Qasidas

Never would I lift the king's cup just for cheer. Why should I, who am so used to grief, complain of it? Far be it from me to count among my living days any day when my heart felt no wound of pain. God forbid I should drink and laugh for nothing, now that I have tasted the flavor of cruelty's poison. You revelers, why all this denial of sorrow? Let me go and make you taste the pleasure of grief. Ask the joy of pain from those whose hearts bleed, for only the heavy of heart can know the worth of pain. This much I know: that night after night, cruelty and grief drag their weary feet to the doorway of my home. Out of delight I kiss and press to my eyes, in gratitude, the foot of grief and the hand of cruelty. Like old friends in perfect harmony, grief and I count each other's company a prize. For fear that a plan of parting might arise, grief clutches my hem, and I clutch grief's. It matters little if the feast of pleasure shatters; Lord, let no harm ever reach the gathering of grief. When friends who drink sorrow sit down together, they show one another how much each can endure. When my turn comes, they say that fate pours me the king's cup beyond my capacity. Yesterday vain desire lured me toward the garden; I asked the morning breeze, how can I cure my grief? Far be it from me to open my lips again in a sweet smile; better to spend these few breaths on sorrow. If I have given up wine, it is not from piety or restraint, you who offer me the king's cup. If the cupbearer is my friend, I kiss and drink, even if he pours nothing but poison into my glass. Last night, when my thoughts hid away from reason, so I might find a remedy for grief that gnaws the heart, I went to the tavern, and when the old sage of wisdom saw me fallen at the foot of the wine jar, with my breath spent, he said: the last dregs of the king's cup will not open the heart; set the goblet down and take up the pen. The pages of your meanings lie forgotten, and you stay silent; do not waste any more of your breath in idle keeping. Draw two or three threads from the locks of the brides of speech, and bind together this book that has fallen apart. When this song reached the ear of my poetic muse, she stepped boldly into this field. I said: it would be best, to adorn the opening, to offer a praise, a gift, to the pride of all nations. At peace in Yathrib lies the king of 'but for you', Muhammad, whose nearness to his sanctuary lent the holy precinct its glory.

Morning drew its breath from your life-giving breath, and the sea learned the art of generosity from your open hand. In the season of your justice's young fortune, it is no wonder if the aged sky straightens its bent back. The marks of your arrival, by their ancient power, have drawn even blessed Jesus behind a veil. Joseph and David, Khidr and the Messiah, hold their gifts from you, just as Jamshid held his throngs and retinue from you. This radiant face and that soul-reviving song, this lasting existence and that miracle of breath. The diver of wisdom plunges, and has plunged many times, into the depths of being and the sea of nothingness alike. You are that orphan pearl: there is not, nor has there ever been, a unique jewel like you in the ancient sea. Before the cloud of your bounty, why would it withhold? You who, with your hand, have paid generosity its due. The sea begs with the shell's cupped hand; indeed, your giving has emptied the ocean's purse of pearls. The mere thought of your resolve cuts the hand of oppression shorter than the enemy's lifespan, out of the land of being. At your command, the musician Venus has, in the gathering of the heavens, forgotten her songs. The sight of your face has cast from the eyes of the houris of paradise the very garden of Eram. With your bounty I have no eye for the moon and sun of the sky, even if they offered me both their coins. Although the slanderers broke them, my king, in the era of my praise the tablet and pen remain. With what means could I walk the road of your praise, when no one should carry a fistful of straw as a gift to the garden of Eram. I have come empty-handed, for nothing befits the Lord of generosity as a gift except an empty hand. How sweet, that at your command the scribe of deeds draws his pen across my ledger, for the sake of your praise.

You whose generosity became a proverb in the world; the sea and the rain clouds will forever envy the bounty of your hand and heart. A single word of your giving reached the oyster's ear, and from shame it hides itself away in the water. When you draw out your generous hand to give; when on the battlefield you set your prosperous foot in the stirrup, Your awe sends the enemy's cry up to the heavens; your high resolve lays the very treasure-mine in ruins. Four things in your wrath, and four things in your kindness, are brought before you, and they receive your word, if you should call them. The musk-pod and the sea of ambergris, the sugarcane, the pearl of the oyster; the bow of the sky and the arrow of lightning, the moon's shield and the sword of the sun. Eight things are forever joined to your enemy, eight things, so that in the world he keeps falling into every kind of torment: A chest full of blood, a grieving nature, a parched mouth and weeping eyes; dark fortune, a wasted body, a wounded spirit, and a heart seared like roasting meat. You, king of kings, whose justice, for the comfort of all the world's people, lifts the veil from its face like a radiant prince, The wild deer makes its nest in the lion's embrace, and the little sparrow builds its home in the eagle's claws. By the grace of your shrine, grieving souls rejoice; by the pilgrimage around your tomb, broken hearts are made whole. Whoever found the pleasure of peace in your presence will never rise from sleep, like a road that lies dreaming. My restlessness on the road of longing for you is not without reason: the sun's light keeps even a dust mote trembling. Now I feel a pull, a yearning on the road of longing for you, so that I may set out, hurrying like the tears of lovers. As long as the moon bears its dark mark upon its face in the sky, as long as the oyster's cup is filled to the brim with pearls from the clouds, May your friend forever keep his honor, like a pearl; may your enemy forever fall, burning like a spark.

Last night I was asleep near dawn when someone knocked at my door. I asked, who are you at this hour, to chase such sweet sleep from my eyes? The drum's strap had not yet been struck at the gates of just and orderly kings. No rooster's call had reached my ear from the house of that weary old woman. No one had climbed the roof to call to prayer, nor had anyone opened the mosque's door. The morning breeze had not yet stirred the garden, nor had the dawn wind come among its trees. He said, get up, for to the wise being awake is better than sleep. Everyone is alert and you are drunk on sleep; everyone is awake and you alone are dreaming. Rise and take up your pen and notebook to praise the lord who conquers fortresses. I said, you who grasp the subtle truth, you who are my companion in speech, God's mercy on all the generations who passed; they are all gone, and I am left helpless. With a weak body and a parched throat, with a heart dripping blood and a wet eye, no true friend to keep me company, no companion to come to my aid, no one to guide me toward any goal, no one to lead me to any aim; in such a broken and barren state, my heart is more troubled than my mind. How can my pen turn to writing praise? How can my nature become a singer of praise? He said, well done, but I know that your pen is eloquent. Today no one is more articulate than you, today no one is more a poet than you. Many years have passed and many more will pass before creation brings forth your like. Neither the toil of the elements is your peer, nor the seat of the stars your equal. Take up your pen and fill the page with praise of Haidar, the commander of the faith, the conqueror of Khaybar, the one who came, from all eternity, as the Prophet's successor. Fate obeys his command, and destiny serves his every prohibition. A single sip of his generosity is Tasnim; a single cup of his giving is Kawthar. His nature is what the heart desires, his speech gives life; he is a pod of musk, a casket of ambergris. You have come, O lord who adorns the realm; you have come, O commander who nurtures the faith. Your heart and hand are made for generosity and kindness; your pen and your sword for conquest and victory. Each has its own home and dwelling, each its own treasury and sacred place. On the field where you become a warrior seeking battle and bent on vengeance, your life-taking lance is the royal wing, your head-scattering sword is the royal feather. Your steed is so swift that, for example, if you wished it to cross the sea, it would pass with such speed that the hollow of its hoof would not be wet by the water. It runs so hot that if it were to cross a plain full of fire, it would pass through in such a way that not a single hair of its body would be scorched. When you raise your hand and sword to the sky, the heavy anchor of the mount beneath your thigh, the earth's limbs would split apart, and the rim of the heavens would break in two. Faced with your fury, the enemy's host, faced with your might, the ranks of the army have seen what grass sees in fire, have seen what dust sees in the storm wind. When the enemy comes to battle, you mount a white steed with a frame like the sky, strong-footed, broad-hoofed, with a wide chest, swift-running, sharp-eared, and small-headed, smooth-reined, full-thighed and plump-haunched, fine-marked, light-eating, and slim of waist. In one hand a sword like the sun, in the other a lance like a dragon. The Khaqan trembles at your battle, and the Caesar moans at the dread of you. A drop from your hand is the elixir of beauty; the dust of your feet is healing salve for the eyes. If, O king, you grew weary, for example, of this whole world and all its people at once, your power would create anew another world and another humankind. O king, O judge, since with an anxious heart I packed my baggage to leave your court, I hold the hope that I may once again make the circuit of your shrine. You are a mine of mercy, O praised one; you are a treasury of grace, O blessed one. Ask after my state, for I am helpless, helpless; inquire about me, for I am desperate, desperate. As long as the pearl is born in the belly of the shell, as long as the spark leaps from the heart of stone, may paradise be the home of those who love you, and hell the dwelling of those who hate you.

