In Praise of Spring

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: