Arabic Odes and Fragments

I held my tears back in my eyes so they would not fall, but when the water rose too high, it burst the dam. You breeze of Baghdad, after her ruin, I wish you would pass over my grave instead. For to a mind of understanding, death itself is dearer than a life lived with a heart closed in grief. I turned away the doctor who felt my pulse to heal me: enough, my ache is not from a sickness you can cure. I clung to patience when we had to part, but this is a separation no patience can heal. You ask me what happened the day they were besieged, but that is something too vast to be counted. The cups of death were passed around until the captives' heads lolled as if drunk. The Mother of Cities lost her children; even the Kaaba's tears pour from its spout onto the stone. The walls of the Mustansiriya wept, mourning the deep-rooted scholars of sound judgment. Such calamities of fate, I wish I had died before them and never seen the fool's assault upon the wise. The inkwells weep for them with their blackness, yet some people's hearts are blacker than ink. God curse the one you treat with kindness who, when the crowd attacks, joins in the betrayal. I passed by the silent mountains and found them like Khansa, worn down from too much weeping over Sakhr. You who counsel me to be patient, leave me with my sighs: is this a moment for patience, when my heart is on live coals? My whole self is crumbling from ceaseless weeping, as a riverbank collapses when the current cuts it away. I stood at Abadan watching the Tigris flow like fresh red blood streaming into the sea. My tears overflowing for the disaster at Wasit rise higher than the lake's tide and its ebb. My eyes gushed and my anguish grew, as blood burns hot within before the break of dawn. Do not ask me how your heart fares under this loss: the wound in my chest cannot be probed to its bottom. Suppose the royal city were rebuilt and thriving again, and the face of the world washed clean of dust, where then are the sons of Abbas, the pride of mankind, with their noble character and radiant brows? Their story has become an evening tale among the people, a tale that makes the ears bleed like a spearpoint. In the reported saying, the faith of Muhammad returns a stranger, just as it began. Is anything stranger than this: it returns as it began, and the lands of Islam are led captive into the land of unbelief? After the caliphs, may the Tigris never flow again, and may its banks never sprout green leaves. As if the blood of Cain and Abel had sprung up anew at the slaughter of the slain, its red edges everywhere. The desert acacias, the wormwood and the tamarisk wept for all the wailing of the crows of the wasteland. Is a sermon still recited from the highest pulpits, while al-Mustasim Billah is no longer even named? The frogs play joyfully around the water: shall I bear this while Jonah lies in the deep? The crows crowded around the ruins, so the Phoenix kept forever to its nest. O sinless Ahmad, you are no loser: your soul and Paradise; ease comes bound with hardship. The gardens of Eden are hedged about with troubles: there must be thorns beside the ripening date. Enjoy the sweet life in the seat of contentment, and leave the carrion of this world to the flock of vultures. There is no difference between the slain and one who dies naturally, once you rise alive after your grave and decay. A yearning greeting and a thousand prayers of mercy upon the martyrs, pure and free of sin. Blessed for them is the brimming cup of death, and the great reward that waits with God. «Do not think that God breaks His promise»: for them is a home of honor and of joy. Upon them be the peace of God each night, from the slaughter-ground of Baghdad until the break of dawn. Is there a rank higher than the caliphate? Come, look at how the matter ended. I wish my ears had gone deaf before hearing of the veils of the forbidden women torn away in captivity. Barefoot they crossed one wasteland after another, delicate women unable to walk over the pebbled ground. By your life, had you seen the night they were driven off, the maidens in the dark were like shooting stars streaming past. And the morning of captivity was a Day of Judgment for disheveled crowds driven to the gathering. One cried for help, alas, come to our aid: but how can a sparrow cry out in the grip of a hawk? They were driven like goats into the heart of the desert, honored women unused to being harshly herded. They were led as captives, their faces bared, young women who had never stepped beyond the curtain's shelter. And the seed of Qantura at every stopping-place shouted about the children of the Barmakids: who will buy? They stumble and kneel amid the hollows and the sands: can the tread of delicate feet stay hidden on rough ground? My mind before this used to grasp things clearly, but an event has come that no thought of mine can contain. Before the turns of time and its decree, the hands of cleverness and experience lie chained. I stood at Abadan after her cries had ceased, and saw the water dyed red as if with the blood of the slaughtered. Eyes bereaved pour out their precious tears, even when the clouds withhold their rain. We seek refuge in God's pardon from the fire of a strife that flares from region to region across the land. As if the demons of chains had broken loose, and a flood of blood ran down upon Baghdad. A dust cloud rose high from Khorasan, then turned to a mass that never lifts from the moon. How long will the turns of time and its injustice burden us with more than we can bear? May God protect the one who wakes to caution after them: the fall of Zayd is a warning to Amr. When wealth deserts a man in his ordeals, then blessed is the kingdom of poverty. Indeed the days give back their gifts, yet they never clothe you without first stripping you bare. Behind you, deluded one, is a killer's dagger, while you sprawl at ease, heedless and unaware. Like the nomads' she-camel, laden while she can bear it, but driven to slaughter once she can carry no more. Every kingdom is pursued by its own decline, save the kingdom of the Eternal, the Self-Sufficient, the One. If the slanderer gloats at my death, tell him: gently, no man lives forever through time. Even the one who held the keys to all the treasures leaves at death with hands quite empty. Since at death there is no difference between us, do not look at people down your nose. The world is like a slave-girl, soft to the touch and charming, but her nails are those of a biting dog. If any man of wealth could escape from death, he would deserve to boast and hold his head high. You gain guidance if you are a doer of good; if not, by Time, you are surely at a loss. As one of the lancers said to his opponent while dark spears won the embrace of dark maidens, hoard the world or leave it in sorrow, save for the world to come, if you must store anything at all. It is a shame upon a man to leave great wealth behind, yet you, deluded one, gather it up for pride. May God forgive us the sins that are past, and grant us the grace of a beautiful patience. And may He guard the lands of the Muslims with the reign of the country's sultan, Abu Bakr. A king whose name in every city is honored and beloved, like Joseph in Egypt. Through him the world has flourished, may his fortune last, and may the Lord support him with the banners of victory. So a tender shoot grows when its root is sound, for the plant's beauty comes from the nobility of the seed. Had Khosrow lived in his time, he would have said: My God, strengthen my back with his reign. By the gratitude of his subjects he is shielded from every strife, for the kernel is preserved by the husk. He is lavish in giving, in justice and in piety, as Sadi is lavish in the fine points of verse. And what is poetry? By God, I am no impostor, even if I possessed all the magic of Babylon. There are critics there of learning and discernment, who cull the beautiful word from the crude. My tears poured over my cheeks in torrents, so I composed this about what has come to pass. Though masters of great rank came before me, and it does not befit me to overstep my place, in the necklace there is ruby, garnet, and glass; and if I have a fault, an excuse will pardon it. The burning of my heart stirred me to spread this abroad, as the censer's fire releases the scent of perfume. I wrote it down, and had my eyes not held back from weeping, my tears of grief would have blurred my lines away. I tell of events too heavy for my chest, and carry burdens that bend down my back. All the more since my heart is thin as glass, and glass, once broken, can never be joined again. My age is one in which my life is bitter: I wish the supper of death would come to me sooner in my time. My friend, how sweet is life in truth, how good, were it not that death comes close behind. The Lord of reason takes no comfort in this life, for there is no good in a union followed by parting. It is all one, when you are dead and hopes are cut short, whether you leave behind a barn of straw or one of gold.

While the gazelles still roam free in the valley, beware, son of the hunter, that the prey does not slip past you. Know that ahead of every person lies a desert, and one who crosses the wilderness needs provisions for the road. You who have inherited the estates of those who passed away: can a sound mind ever feel safe with such fleeting things? This world and its glitter are like a wind that blows past hills and mountains and is gone. For the robe of life will surely be stripped away, and then there is no difference between fine brocade and coarse felt. The child of Adam has no standing before God except a spacious dwelling waiting for those who seek Him. Happy is the one who gathered the world's wealth and then spread it out in the service of good, neither greedy nor oppressive. Just as you are certain that time is running out, be certain that you will be gathered for a promised day. Often a single soul, by its own goodness, reaches heights that the praises of many worshippers cannot attain. The pilgrim caravan crosses the wilderness out of longing, yet true piety is the finest of acts and devotions. Give freely, smile, be humble, forgive mistakes, help your friend, and quench the thirsty one's parched throat. Let no envious eyes fixed on you cause you harm; even foxes hope for the lions' leftovers. Can you ever repay the full measure of His grace? Thanks fall short of the blessings He so plainly bestows. If, my son, you truly draw benefit from the truth, this is the very path of the noble and the great. I knocked at your door while good fortune called out to me, and I set out toward a sweet spring for those who come to drink. Do not blame me for the counsel it holds; giving advice is my habit and my nature. I knocked at your door while good fortune called out to me, and I set out toward a sweet spring for those who come to drink. I sang your name until even the walls, from sheer joy, nearly danced like camels swaying to the driver's song. O fortune that reunited my scattered self through his kindness, you brought me to my hope, in spite of those who envy me. O most fortunate of people, my feet never walked toward you except that God intended my happiness. I chose you above all other people, for the truly great are never like the common lot. Stay, O cloud of Persia's generosity, spread wide, and pour your bounty on townsman and nomad alike. I wish only good for Shiraz, where you have settled; O blessing of God, remain there and grow ever greater. May you always live in the world's ease and its blessings, as long as a garden sways and its songbird sings. The poem is complete; may God keep whoever wishes you ill alive only as long as a sesame seed lasts in a blacksmith's forge.