What is this silver body that never once turns the way a wise heart wishes, never as the sober mind would have it? No imagination can grasp how it hurries when at rest; no sight can trace its path while it seems still. Never fixed in one state, like a clever fancy; never settled in one place, like the suspicions of a watchful mind. Sometimes it sets a golden crown on its head like the old kings; sometimes it ties a Brahmin's sacred thread around its waist. It is no Moses, yet a sun shines from its collar; it is no Mary, yet a Messiah rests serenely at its side. At times it scatters water on the path of dawn like a dewy eyebrow; at times, in fury, it rains fire like lightning. One sees a lofty palace with seven princes inside, each leaning proudly on his throne. Or a bloodthirsty talisman, with severed heads hung from the battlements of its towers. I would call it a polished marble dome, but no, I am wrong: to my eyes it is a censer raining fire. Sometimes people call this sky cruel by way of example; sometimes they address it as the crooked, wayward heavens. Why is it, base-nurturing sky, that the talentless all live in ease while the gifted live in pain? See this injustice: I and another both sought a beloved, yet one of us roams in exile while the other sleeps in his lover's arms. Look at the wonder: two divers, hoping for pearls, hold their breath and plunge into the same swelling sea. One washes up dead and empty-handed on the shore; the other comes back safe to land with a royal pearl. What is this state, that in the desert two companions, out of longing, leave their homeland together? One reaches the home of union laughing; the other stays weeping among the ruins and the dust. Who can I tell this to: that in the garden of union two people come to pick a single flower from the same bed, and one, with no trouble, fills his collar with roses, while the other endures pain and only a thorn catches his skirt. See the strange thing: the sweet-singing birds of the meadow have built a nest from a handful of straw and twigs, yet a falcon swoops from ambush, beating its wings, and makes a cruel kill of this small, joyful bird. God forbid, physician, do not tell all these tales. What is the sky, that so wise a man should complain of it? Better that you fall silent from this singing; better that you repent of this breach of manners, for all of this is the work of a Wise One, and without His purpose no heart bleeds with grief and no soul is wounded. Even if the friend strikes my head with his sword as he arrives, even if my beloved kills me while I cling to his skirt and weep, he would be no true friend who cries out against his friend; she would be no true beloved who begs mercy from her lover. Companions, clap your hands: I am leaving the gathering. Fellow travelers, stamp your feet: I have packed to go. I go to kiss the ground before a prince at whose door the turning sky sits in the dust, begging for honor; the ruler of the realm of faith, the crown of nobility, the king of Najaf, the pearl of the sea of certainty, the refuge of nations, the pride of the great. Happy the people whose chief you are; happy the caravan whose leader you are. O prince, when the Prophet of Medina stood in the line of battle, whether against the heroes among the Emigrants or the troops of the Helpers, if he wanted a helper, he found support in you; if he wanted a defender, he leaned on you. Your palace of glory has risen so high that these seven fortresses of the spheres are the lowest step of its porch. The table of your generosity is spread so wide that the earth feels cramped; it is beyond all counting and reckoning. In the garden of existence there is no sapling, save your jewel-scattering hand, that bears the fruit of kindness. Beside the height of your rank, what counts is the heavens? Beside the breadth of your bounty, what counts is a pearl? On a day of giving, when you grant the gift of generosity, your hand and heart, O master of grace, of bounty's way and giving's mark, are no sea, yet like a sea they cast up pearls; are no cloud, yet like a cloud they rain down jewels. Beside your jewel-strewing hand, O cloud of generosity, before your heavy steadfastness, O mountain of dignity, what is the sea's display of bounty, with its pearls and gems? What is the mountain's claim to firmness, with all its weight and worth? The star of your being, that dawning-place of eternal light, was there on the day when, sun-like, it shed its rays, when the sky held no still earth within it, and the earth held no wheeling sky around it. Your lance came as the pole that holds the tent of faith; your sword came as the rampart guarding the house of holy law. The blow of your sword upon your enemy in combat, the thrust of your lance against your foe in battle, does what burning fire does to dry straw, does what flashing lightning does to a thorn. No wonder if the skirt of the mountains opens to beg before your heavy, weighty calm. It would be no surprise if, by the blessing of the springtime of your reign, fruit should rise even from the stones of the Hijaz as from trees. How fine is your noble being, by whose creation God revealed His own power to the world. Whatever you accept, the glorious Lord chooses; whatever you choose, the chosen Prophet accepts. May all that exists be sacrificed for you; may all the world of creation be offered to you. You are like a radiant moon and your children like stars; you are like a sea and your descendants like its rivers. So far has the fame of your justice spread through the world that no plaintive cry reaches any ear except your enemy's. Had you not lifted the veil from the face of your bounty, the mines would not be empty of treasure, nor the seas drained of their cups. No vision can take in the heights of your worth; no number can reach the steps of your glory's pulpit. The dog of your street laughs at the musk-deer of Khotan; the dust of your feet mocks the musk of Tartary. In the time of ease under your justice, give the narcissus-eye of sedition such a heavy sleep that it never wakes. For a long time now, my lord, the cruel sky's oppression has driven my affairs from bad to worse. It keeps me drowning in a sea of sorrow, and there is no boat but your grace to bring me to shore from this whirlpool. My heart bleeds from the digging of grief and I have no cure; my sorrow is beyond endurance and I find no one to share it. There is no confidant to whom I can explain my sorrow; no companion to whom I can reveal my heart's pain. In this wasteland I have no friend but stone; on this road I have no companion but the thorn. By your majesty, my king, I am so bewildered that I am like a point in this circle drawn without a compass, my reason cannot tell ruby from stone, my eyes cannot tell rose from thorn, my heart cannot tell the song of joy from the wail of grief, nor the screech of the owl from the nightingale's call. How happy would that lasting good fortune be, full of joy, in that blessed dwelling and that wondrous land, where my task would be singing like the meadow bird in the garden, my task ringing laughter like the partridge in the hills. As long as in this perilous, event-breeding world the motion of the heavens leaves its traces, may the grief of disgrace seize your enemies, and the joy of fortune embrace your friends. May your enemies find no place but the ash-heap; may your friends find no home but the rose garden. May your ill-wishers wear garments dyed dark with mourning; may those who wish you well be robed in cloth of gold.

Good news for the nightingale: the rose has come to the orchard branches. The meadow has become like a gathering once more, glowing with the beloved's face. The grass stood tall from the moisture of the gentle air, and the tulip's cheek caught fire from the warm breath of spring. Fire blossoms from the rose branch like the burning tree of Sinai, and clear water boils from the spring like the oven of Noah. Look at the riot of blossoms: a nightingale cannot gather even a handful of thorns to build its nest. The garden so overflows with freshness that even the storm wind cannot raise dust from the ground. In this orderly air there is no harm in the meadow; the flower picker's hand stays clear of thorns, like a spectator's lap. Friends, the laugh of the partridge and the nightingale's song, on the high mountains and down in the meadows, urge the drunkards to wander among the flowers, and call the free spirits to roam the hills. From the songs of the drunken nightingales across the lawn, and the faces of bold, lovely ones throughout the towns, sorrow trembles as before a king's army's banner, while the rose swells with pride at the king's host. The garden's nightingale, the tavern's companion at dawn's first drink, has now made singing love songs in drunkenness its custom. One praises the wine, red as the redbud, in the tavern; the other extols the garden air among the tulip beds. The time has come to roam the meadow once again, joyful, fortunate, light of mind, and content. The nightingale draws joy from the rose's face, the dove from the cypress top, the cupbearer from the flask of wine, the lover from the beloved's cheek. The dawn breeze acts as a bridal dresser, adorning the garden's new brides with all this color and design, so that it may make you wise to the wisdom of pure God, and make you see the power of the Creator. To my eyes the rose garden is like a girl kept at home; it will shine clear for you once the dust is wiped from your sight. To guide the birds of the meadow, God's decree has spread a mat: the cypress as throne, the thornbush as reed mat. So the nightingale, that preacher, may sprinkle the rosewater of his sermon, and the lily, that worshipper, may open its tongue in apology. Bravo to the wisdom cast across the meadow, well done to the power revealed in the garden, giving prayer beads of blossoms to the cloaked wild rose, and a prayer rug of jasmine to the dewdrop that keeps vigil through the night. So much have they pressed their faces of supplication to the garden's earth, out of dread and fear and awe of the Creator. See the redbud, ruby colored, and the jasmine like a prayer rug; look at the rose with its bloodstained brow, the hyacinth with its indigo face. Morning and night, in longing for Him, the cypress holds a finger to its lips; day and night, in His service, the plane tree holds its hands at its waist. Sometimes the bright lightning laughs out loud at His command, sometimes the April cloud weeps bitterly in fear of Him. The tulip, merry, drinks wine from the flask of His bounty, the narcissus, drunk, sips from the cup of His generosity. From the surge of spring my colorful nature gave rise to a verse, like Venus, the flower, rising from the branch of my pen. So that I am not counted among the carefree of this age, O heart, heave a sigh; O wet eye, shed a tear. An eye without tears has no worth in my sight; once the shell holds no pearl, it falls from esteem. If a single drop of my burning tears reaches the sea, or I draw from my chest a flaming sigh in the garden, every bubble on the sea's lip would turn to a blister, and every dewdrop would scorch the flowers' faces like a spark. I fear my mournful weeping will slip from my mind, because my laughter comes so easily to the people of this world. The company of worldly people has grown tiresome and stale; blessed is the one who chooses a corner of solitude. Those who withdraw are sheltered from misfortune; the ship is safe from danger once it reaches the shore. So intimate have I grown with the sorrows of the world that no memory of joy crosses my hopeful heart. Every moment, in the sea of grief from my fallen fortune, like a wave I am cast against the shore of the plain. Behold my dark luck: at the very start of love, fate, out of spite, struck me with separation from the beloved. How long must I wait by the road for your promise, you whose constant habit is forgetting your lovers? I bear such scars in my heart from your cruel parting that it is no wonder tulips will spring from the earth of my grave until the day of resurrection. Without the rose of your face I am so withered, like autumn, that at the sight of spring's splendor a thorn pricks my eye. May my restless hand never become a thorn snagging your hem; like a plucked flower, gather your skirt and pass by my grave. My eyes do not close, like the eye of a window, so bewildered have they stayed, longing for you on the road of waiting. How can I go on, weakened as I am? In the end my frailties will serve me. You whose kohl darkened eyes have drawn the sword of cruelty, you whose pale beauty has spilled the blood of spring, I have seen nothing in the world more bloodthirsty than your sidelong glance, except Haydar's Zulfiqar in the hand striking the enemy in battle. You, in whose reign of justice cruelty has no foothold, you, in whose age of vigilant rule oppression cannot stand, wherever your generosity lifts the veil from its brow, the sea hearted cloud sheds the water of shame from its face. When the poison wind of your wrath sweeps the battlefield, the fragrance of your kindness fills the gathering with musk. Your love does to friends what the breeze does to the garden, and your fury does to enemies what the storm wind does to dust. The heaven's height is like Joseph and your essence the depth of the well; the earth's surface is the Prophet and your person hidden within the cave. The sea would beg with a bowl made of a shell when, in the hour of giving, your hand becomes a cloud scattering pearls. Generosity is set in your nature like jewels in mountains; bounty is bound to your essence like pearls in seas. Though the choice of a whole world lies in your hand, your gold scattering hand has no choice but to keep giving. If the sky is not searching for you, then why is it restless, like a lover's heart from the fire of separation? O exalted one whose horse's horseshoe deserves, should the crescent moon allow, to adorn the heavens as an earring, how can my subtle pen render his praise in verse, the steed ridden by one like Haydar, the warrior? God keep it, what a swift charger it is, racing like lightning, like a sigh that bursts unbidden from a heavy heart. So firm is its tread that if it sets its hoof on a mountain, its path is blocked only by the hardest granite. Fate's trainer brought it four traits from eternity, and became its teacher in mastering skill: the swiftness of effort from the flood, the smooth rein from the breeze, the sharpness of its dash from lightning, the fiery speed from the spark. It deserves that the sky's white horse, the sun, out of love, lay its rein around its neck like a collar and its saddle girth against its side. How can I set about describing your majesty, you whose qualities, like the stars, cannot be counted? To the wise and learned it is no wonder that a claimant should hold power over the caliphate while you exist, for the sky has its lucky and unlucky stars, the earth its ruby and its stone, the garden its thorn and rose, the gathering its stranger and its friend. Without a word, his flaw bears witness against him, if he sets the common shell beside the royal pearl, or weighs the shining sun against Canopus, or strikes false silver on the scale of the assayer. As long as I am barred from your door, O sea of grace, as long as I am parted from your presence, O mountain of dignity, I writhe in blood like the dawn glow, heart bleeding like the rose, bent like the crescent moon, weeping like the rain cloud. When the breeze of circling your shrine enters my heart, I draw the grace a lover draws from union with the beloved. Your threshold, the place where holy light descends, I long to kiss; I offer my prostrations there.

Your threshold, which is itself a Mount of Revelation, here I am at last, arrived from a far road. An age has passed in which, out of longing, I have swallowed blood like patient lovers. I, the abandoned one, who bore the long cruelty of separation; I, the broken one, who endured so many pitch-black nights. Now do not keep me from your nearness; now do not cast me out from your presence. It is I, yes I, who kiss a sacred tree that puts even the lote tree of paradise to shame. It is I, yes I, who bow before a threshold that puts even Mount Sinai to shame. Thanks to God, my eyes and heart, through this grace, have become the envy of the fountain of light. At last, through this honor, the wounds of my heart, which had festered, found their balm. In this joy of mine, the heavens spoke to wisdom: O you by whom the order of all affairs is kept, Do you know whose garden this sight belongs to? Do you know whose tomb this revered place is, That you should show all this gladness and delight, all this happiness and joy? In reply it said: Be silent, you whose inner eye is blind. This has become the kingdom of one who was the pride of the days and the glory of the ages. The tomb of Ali, king of faith, whose threshold is the prayer-direction of women and men alike. He through whose grace existence stepped from the hidden chamber of nothingness into being. He who, had he not been, the heavens would still lie veiled behind the curtain of concealment. The rain-cloud sweats with shame, since its generosity was shaped from his hand. The lofty wheel of heaven grieves in seclusion, since destiny was compelled to obey his command. His high standing on the ladders of fortune said to the sky: Beware, do not grow proud, For his foot has reached a height that not even imagination has crossed. Your power, O fate, has no hindrance; nothing possible is impossible to it. It can fit the whole sky within the eye of an ant. If his forbearance turns its back on time, the thread of years and months would snap. When the light of his face shines forth, the lord of the stars, the sun, is hidden away. The fame of your justice does to mankind what the trumpet's blast does to crumbled bones. Morning and evening the breezes kiss your earth; the east and west winds keep vigil at your door. Your decree laughs at the firmness of mountains, for it gives steadiness to the ages. The guard of your justice is such that the falcon feeds grain to the sparrow and the finch. If that watchman of the realm of sacred law is set to forbid all wrongdoing, The tulip would not raise its cup in the meadow, nor would Venus strum her lute in the sky. On the day of battle, when you raise the victorious banner against the enemy in the fight, From the arrows of bold champions, from the swords of zealous warriors, On that wide and terrible plain, the path is closed even to beasts and birds. The heavens recite over the brave the verse: Your striving is rewarded. If you are aloof, what fear of the world? The noble recoils from the base. If you flee from the world, what wonder? The generous shies away from the miser. If I do not attempt your praise, O king, I am excused in this matter, For your stations are well known, and your miracles are renowned. O judge, O dispenser of justice, though I have not set my heart on this house of vanity, In this dwelling of pride and deceit my heart turned to blood, like a mourner at a wedding feast. Though all these companions are drunk, head to foot, on the wine of ignorance, Though we have raised the hive of art and kindled the candle of the months, As long as, by the decree of the world's Creator, fate gives commands and the heavens obey, May your well-wisher be nothing but triumphant; may your ill-wisher be nothing but crushed.

You are that just king who brought to the world such order and wise governance over its affairs. So that if even a gazelle should go missing from the forest, your strong-fisted justice bares the lion's claw to find it. Wherever the cloud of your generosity scatters its drops, the sea's begging palm swells into waves from a single pool. Perhaps the sea has gone mad from the spray of your giving hand, for with every breath the morning breeze binds its waves in chains. On the day of battle, when you ride out for combat, lightning flashes in your hand and dancing flames burn below. At times you strike the ranks alone like an arrow, at times you fall upon the enemy bare like a sword. No life can escape your hand, and no arrow can spring free from your grip. A shield before your blade is like grass before lightning, a coat of mail against your blow is like the crackle of fire. Blessings on that swift, deer-paced steed of yours, for the world has never seen its like or equal. Bright-browed like reason, broad-chested like hope, roaming the plains like desire, fierce of pace like greed. On the day of battle your enemy's soul cannot keep up with its turning, even if it flies fast as a feathered arrow. On the field of war your enemy never thirsts for combat with you, except in the moment he grows weary of his own life.

What can I tell you of my heart, you playful, sweet-faced one, when you have never had to deal with a heart at all? Suppose I told you how my heart fares; why would you care, and what good would it do? For those who lounge safely on the shore have no idea of the state of those tossed in the boat. How could those at ease in their homes know the plight of the stragglers left behind in the desert? My oppressed heart writes to its tyrant: I am chained by your dark, musky lasso of hair. Hoping for a little mercy, it sends caravans of tears and the dust of my sighs toward your street. Since every difficulty becomes easy through you, how long will my own affair stay so hard with you? I have a heart wounded by the blade of your cruelty, a heart slaughtered by the arrow of your disdain. A heart bloodied without you and dead to all pleasure, a heart busy with you and oblivious to all else. When you swore a bond of love to me, who taught you to break the tie? Weeping for the memory of you, how long must I rush from valley to valley, from stage to stage? Once I had two hands and feet to act; now one is left to me, the other stuck fast in the mud. If after this you still choose to wrong me, I will take my case, for the honor of the tribes, to a judge. To Ali, the guardian, whose praise is the ornament of every gathering, the light of every assembly. None could be his equal but his own pure self; God forbid that God should have made a peer for him. The dome of heaven became a crown, since the new moon resembles the horseshoe of his steed. For the thirsty, his fingers are the channels that feed the rivers of his generous cloud-like palm. You are that ocean of bounty who, in the moment of giving, scatters so many pearls from a generous hand. The sky, for all its vastness, is no more to you than one of your beggars; its skirt cannot match your generosity. You are that warrior who, on the day of battle, wears the sword of vengeance across your waist like a sash. Charging lions, hunters of fierce heroes, flee from before you, valley to valley. If Gabriel spread his wings over Solomon, it was only to be a sheltering shade for the eagle's flight. At your command the fertile winds make the virgin meadow conceive and bloom. The shining moon descends before your essence; the radiant sun sets before your star. The kings of every clan circle your street; the chiefs of every tribe lean toward you. If a little light from your banner reached the earth, it would come between the sun and the moon. If reason gazed upon your palace of glory, it would see the heavens reduced to lowly things beside it. Happy is the one who longs for your street; happy is the one who leans toward you. My king, beside your presence men are mere underlings; my king, beside you a whole crowd is base. Even if for a few days they wrongly seized the pulpits at the head of the assemblies, body and soul are never alike; the thorn and the rose are never the same. Tell the enemy not to boast: the matter of the caliphate needs no witnesses, demands no proofs. Who but you tore the gate of Khaybar from its place? Who but you gave away his ring to a beggar? May the blessing of praising you forever add virtue upon virtue to me. No witness suits me but your praise; nothing occupies me but the thought of you. My speech will not stir to describe the lowly; my tongue will not turn to praise the base. Anyone who tries to count your merits, what fine words, and what a fine speaker he becomes. No wonder if I raise my head to the heavens, when you spread the shade of your mercy over me. As long as in this great palace the turning star sometimes rises and sometimes sets, may your lover stand equal to the sky, and your enemy be brought level with the dust. May there be honey in your lover's cup, and in your enemy's cup nothing but deadly poison.

