the face of the sky, it scattered red twilight over the blue enamel of heaven, like pearls flung across the sea. In the east the king of the sun drew his sword, and the army of night quit the land. They snatched the crown from the head of the pole star, and loosened the belt from the constellation Gemini. The life giving breath of the spring wind was filling the world with Tatar musk. The jasmine seemed to fling its collar open, while the breeze teased the flower buds again and again. The rose washed its cheek in dewdrops; the tulip bathed its face in the tears of the clouds. The violet combed its dark, curling locks; the lark let out a wild, drunken cry. The breeze, spilling musk from its collar and skirts, swayed and staggered like a drunk at every moment. Now it shared secrets with the marjoram, now it embraced the tulip. The blossom laughed in the flower scented wind, as the hyacinth spread its water fresh tresses. The proud cypress swayed gracefully in the meadow, and the narcissus eye grew coy with tipsiness. The meadow spread its wings like a parrot, and the gazelle scattered musk from its pouch. Along the hills and plains it glowed, the tulip's lamp like a Christian church lantern. The breeze twisted the violet's curls, and from the dew the grass was honed to a bright blade. The bride of the rose had readied her litter, lording her beauty over the other sweet flowers. The jasmine smiled like a cluster of stars; the blossom laughed at the other flowers. The dawn breeze made the soul feel new; reason saw it and refreshed its faith. The sweet herbs were drunk on the wine of beauty, the silvery cloud sprinkling drops from its hand. So many pearls poured over the flower beds that rosewater ran down the delicate rose's face. The pine, like brides dressed in fine silk, held a beauty like a rose against the meadow's breast. The cypress had risen tall and high; how cool the running water and the cypress shade. In this season when the rose steals the heart, the breeze works wonders in the garden. But I, in a corner of a garden, my head full of wine, held a cup and thought of my beloved. Sitting alone, hidden in a corner, with a hundred thorns of grief broken in my feet. One image had made its home in my heart, and from that longing my heart had grown as vast and empty as a desert. No fellow sufferer to whom I could tell my pain, no confidant with whom I could share my secret. My head hung down like a drunkard's, my lament thrown across the garden like the nightingale's. My face was like a tulip from so many rosy tears, my heart bloodied like a rose, brimming with blood like a bud. Remembering the face of that rose bodied cypress, I found some calm with the rose and the cypress. Now I grew drunk at the memory of that flower, now, like the cypress, I beat my hands upon my head. I imagined that perhaps, all at once, I might catch some sign of union with her. In this longing my burning passed all bounds; in this yearning my day came to its end. Night came, and again I gave my heart to grief; I handed the reins of my heart to sorrow. All through that sleepless night I kept saying, in that friendlessness, with no one to ease my grief:

If that moon-faced beauty had any loyalty, imagine that. If there were any fear of God in her, imagine that. I long for one moment of joy in her company. If she were willing, imagine that. My heart needs a single kiss from her lips. If that need were granted, imagine that. An idol I can't stop caring about, though she couldn't care less. If she cared about me at all, imagine that. If one day that royal beauty, out of kindness, turned her gaze toward this beggar, imagine that. If reason still circled around me, if my patience were still intact, imagine that. If good fortune could lead poor, penniless Obayd to union with her, imagine that.