Praise be to God, Lord of the worlds, for all that calls for gratitude, for the renewal of His gifts. He rescued the faith from the jaws of ravening dogs, and drew out pearls from the depths of His bounty. Through a leader whose reign gave Islam its victory, a triumph, and He excelled in raising His banners high. The refuge of the noble, Fakhr al-Din, our master, a lord whose vision leaves all imaginations far behind. No knot is untied except by his resolve, no calamity falls except upon his enemies. A whole crowd of the wise sing his praises, yet none among them praises him as he truly deserves. Had the Lord of all people not blessed Shiraz with him, the city could never have hoped to be cured of its sickness. So praise be to God, a praise beyond all measure, while all the worlds stand bewildered, unable to count His gifts. May he ever remain in blessings, with the Truth as his helper, by the right of every verse the Quran has gathered.

The lovers could no longer keep silent, so they cried out; and whoever cries from longing bears no blame. They hid the tale of love as long as they could hold on; but when fierce longing overcame them, they confessed. A vision passed by, one whose radiant face brightens the darkness, turning the whole night of those it visits into dawn. The wine is passed around them while the carefree ones sleep, and they are given to drink from the cup of their own tears. I gave up my world, my faith, my heart's blood, my life, and my reason; and such surrender is pure gain. The ugliest pains and injuries become sweet when they come from the beautiful ones. And if some of us could not hear the deeper meanings, then hearing mere songs would be idle ornament and jest. I cry out with longing whenever the beloved's sanctuary is mentioned; and the utmost a lovesick soul can manage is to cry out. A visit to the beloved's dwelling is unavoidable, even if spears are planted between the tents to bar the way. There lies my sickness that is my joy, and my wish; my life, though for those who seek it death itself is success. They say kissing the fair ones is forbidden, but is shedding the blood of lovers then permitted? Indeed the happy lover longs for his own people, like a bird that yearns to fly but has no wings to obey it.

I was content to take mere promises of your love, even though you have forgotten every vow you made. My tears have become a flood like Noah's, and my chest a furnace fed with fire. You cut the ropes of my covenant by turning away, though they clung to me as close as the jugular vein. You fled and kept your distance, so my rose turned pale; come back, and perhaps my withered branch will grow green again. Whenever the cup of longing intoxicates me, the moan of my desire sings out like the notes of a lute. Sleep has become a stranger to my eyes, hoping that you, lovely one, might return to me. Is my chest not softer than silk? Then how has your heart grown harder than iron? How often the thread of my tears unstrings its beads for the wearers of bracelets and necklaces. I could almost fly into the air out of yearning whenever the willow-slender figures sway. You have bewitched me with black hair, red cheeks, and a white throat. When you lifted your veils from those cheeks, I said: they are reddened with the blood of stricken hearts. The jet-black braids hang loose, as long as the night of a lonely lovesick man. Curls like curved polo sticks, twisting, wrapped around the round spheres of the breasts. The nights of parting from them are the evening of death; the day of union with them is the morning of a festival. Yes, I am truly smitten with them, and how could the truth be hidden by denial? Even if I deny what I feel, it cannot stay hidden: the change in my face is the clearest witness against me. My state resembles the Day of Resurrection; otherwise my very skin would not testify against me. The turns of fate have driven my resolve to cross empty deserts and traverse wastelands. I set out to travel the world freely, but love bound me fast in its chains. The bond of patience held me firm until I was blessed with the sight of the fortunate king. Whoever seeks shelter in the glory of a man of high rank has taken refuge in a mighty stronghold.

Is your doorway the rising of the sun, or the full moon? Is that your figure, or a swaying willow branch? I cannot tell. You shine, yet you never favor me with a single glance. You have grown rich; do not look down on my poverty. When you walk past me with that proud, graceful sway, I nearly die, and if you pass by my grave I come back to life. You hid yourself from me behind a veil, in anger. But can the light of your face ever be hidden by a curtain? Did you not see me: one hand stretched out toward you, and the other laid over my heart? Do you cruelly order me to endure your absence, when the love inside me overwhelms all patience? Smiling lips, laughing, made my blood their prey. May God have mercy on the one slain at those lips. Many a friend has blamed me for loving you. If only he saw you one day, he would see my excuse plainly. I am love's captive: if you wish, cry out your complaint, and if you wish, be patient, for there is no release from this captivity. Whoever drinks the wine that I have tasted will not sober from its drunkenness until the Day of Resurrection.

If I have left people behind and chosen distance, don't blame me; my excuse is plain to see. Time has bent my back, after the days when I walked tall, my body straight as a swaying green branch. For so long I leapt fearlessly upon the lions of the thicket; now I am left dreading even the little foxes. How can I take pleasure now, after the days of youth? Life is spent, and its two sweetest things have passed away.

The blame falls on my own eyes for wronging me; they called me into love's wilderness, and I lost my way. A traveler through love's valley hopes for no escape. Peace be upon the ones who dwell in my land, my beloved friends. Whenever the full moon rises, my longing bursts into flame at the memory of the devouring moons within my heart. Is this the crescent of the festival, or beneath a veil do the bright foreheads of my love gleam like new moons? My sighs rose above the sound of their caravan songs that morning when they set out and the camels bore them away. It is as if my eyes had made a vow, once they were gone, never to stop weeping in grief, and they have kept it. I followed my passion until I strayed from the right path, and this suffering is the punishment for my straying. My friends, my enemies gloat over what has befallen me. Shall my enemies rejoice while you are my friends? If my ordeal and my humiliation come by your command, then I bless my ordeal and I accept my disgrace. In the evening, at the memory of you, my tears pour down, yet a thirst is in me that no flood can ever quench. Can someone like me be kept from clinging to love, when love was molded into my soul before I was even formed? The traces of my patience: the rain of sorrow keeps wearing them away until they faded and crumbled to nothing. My heart wanted nothing but to keep away from love, but my eyes lured it with deceit and led it astray. Have you not seen me in the garden of love? Whenever it withered, the clouds of my eyes rained and made it fresh again. Was the killing of Muslims not a crime? May God curse the arrows of the tribe; how did they think such bloodshed lawful? And here is the very soul of Su'da, sending you the first greeting, carried to you by the morning breeze wherever it may reach.

