The Beginning

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.