Lost in this thought, I turned the night to day, and poured out endless cries from a burning heart. When at the hour before dawn, from the edge of the sky, the world-conquering sun raised its banner high, From the east they scattered gold across the twilight, and set rubies with skill into that gold. The lamp of the dark night's fortune was fading, as the army of day overcame the night. In that moment the tone of things changed, and my dawn prayer finally took effect. Suddenly the courier of good fortune came running, bringing me a message from my beloved. Saying: take heart, for now your love has come; your work has been given fresh life again. Though for a time you suffered such pain, in the end your hand has reached a treasure. You bore your grief and found one who shares it; you gave your heart and won a heart in return. With effort you set a single seed as bait, and with this spell you tamed a fairy. That old, kind friend sat down beside me, the cure for my ache, the balm for my wound. He kept relating the beloved's message to me, telling tales that soothed away my sorrow. When his tongue began to speak the beloved's words, my heart grew glad and my soul found rest. I flung the wine cup out into the garden, and tossed my cap of joy up onto the roof. My skittish fortune fell into order at last, and my old sickness finally found its cure. The flower of my joy bloomed in life's garden; my love was arriving, and fortune said:

When the golden wing of the proud Phoenix flew from east toward west, the world-lighting candle of the sun hid itself; the army of evening triumphed over day. The bride of the sun withdrew into her curtained litter, and the veiling of the night was settled. They tethered the camel of the mountain in shadow, and hung the sky with jewels for adornment. The king of the east sank into darkness, and the moon rose upon the throne of kingship. In that garden that was my dwelling place, in the way that was my custom and my will, I arranged a fitting place and opened its door to my friends. A place life-giving as paradise, a garden home like the rose beds of Eden. Its soil put fresh ambergris to shame; the pool of Kausar could bathe in its waters. I sat, my ear on the door, my eyes on the road; by good fortune, suddenly, wide awake, the joyous strolling sun, the moon-faced beauty, the delicate rose, the defiant cypress, hidden from people's eyes like a treasure, with that splendor and that grace you know, she came in suddenly, tipsy and glad, and drew the veil from her face like the sun. A blessed hour, a fortunate day, when the one who lights the gathering comes through the door. I saw her face and lost my mind; I became a moth to the candle of her cheek. With one hand she lifted the veil from her face, with the other she arranged her musky curls. When the sun of her face struck its blade in the house, the rose broke from the bud, the moon from the cloud. Her flowered beauty made the rose die at her feet; the pine tree bowed before her stature. Her musky locks were twisted into a lasso, a harvest of hyacinth laid over the rose. Her lips grown troubled from the breath of sighs; her languid narcissus eyes turned sick with longing. Her mouth stole the freshness from the water of life; her ruby lips outshone the red jujube. The morning breeze had scattered her hair along the way, and made the corner of the moon breathe rose water. Our house became a paradise from her presence; our little home was lit up by her. With honor I set her upon my head and eyes; I scattered gold at her head and threw my own life at her feet. From her face the house became another garden; our home became another rose bed. The one who seeks a wish the whole year long, when it comes to hand, how does he feel? She was seated and I stood silent, eyes wide open, senses gone, like a sick man who finds his cure, like a dying man who regains his life through remedy. Fire blazing from my heart before her face, burning from afar before her like a candle, my gaze fixed on the candle of her cheek, and like a candle a fire had fallen on my soul. My patience fled, my heart left its place, my tongue failed, and the strength drained from my legs. When the eyes of troublemakers had fallen asleep, the moonlight took command over the horizons. We set up a joyous feast; from every side the musicians raised their voices. The cupbearer came in cheerful and glad, brought wine and called out an invitation to pleasure. I took from her face a blessed omen; how fine the moment, how blessed the state. The cry of the reed flute filled the ears of the sky; the world was seized with cries of 'drink, drink!' The vapor of wine swept the mind's house clean; the incense of aloes and ambergris turned informer. She passed the golden cup around again and again; her two eyes played coy while the cupbearer poured harshly. The world envied our revelry; Venus envied that night among all nights. As the mind grew light with wine, the glass of modesty's claim grew thin. Like her golden anklet I fell at her feet, and with reverence kissed them. Out of boldness I sat before her; I grew bold in idle talk. I laid the tale of the body before the soul; I set out the complaints of separation, of enduring that grief beyond all measure, of taking a fresh wound every moment, of those tears of weeping and those heart-burning sighs, of those laments through nights that had no