Love has taken hold of my heart and thrown it into turmoil; yet tenderness forbids me to cry out in complaint. In the grip of passion the days grow long, while the arm of my patience stays forever short. You who report of me that I endure with patience, you have lied about me and spoken falsely. Who could ever accept as just the cruelty of one who counts even my obedience as a failing? He would not accept me even as his slave, though among my own people I never cared to be a prince. You who ask about the day they set out to leave: it was nothing but one pitch-dark night. No caravan halted in a waterless valley without my tears gathering there into a pool. How often I shied away from their slender forms in caution, only for the kohl of their eyes to lure me back into folly. Can patience ever quench the fire in my breast while the marks of my beloved still shine with light? Even were the horses to grow into full-figured beauties, and the crescents of the tribe to ripen into full moons. The captives long for their bonds to be loosed, yet I wish only to remain a captive forever. If a friend wrongs you, you seek help from his equal, but for this friend you will find no equal at all. Even my enemies pitied my anguish and my pain; why then does my beloved show only aversion? If you cannot feel my sighs and my yearning, then listen, and you will hear the creaking of my weeping. My companion on the day of union, my drinking friend, be my comforter through the nights that come after. Did you spend the night, O spirit of spring, in a garden? Or did you come as glad tidings from the land of Iraq? How strange that I drink no wine, yet I stay drunk on the intoxication of love. Passion has swept away my reason, turned my recitation into poetry, and made a tavern of my mosque. There is a thirst in my heart that sipping clear water cannot ease, even if I drank whole seas. What is youth, and what is age, but the grey at my temples? Enough that the change of time itself is a warning. You who are close to your friend, in you there is a blessing: take care, I beg you, not to be ungrateful. Crossing the deserts and bearing hardship to please the beloved should never be reckoned too much. Swallowing the bitterness in the cup of blame is sweet, when the beloved is the one who pours it. The majesty of the one I gaze upon would never have shone for me, had I not held my own self as worthless. You for whom Sa'di vanished from the world, be gentle with the one who has become a beggar at your door. Join me, then leave paradise to those who want it; I desire no destination but you. It is the duty of one who awaits a distant hope to be patient with time. Perhaps though my eyes go white with weeping, one day I will regain my sight when I meet you.

The gardens of paradise and all their sweetness feel cramped and narrow to a soul whose beloved has wronged it. How I wish I knew, dear land: they have moved away, and between me and their dwelling stretches a desert I must cross. I remembered the nights of union, and my heart ached with longing; oh, how wonderful those nights were, and how sweet. Our gathering was like the mansions of heaven, and in the hand of a dark eyed beauty was her cup of wine. In my heart, my friend, there is a passion that never rests, like ants gnawing at my insides, their creeping unseen. Do not imagine that distance breeds forgetting; the flames of my love can never be put out. The robe of my devotion never wears thin, and the garden of my love never loses its freshness. May the clouds of the first rains water the meadows of your land, even if the flood of my tears does not stand in for them. The dwellings of my beloved have filled me with grief; and what harm is there if her sorrowful lover pines away? The eye of the fortunate one wept whenever the sanctuary was mentioned; and the sweetest weeping is a stranger's tears for home.

The scent of the beloved's quarter spreads, the breeze stirs, and you see me wandering, lost in the excess of my longing. The night of union is a shining dawn, while the day of parting is a pitch black night. Saying goodbye to a guest is a heavy blow, and parting from a dear companion is a painful disease. A tender breast has seduced the devout; ah, if only there were a merciful heart within it. You who are unique in beauty, my soul is left alone; you who have no equal, my heart has none. My forgetting of you is a distant impossibility, and my disgrace through loving you is an old, familiar madness. You crowd of blamers, whomever God leads astray cannot be brought back to the straight path. Do you not know that the fire of hell, with the memory of the beloved, becomes a garden of bliss? Anyone among you who claims to love, yet fears blame, deserves to be blamed himself.

