English
In Praise of Spring
The banner of Nowruz has risen over the plain; the burden of winter's army has lifted from our heads.
The morning breeze hung every jewel on the meadow's brides, pearls the diving clouds drew up from the sea's heart.
To snatch the ermine cap of snow from the mountain's crown, the vanguard of the sun's warmth rose to plunder.
They filled the garden's tray with sweets and fragrant herbs, giving thanks that the earth has recovered from winter's fever.
What scent is this, breathing from the fields of Khallukh? What wind is this, rising from the land of Yaghma?
What air is this, that paradise sat down in envy of it? What earth is this, that the sky rose up to serve it?
The green vault of heaven turned red with the meadow's reflection, so many shining pearls arose across the field.
It is the season of the harp's song; at the dawn feast the nightingales raised their cries and clamor from the garden.
The scent of dissolution rose from the Sufi's cloak; the fire of madness rose from the wise one's breast.
From the earth the lovers' lament rose to the heavens; from the dust the drunkards' shout rose to the Pleiades.
Today the mystic sat with his beloved in such delight that the ascetic gave up all worry over tomorrow.
Every heart is seized with longing for a flower's face; this uproar did not rise from the nightingale alone.
It is as if the veil fell from the beloved's face, and the pen crossed out the frenzied lover's safety.
Wherever a sun faced beauty cast its shadow, a wounded, heartless lover rose up, girded like Gemini.
Wherever a cypress tall one showed a face like Joseph, a burnt out lover rose up like Zulaikha, harvest consumed.
Beside her cheek, I cannot say how the tulip dared to bloom; beside her stature, I cannot say how the cypress dared to stand.
Lay your head back on the pillow of nothingness, drunken narcissus, for that dark languid eye has woken from its dawn sleep.
At her speech, reason fled from every heart; I love that stature, drunk with how beautifully she rose.
When the day of her face tore off the night mask of her hair, you would say the long dark night of Yalda rose up from the day of judgment.
Let go of loving her, for it so plundered my patience that the veil was lifted from the sanctuary of hidden mysteries.
Sadi, how long will you blacken this page? Enough. The pen has worn away its head from the passion in your hand.