In Praise of Spring

On a morning when night and day feel the same, how good it is to walk the open plain and watch the spring. Tell the mystic to leave his cloister and pitch his tent in the flower garden; this is no time to sleep idle at home. The nightingales have come with the roses, singing from longing. You are no less than a drunken nightingale, so sing, you who are still sober. All creation is a reminder from the Lord to the heart; whoever will not confess to God has no heart at all. So many wondrous designs are painted on the walls of existence, yet whoever does not reflect is himself just a figure on a wall. Mountain and sea and trees all sing God's praise, but not every listener grasps these secrets. Do you not hear what the birds of dawn are saying: Wake up, you sleeper, lift your head from the sleep of ignorance? Whoever does not see the trace of His power today, most likely will not see His face tomorrow. How long will you keep your head bowed in heedlessness like the violet? What a pity that you sleep while the narcissus stays awake. Who can make many-colored fruit grow from bare wood? Who can raise a hundred-petaled rose out of a thorn? Now is the time for the bridegroom rose to step out from the bridal chamber of the unseen, while all the trees scatter gifts in welcome. No wonder a human being feels joy, when the cypress, the willow and the plane tree dance in the garden. Wait until the water-swollen bud opens its mouth at dawn, like the fragrant musk pod of a Tartar deer. Here is glad news: the rose is emerging from the bud, and the spring trees shower down a hundred thousand coins. The wind combs the hair of the meadow trees, and the scent of wild rose and clove drifts to every corner. Near dawn the dew has settled on the tulip, like beads of sweat on the rose-scented cheek of the beloved. The wind carries the scent of jasmine, rose, narcissus and willow; with what appeal, then, can the perfumer open his shop? Stock, hollyhock, water lily and amaranth, designs at which the eyes are left amazed. The scattered red of the Judas tree on the green floor of the meadow is like gold coins on a sheet of fine silk brocade. And this is still only the start of world-brightening March; wait until the bounty of April and May pitches its tent. The branches are still the virgin daughters of the garden; wait until they grow pregnant with many-colored fruit. Reason is stunned by the golden cluster of grapes; understanding fails before the ruby casket of the pomegranate. Clusters of dates hang down from the palm, fashioned by fate and destiny, those sweet-working craftsmen. So that the dense shade of the tree is not too dark, under every leaf they place a lamp of pomegranate blossom. Nature has given the apple a different color on every side, just as a beauty puts rouge upon her face. The shape of the pear, you would say, from its sweetness and grace, is a few little jugs of candy hanging on the bough. No fruit is finer once you have said 'the quince'; no greater grace and perfection than this can be shown. The stuffing of the fig is like a master confectioner who works poppy seeds into pure honey. Water flows at the roots of the citron, quince and almond, like the rivers beneath the trees of paradise. Come, open your eyes and look at the making of the orange, you who cannot believe there is fire in the green tree. Pure and flawless is the God who, by His mighty decree, makes the moon and sun, and night and day, subject to His will. He rules with no minister or treasurer, and paints His designs with neither vermilion nor verdigris. The spring bursts from the stone, the rain from the cloud, honey from the bee, and pearls the sea brings forth. We have said much and well upon this theme, yet out of so much we have hardly said a little. Until the Day of Judgment, though all speak of His grace and mercy, not one word in a thousand will ever be told. Who is there who would not gird himself to obey Him? This is the place where even the unbeliever should loosen his idolater's belt. Your blessings, my Lord, are beyond all counting; no one who gives thanks can ever repay Your bounty. All these veils You draw over what we have done, if You should judge our failings, You would leave no one standing. Where can one go, despairing of the door of Your kindness? We cannot endure Your wrath; spare us, O God. The deeds You have seen in us and did not approve, by Your own lordship draw a veil over them, O Concealer. Saadi, the straight-going carry off the ball of good fortune; be upright, for the crooked one never reaches the goal. Alas for a precious life spent on trifles; Lord, for every wrong I have done, a thousand times I ask forgiveness. Shall I tell You my hidden pain, since You are my Lord, or say nothing, since You already know all secrets?