day, of that recklessness, that loss of dignity, that drunkenness, that disgrace and dishonor, of that helplessness, sending the servant and the nurse, seeking shelter at the neighbor's door. When I made her aware of my condition, I grew ashamed and cut my words short. When she saw me so beside myself, she looked upon my state with an eye of mercy. She was troubled and reproached her own heart; she opened her lips and cherished this poor wretch. She spoke words full of apology; she voiced complaints that stirred my longing. With every kindness she showed this servant, you would think she was bringing a dead man back to life. How sweet it is to speak with the beloved, to tell an old grief to one who shares your sorrow. Since union with her was my only hope, a single night felt like a year, a day like a month. What a fine year, what a fine month that was; what a fine moment, what a fine state that was. It was youth, and pleasure, and joy; how blessed that fortune and that triumph. Who ever finds such a time again? Who ever sees the like of that time again? Blessed be that time, that anguish and that burning; blessed be that season, that moment, that day. Suppose fortune becomes my companion again, how can the day of youth ever return? If one day I see joy and tenderness again, when will I ever see a night of destiny like that? All night till dawn she went on drinking wine, and made me swoon with longing for her. At dawn she took a morning cup and rose, and adorned the garden with her lovely face. The meadow rejoiced at her arrival; the cypress felt free before her stature. She swayed as she walked like a branch of basil; she strolled like a rose at the edge of the garden. The rose died of longing for her graceful face; the pine died before her from head to foot. The bud's heart tightened at her ruby lips; the cypress stood rooted in mud before her stature. Whenever the breeze glimpsed her face, it recited a verse and breathed a blessing over her. As that tall, graceful one passed by, it scattered tulips over her like rue burned against the evil eye. When the rose saw itself beside her, it laughed at itself with a hundred regrets. When it looked upon her lovely face, it strewed golden petals at her feet. The anemone tore its garment upon its body; out of longing for her it struck its cap on the ground. The pine became a slave to her stature; the carpet of green grass became dust beneath her feet. After she had walked a few steps in such splendor, her joy increased and she called for wine. She saw the water's edge and the cypress's shade; for a moment, in her grace, she became the cypress's neighbor. With every sip of pure wine she took, her cheek cast a new color upon the water. Such a beautiful, heart-stealing idol, a legend of grace and loveliness, sometimes drank wine in memory of the rose, sometimes listened to the nightingale's song. The breeze of early spring, the scent of the rose, the voice of the turtledove, the nightingale's song, the bud's heart like the mood of the empty-handed, the narcissus like the eyes of the half-drunk, the lark taking up restlessness as its trade, taking up crying and lament like me, the tulip scattering fire like the fire-worshippers, the nightingales set to their living hymns, the nightingale become a herald of the green-clad ones, the nightingale roaring from the surge of the roses, starting a song at every intoxication, tuning a melody to every leaf, ceaselessly making its heart-burning lament, sounding its melody in the mode of Nowruz. In a loud voice, from the branch of the boxwood, at dawn this call rang through the garden of Dardar: Cupbearer, bring wine and pour it today, for my luck is fair and the day is a day of triumph. What sweeter affair could one have, than to have such a garden and such a companion? What a season, what a paradise, what a houri; O God, keep the evil eye far from this gathering. Hand round the cup, for the friends are wine-lovers; from the scent of the last drop the flowers are half-drunk. If you are wise, do not stay sober for a single moment, for sobriety brings a load of misery. Do not grieve while you can eat in joy; how long can one keep swallowing the sorrow of the turning sky? Pointless grief has no end; it has no remedy but wine. In these ten short days of this frail life, as long as you can, remember nothing but joy.

Such a lovely, heart-stealing beauty, a living legend of grace and charm. So tender toward the one who loved her, as if she loved my very life and world. She showed me nothing but kindness, and I saw from her only sweet words. Happiness was my constant companion, and the eye of my soul stayed fixed on her face. I told my heart: you dazed and lovesick thing, guard her sorrow deep within your soul. For no one will find a sweeter beloved than this, nor find in beauty anyone better. For a while we were happy together, and in her embrace my life went well. Good fortune was my friend and luck my companion, time bent to my command, prosperity walked beside me. My stars made me cheerful and glad, and I was free from the chains of every grief. The world obeyed me, fortune stood by me, the heavens served me and the stars were my slaves. Now nothing is left of that pleasure but blood in my heart; of that joy, nothing remains for me but grief. I have a broken body and a sorrowful heart, one hand holding wind, the other holding dust.