Blessed bird of good omen, lucky messenger, welcome, welcome, come closer, come closer. Tell me, tell me, where are you coming from? Where are you going? Cry out, cry out. So that my heart may burn at your melody, so that my mood may shift at your sound. I take delight in your call, as the Prophet did in the voice of Bilal. My body has wasted, wasted, where are these people? My soul has burned, burned, how do things stand? Tears come to me and I weep, now over the campsite, now over the ruins. All that hyacinth, rose, and sweet basil, is it still there, or has it been trampled underfoot? Does the dewdrop still fall on the tulip? Does that northern breeze still blow? Have those lovely turtledoves of beautiful wings made their home atop the cypress? Have those lovely, finely marked nightingales built their nests on the rosebush? Do the clouds still gather and rain pour down on the face of the meadow and the young sapling? Have those indigo tents been pitched over the springs of clear water? Those lovely girls, heart-stealers of affection, those carefree, fairy-bodied beauties, the arch of their brows a bent bow, their enchanting eyes a startled gazelle, each as perfect as Azra, each as beautiful as Absal, all coquetry and longing like Layla, all charm and grace like Salma, they walk with eyes fixed on their brows, they run with their two tresses trailing behind, their ears aching from earrings, their ankles worn from anklets, do they rest now where fine horses appear? Are their tents still pitched with the hump of beauty? Is the valley floor still their dwelling, or have they packed up and departed from that place? Speak of the people of Judi and their good fortune, speak of the people of Mecca's plain and their glory! What became of those whose wealth has gone? What became of those whose riches have fled? All those swift, galloping steeds, all those mountain-moving beauties, where are those gardens and that fragrance, where are those marriages and that grace? All those carpets of every kind, all those vessels brimming full, how can I look and not wish I were blind, how can I speak and not wish I were mute? In place of those carpets, a black rag; in place of those vessels, broken clay. What became of those companions and young servants? What became of those elders and those children? Alas for those wise-hearted elders, each like a saint in their miracles, each a king when it came to generosity, each a Hatim in the hour of giving. Alas for those pearl-eared children, each possessed of perfection and beauty, the curl of each one's tresses like a lasso, the arch of each one's brow like a gazelle. Have you any news of those fair ones? Have you any news of those heroes? Do you know of those rains and downpours? Do you know of those lions and their cubs? Each a knight on the day of battle, each a Malik on the day of combat, all of them stained with the venom of the dagger, all of them stained with the blood of the claw. O my people, you who were the life of my heart, O my people, you who were the peace of my mind, who is left to protect you, what friend? Who is left to befriend you, what guardian? How often your women were carried off, how often your wealth was plundered. Bereft of you, I have grieved for months; weeping for you, I have lain awake for nights. O messenger to the sanctuary, may God keep you, as you hasten swiftly to that tribe, rush to plead my case at the door of the king of blessed deeds. Carry my greeting to him then, when the people show that they have set out. The pride of both worlds, lord of mankind and jinn, the treasury of generosity, the wellspring of grace, that commander whose name from eternity came as Ahmad from God Most High, fortune shining from his brow, good luck gleaming from his face. There was no shortfall in his giving, no neglect in his bounty. The baby goat came to him and spoke; pebbles in his palm cried out in praise. His pure eye is the casket of modesty, his clear breast a sea of crystal water. Sometimes his place of worship was the sacred precinct, sometimes it was the caves of the mountains. His shrine is the prayer-direction of every need, his tomb the Kaaba of all hopes. You are the rain of bounty, possessor of kindness; you are the sea of generosity, possessor of grace. There is no scale for the sea of your generosity; there is no measure for the worth of your giving. Welcome to your family, the people of mercy; how blessed is your morning, you possessors of grace. Your faith abrogates all other faiths; your law reveals the forbidden and the permitted. The law of the prophets who came before, your mission rendered it void in the world. If the matchless Almighty made you the last of the prophets to be sent, yes, in the end, for momentous tasks the best of men are sent. When Joseph the truthful, Jacob's son, entered the chamber with Zulaykha, had it not been for your name, those locks would not have opened for that fashioned beauty. Wherever you sit with your companions, free of all care for both worlds, sometimes seeking peace and reconciliation, sometimes discussing war and strife. The throne brought its seat from the sun, Gabriel spread his wing as a carpet. The tongue of the angel is your fan, the cup of the crescent moon is your drinking vessel. Sometimes take the reins in hand, sometimes set foot in the stirrup of victory. An age has passed, O noble Messenger, that you lie buried in the earth like clear water. You reproach no one, address no one; you give no one answer, ask no one a question. The misguided are all sunk in deceit, the idolaters all sunk in error. Take a lesson, my brother, from what they did, from the harm done to the cause of your successor. They cast aside their prophet, though he had decreed, beginning where their Messenger had spoken. How long will you sleep, O blessed one? How long will you sleep, O fortunate one? How long your pulpit without speaker or sermon? How long your mosque without Bilal's call to prayer? Now wash your hyacinth-locks of the dust, now smooth your narcissus-eyes with your hand. Clear your garden of brushwood, clear your mosque of base wretches. Recite the sermon of justice anew, fill a world to the brim with fairness, so that from the turning of the heavens there appears now joy, now sorrow. Let your ill-wisher grieve night and day, let your well-wisher rejoice month and year.