On the surface I show patience, thin as a spider's web, but inside me a grief sharp as a scorpion's sting. Whoever sleeps with eyes shut has no idea what the man endures who lies sleepless through the blackest nights. Even if others sheathe the sword of their glances in sleep, don't their eyes still leave a lasting wound in my heart? I admit that patience is the most faithful companion; yet in the narrow straits of love it is the most treacherous friend. A man blind to love blames me for loving them, but I am deaf to whatever my critic says. In my longing, the distance between us feels as close as the space between my eyelid and my brow. My friends, in love there is no safe refuge to enter, no prize for the schemer, no escape for the runaway. The one whose heart has been seized has no right to complain, even if the plundered one dies in the hand of the plunderer. I felt joy while the song still lingered on the singer's lips; I grew drunk before the wine had even left the pourer's hand. An arrow struck me and I never saw who shot it; a sword slays me and I never see the one who strikes. You see people drunk in their drinking parties, yet here I am, drunk, without having drunk a thing. My friends, do not grieve if I die of longing, for a young man's death in love is the highest of ranks. I swear, even if you spoke to me dead and I consented, the words of the one addressing me would raise me alive again. Sa'di has come to hate the friend who blames him for loving you, hating him like an enemy at war. If they reproach me, let them wade in and play their games; your love keeps me too busy to heed any scolding critic.

If I do not die of grief on the day of farewell, do not count me as a fair man in love. Do not weep in pity over the one who has died; weep instead for the living one, torn from those he loved. O phantom of my beloved, though the beloved betrayed me and turned away, between you and me there is a meeting time that will not be broken. When the caravan driver sang and their departure came, the enemy got what he hoped for and was satisfied. They left with hearts harder than the mountains of Tihama; so do not spare your tears, even if they undo you. You who ask me about the one whose love has ruined me: his beauties refuse to be counted or described. What can be said, when his beauty has no equal? If he had a match, he would have joined it. They uncovered what was hidden behind their veils, and left bare what the breasts conceal. Can he be content with a single glance from the beloved, this thirsty man who, even if he drank the whole lake, would not be satisfied? I halted my mount in the land of parting and wept until I soaked the very ground where I stood. To them I bring my complaint and my pain, and back to them again; they did me no justice, and I found no one to grant me justice. Sa'di, be patient, though patience has no place in love, except as something forced and false.

My fault is that I judge people and cross the line, giving sermons while my own heart is hard as stone. Lord, forgive me and grant me the grace to weep in grief, for I mourn the excess of days already gone. My youth passed in vain and my forelock has turned white; how long, then, will my ledger stay dark with sin? What sorrow for a youth spent in careless play; there is no play left once gray fire has caught in my head. What shame I will feel before the faces of the saved when they light up with joy, while mine is pale with despair. O beautiful Concealer, my hidden secrets have grown ugly in my own eyes, however fair they seem to others. What regret is mine tomorrow among the gathered righteous, if I still carry my burdens and my stains. How can a man endure the boiling heat of hell, when he could not bear the heat of a bathhouse room? You who promise pardon for what men wrongly did and forgot, I ask you for pardon, for I too have erred and forgotten. If you show mercy to servants who did good deeds on the Day of Gathering, then Lord, have mercy on me for my bankruptcy of them. Forgive my slips by your generosity, my Master, to spite Satan, so he cannot gloat over my ruin. And if I deserve blame, raise me up blind on that day, so I am not disgraced among my neighbors and companions. If God forgives me for the boldness that passed, then, O my good news, no harm can come to me from anyone.

