The Beloved Comes to the Lover's House

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.