My heart, how long will you worship mere appearances? Step over the head of existence itself and be free. How long the grief for all that was and never was? How long these pointless tales? Rise like the free spirits and act with a quick hand; get drunk from the cup of nothingness. Let reason go and wander madly; circle the tavern door like the drunk. For in the tavern you will find real light, and come to know the pure gamblers of love. If you want joy, learn to speak of sorrow; if you want a flourishing life, seek ruin. Do not let your heart's blood boil like a pomegranate; if you want good, wear rough wool like the dervish. And if you want release from suffering, be content with less than what you already have. The throne of power comes at a price; the crown's grief is no light matter. Go, run a needle through the eye of desire; then dip your robe in indigo blue. Greed has grown bold, so shout it down; hurl a stone into the jug of lust as well. I fear that when your time to die arrives, you will gather the wealth and another will devour it. If your soul is unstained and whole, you will reach the straight path. And if you fall in disgrace into the pit of ego, you are excused, for you have no sight. In this lodging that holds both road and pit, every attachment is a demon; flee. Like true men, spur the steed of good fortune; break free of this demon by chanting your spell. You are like a peacock in the garden of the soul, like a falcon whose nest is in the placeless realm. What do you want from this haunt of demons? You are no owl, so why long for a ruin? In this ship whose name is life, the ego's trade is to work the sails. You must not sleep serenely in sweet dreams while the ship has slipped from shore into the whirlpool. In this whirlpool you cannot rest; you must drag your baggage onto the plain. Do not feel safe from this sea for even a moment; that is my word to you, and yet, with such sailing and such captaincy, how will you ever escape this whirlpool? A single gust shatters the market of the world; the world's affairs come to nothing. This is not your home, so lift your heart from this corner; your road lies ahead, go and gather provisions. You have another resting place elsewhere, with sweeter water and greener grass than this. There it is the destitute who have work; in that country the beggars carry the trade. There the sellers of remedy want your pain; they want a lean body and a face gone pale. Arrogance has no currency there; kingship is of no use there at all. On this board do not move crookedly like the queen; the sky is a cheat, so gather up your pieces. Do not play false with crooked words, for a false performer ends up bankrupt. Whether you live in pleasure or in misery, in these ten short days you are tethered here. Like the phoenix, keep to your corner of solitude; do not swarm the tables of others like a fly. Move less among the crowd; like true men, turn your face to the wall of sorrow. Do you not see how the bow keeps to its corner? Yet the twang of its string cannot be avoided. Live detached and laugh in the face of the world; cut yourself off from people and laugh at them. Do not take a wife and stitch up quarrels every hour; do not sew shame upon yourself for the sake of lust. For a piety born of gutlessness, and a household run by a coward, are worth nothing. Attachments will drag you into the dust; become detached, and detachment will set you free. A man's true treasure is in owning nothing showy; the world's real pleasure lies in having no name or repute. The ruined world is not worth a moment's grief; all its feasting is not worth a single funeral. Why race across this endless desert? What prize do you seek on this ruined road? From this lodging that lies before us, we carry a wounded heart and a bruised soul. It is a wilderness with no provisions, holding a road that has no end. Traveling this road is a hard task; neither your goal nor your destination is ever won. In this ruin, though you hold a hundred treasures, and from this dwelling suffer a hundred pains, though you bear the name of Kaykhosrow or Jamshid, and all the people of the world are your slaves, at the hour of departure you will find no companion; from a whole mountain you will not carry off a wisp of straw. How sweetly Nizami puts this truth; listen to it eagerly, my dear soul: «Wealth and estate, children, wife, and strength, all stay with you only to the edge of the grave.» «These nimble companions travel with you, but none comes with you into the earth.» Where is the one who would not weep at this mourning? What stony heart could keep from grieving? In this garden, whatever rose or narcissus you smell, whatever cypress or hyacinth you seek, my heart falls to pieces when I speak of it; yet if you look closely at each of them, one is a lovely face and captivating eyes, another a playful figure and youthful curls. Whoever mounts up to leave this lodging is seen in this lodging no more. Seize your moment like true men and grasp the work; do not be heedless, for this turning wheel does nothing but weave its tricks. A curse on this rigged game and its trickery! Someone once asked a priest, in confidence, about the wheel's cruelty, its end and beginning. He answered, concerning this temple that forever circles round the earth: no one can give a true account of it, and no voice comes back to us from the sky. Though it is fickle and quickly grows tired of you, as far as the eye can see it has turned like this forever. Into this veil the intellect has no road; knowledge holds no power there. This fountain that swells your light, this hall that shows you its revolving, how can the body's feet ever reach it? You must fly there on the wings of the soul. To glimpse such a talisman from afar, how could anyone grasp its rulings? From it you will see nothing but a distant order; better, then, that you choose silence. If we take the priest's counsel to heart, it is better still that we keep our lips silent. There is no helper here but divine grace; there is no work here but surrender. Instability is the world's custom and creed; this has always been the way of the world. No one knows its beginning or its end; better, then, that no one knows its name. If you truly listen to our condition, and keep your wits, you will look at no one's face. You will bind neither love nor heart to anyone, and stop laughing at yourself like a fool. Obeid, empty your heart of the world's affairs; and now, once more, turn back to your tale.