I woke bewitched by a slender, graceful eye, and I cannot hold back from it, no matter how I try to keep restraint. To hide love is a heresy in the religion of the heart; I love, even if the watchman rages and rebukes me. The way of one whose heart has been stolen is to endure; whoever cries out in complaint at cruelty has himself been cruel. Let her strike me with the arrows of a deadly glance; whoever bends the bow of those eyebrows makes me his target. A hunter of hearts, set upon the seed of her beauty spot: a snare that catches even the abstaining, austere ascetic. No wonder the wise man wasted away for someone like this; even Galen would have withered with such longing. How can I reach her image in a moment's sleep, when my eyes have not once closed since my beloved went away? I take stock of my body, thinned to a single strand of her hair, so any blow finds me finer and frailer still. The hard boulders of the rocks softened at my anguish, yet your heart never softened to bend and show me tenderness. So it is; and Sa'di is not the first to love; you are the gentle one, and whoever sees you finds only grace.

When will I be reunited with my angry beloved? And how can my heart escape the hand that plunders it? I think whoever shows no mercy to the lover when he weeps is treating this man robbed of his heart like a toy. I lost the time of union, and a person never knows the sweetness of life until misfortune strikes. My friend has turned away while affection still clings to me; my companion is gone, yet his image stays with me always. From this day on I will not see a friend blame me for loving you without turning aside from him. Away with you, blaming critics, off this young man captivated by the glances of full-bosomed beauties. I have destroyed myself by giving in to passion, though how often before I said: watch yourself, my soul. What I endure is most like the Day of Resurrection, and my flood of tears is like the scattering of the stars. When the turtledove sings at dawn it grieves me, for the loss of my loved ones it sounds like a crow's shriek. I see clouds in the sky raining pearls upon the garden, but upon me they rain stones. How long can my hope in him last when distance holds me back? And how can I endure without him when longing pulls me on? Who could long for paradise without you? Let hell be my dwelling, and you be the one who punishes me. Parting from a friend is hard on this fortunate one; blessed is the one who chooses the solitude of a hermit. This is a letter with no message after it; my pen has grown weary of describing my love.

Rise, my friends, and pour me wine among the sweet basil, and let me drink to the memory of all the days that have slipped away. This wine could bring the bones of the dead back to life if a single drop of it fell on the earth from a drinker's lips. Serve it around in bowls to the companions at dawn; keep nothing back, fill the cups and the goblets to the brim. Bring the wine and take my reason in exchange; perhaps it will free me from the chains of my anxious thoughts. Drive away the darkness with a sun held in the hand of a moon-faced one, whose cheek is like a prayer niche for those who worship beauty. My soul is a ransom for that body bright as silver, even if it strikes at me with a heart as hard as stone. I lie awake while everyone sleeps in their homes, wide awake, recalling the promise of the one who sleeps and forgets. Pluck the lute strings until my neighbors' sleep takes flight, and sing my verses so the time with my companions turns sweet. I am a man who does not care however much they scold; if you wish, my critic, get up and announce it to everyone.

Rise, cupbearer, and wake me, pour me a drink and pour for my drinking companions. Let me stay awake through my night, and leave the rest of the world to sleep. Pour for me while the roaring thunder makes the clouds weep, and the lips of the flowers part into a smile from laughter. In a season when the birds trill their soft melodies upon the branches, and the time when the rose lifts the veil from its face. You who think yourself wise, shame on the seeing man who pretends to be blind. So seize your chance before time turns you to ruins. Tell the one who mocked lovers as fools and blamed them: you have never known love, far from it, nor tasted its passion. Whoever lets the moment of opportunity pass out of stinginess or worry has wasted his whole life, whether he lived a day or fifty years. Do not blame me for a boy who left my heart sick with longing. Since the dawn of love, how many a master has become a slave. The utmost wish of my heart is a graceful youth who pours the wine, while over the green meadow lie scattered stock, myrtle, and lavender. With such coquetry that he steals the heart whenever he speaks, and a beauty that outdoes the swaying branch when his figure bends. My reproacher, my patience is spent, how long and until when? I care nothing for your scolding, nor do I fear your blame. Love has made sleep forbidden to my eyes, and the ropes of longing surround me, behind and before. The wise man is untroubled by fools when they pass by as noble ones, but if a fool addresses me, I simply say: peace.

