Elegy for al-Mustasim Billah and the Fall of Baghdad

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.