You kings of beauty, be gentle with my secret; you who are sober, take pity on the reeling of a drunken man. You have outdone the fragrance of musk in sweetness, and overpowered the loveliness of the rose in its scent. Wherever you settle, like a breeze of paradise, the ones who arrive find rest and joy. Eyes that taught Harut at Babylon so that people could learn magic from them. You who scold me, stop blaming me for loving them; your advice has come out as something monstrous. Leave off my story and my longing be, if you have no real knowledge of such a thing. I have come to think love's young folly ignorant, yet passion has left me smitten all the same. The corners of those eyes have left me wandering, lost and bewildered, across the empty wastelands. I scatter tears whenever I string my verses together, so my words come out as both poetry and weeping. The embers of those cheeks have burned my heart, and they leave live coals smoldering in my ribs. Were it not for the sin of my glancing eye, my weak heart would not be carrying this burden. My story is like a soul made to bear, through a tyrant's injustice, the guilt of another. My patience broke over a tale of love that, told to the mountains, would make the very rocks weep. And my ruin at the slender throat of every gazelle, a throat that slaughters onlookers with longing. They came forth, and the hills keep calling out: why is this breeze so laden with perfume? I will never sober from the drunkenness of my life, if you pour me wine from those sweet lips. You who depart from Layla's tribe, it is a wonder how you can bear to endure. You who kill me with beauty, you hold half its portions, and you have left the other half to Joseph, son of Jacob. May you endure, Kaaba of beauty, honored and dear, while those wild with love for you wander, disheveled and dust-covered. Do not blame me if I have left off the pleasure of my talk; for with what other talk could I open my heart? May my life be long in this youthful passion, and by my life, God will bring about something new after this.

Praise to God, Lord of the worlds, for all the blessings that flow, whose name is mighty and exalted. He guarantees our sustenance as a kindness and a gift, whether people do good deeds or fail to do any. Glory to Him, the Great, the Powerful, the Eternal, who brings forth mankind generation after generation. Jinn, humans, and all creation, a whole multitude, fall before Him in submission and humility. Blessed is the one who seeks Him, and wretched is the one who leaves Him; far off be anyone who takes another in His place. How many signs of His power lie in creation, and in the sky are wonders for anyone with sense. They are made clear to whoever gains sight, eyes lined with the light of knowing the Merciful. He drives the clouds along, and the barren hills He turns green and lush again after their dryness. By His mercy He raised a tree from a single seed, and by His power He shaped a man from a drop. A Lord before whom the imagination falls short, helpless; no roads lead anyone to grasping Him. The learned cannot count the full measure of His grace, nor do the angels ever tire of their endless praise. Saadi, that is enough; stop exaggerating. Never make a claim that will only bring you shame. Too exalted is the Protector for anyone to know His true nature; He who has no equal cannot be compared to anything.

Winter has come with a cold no one can turn away, and even hard stone cannot bear to suffer it. I have no cup, no brazier to warm me; I am like the darkness itself, and my purse, well, there is nothing in it. Set the book aside, forget the purse. What a pity, if only there were a cloak to wrap ourselves in through these dark nights. I beg you, my lord, for what my hope requires; a servant hopes for nothing except from his masters.

I am Deldel, daughter of the vine, given to noble men; I bring rest and wine to the heart of the one lost in love. It is enough to sip from her lips once the fire of longing has burned itself out; so, seeker of union, endure the anguish of love.

This world is no lasting home; blessed is the one who stores up joy for the day to come. Like the great minister, the learned one, the pure, the righteous, the most exalted, the most glorious. A scale of justice that never tips or strays; he wrongs no one except those who first do wrong. Through his kindness he brought us glad tidings of hope, and traded this passing world for an everlasting rule. Whenever you hope, hope for the best of those to be hoped in; and when you aim, aim for the finest goal. May the lives of people stretch on beneath his shelter, and may he live forever in the sweetest, most abundant ease. These are the pure qualities that describe him: Muhammad son of Muhammad son of Muhammad. Does anyone imagine that whoever walks a path is rightly guided? No, only the one God guides is truly guided.