Since you left, like an arrow shot for that lovely idol, I bent my head to my knee like a bow, in the grip of grief. Mine are such black days that, like a candle through the nights of separation, I scatter handfuls of ash upon my head until dawn. The wounded prey that is my heart cried out so much in the forest of grief's hawk that it left no peace for the birds of the meadow. I am in this state, and you, indifferent, never ask why I draw a painful sigh from my chest, moment by moment. When she heard these words of mine, she smiled under her lips and said: you boast so boldly of love before me. My skirt is clean, yet these brazen claims of yours will end by accusing me, like Mary falsely accused. It takes a nightingale to boast of love beside the rose; it takes one who can speak of devotion even in the cold. Loving has its telltale signs, you simple soul; I see none of them in you, neither more nor less. Where is your torn collar, where the rip across your chest? Where your pale face, where your bent and broken back? Where is your longing gaze, where your drunken weeping? Where the frenzy in your head, where the thorn's wound in your foot? Your throat is not parched, your eyes are not wet; your tears are not warm, your breath is not cold. A lover's tears should burn warm like the candle of the gathering; a lover's sigh should be cool like the dawn breeze. I said to her: you whose graceful walk shames the mountain partridge, you for whose languid eyes the sanctuary's gazelle would die. You, for whose drunken eyes Layla of Arabia is a captive; you, whose sweet crimson lip makes Shirin of Persia a slave. My eyes, source of floods, have wept so much in your love that now, like a dry cloud, they hold no moisture at all. It is hopeless for a frozen pearl to yield its moisture; in vain I press my lashes to my eyes, time after time. Once my cry, from grief for you, burned like lightning; once my eyes, from grief for you, wept like a rain cloud. From grief's heat, no sigh is left in the space of my chest; from my heart's fever, no moisture is left in my eyes. You tell me then, you who have grown so distant: with which hand should I tear my chest, or rip open my collar? Each time my hand falls from your skirt, it draws the arrow of cruelty from my wounded chest. What shows on my cheek is no natural color; it is my blood-red tears that appear there, again and again. If I am not distraught, then why this state, my love? If I am not heartsick, then why this, my idol? My tears surge in waves, my wounds line up rank on rank; the collar of my soul is torn to shreds, the curls of my sighs coil on coil. If this is not the miracle of love, the spell of passion, then for God's sake, tell bewildered me just once, my idol: what then is this sea of tears in the stream of my eyes? What then is this mountain of grief in the narrow space of my chest? You who are familiar with cruelty and a stranger to loyalty, I am sorely afraid of when your tyranny crosses all bounds. The crimson silk army of my weeping will form its ranks, the lightning of my sigh will raise its banner from my chest. The blood-thirsty king of love, seeking revenge, draws a double-edged sword of lament from the scabbard of the heart. But I withdraw, when fear of reason brings me to my senses: God forbid such injustice, God forgive me such cruelty in word. In the land of lovers there is no custom but complaint, especially upon the threshold of the lord of the Arabs and king of Persia. The sun in the sky of faith, the Commander of the Faithful, whose essence no jewel of eternity can match. The essence of all things, bowing at his threshold like the sky, will never raise its bent stature upright again, for all eternity. So that each might receive its first prostration, the nine heavens have fallen, out of longing, one upon the other. Four prophets, Abraham, Noah, Khidr and the Messiah, each found a sign in your miracle, you pride of all nations. This one from the burning fire, that one from the surging flood, this one from enduring life, and that one from life-giving breath. Your enemy burns in your wrath, your friend rejoices in your grace, one like an unbeliever in hell, the other like a saint in paradise. In your age, justice rejoices like Jacob at reunion; mischief moans in fear of you like Zulaikha in regret. When you rise to the peak of glory, you are a Jesus in the heavens; when you plunge into the sea of thought, a Jonah at the ocean's depths. By your bounty, generosity has been exiled to the realm of being; by your command, oppression has been banished to the city of non-being. Your sword rises like Zulfiqar in the hour of battle; your nature blossoms like spring in the moment of giving. From the sky, instead of raindrops, sparks rain down; from the earth, instead of grass and basil, silver coins spring up. On the day of battle, to fight the vengeful foe, when you array your army and raise your banner, victory laughs with delight, joy swells with gladness, fear trembles in dread, and oppression moans in remorse. Blessed is your essence, keeper of the secrets of the unseen; well done your spirit, jewel of the sea of eternity. Like the holy forms, you have neither place nor this; like pure spirits, you have neither quality nor quantity. From your noble essence appear, at times, attributes and speech; from your noble nature issue, at times, the deeds of eternity. I do not call you God, Commander of the Faithful, yet your attributes fall not short of the divine attributes. The garden of the body, lit by the sun of your love, is an abode of peace; the Kaaba of the heart, without devotion to you, is a house of idols. If a man is among your friends, lucky even the monk of the cloister; and if among your foes, woe even to the elder of the sanctuary. Only he can set foot on the pulpit of the caliphate who once stepped onto the shoulder of the Prophet in the sanctuary. To give your pledge of allegiance to another is sheer injustice, you whose foot, by obedience, has swelled the very base of the throne. The vengeful sons of the world, the sky bent on spite, the cunning brothers of Joseph, the wolf wrongly accused, what fear has the host of your friends from the abundance of their sins? What grief has the ark of Noah from the menace of the flood? When, O Lord, will I become a pilgrim to the lane of Najaf? When, O Lord, will I be a bird of the garden of paradise? How many nights, dreaming of circling your lane, the bird of my sleep takes flight from the nest of my eyes. Like a bird that has lost its nest, I have no peace; I remain far from your sanctuary, you pride of all nations. Ali, a handful of dust from your threshold is out of place to compare; never will my head bow before the crown of Jamshid. I count it a disgrace to my pride, even in utter need, were I to open my hand in begging before the men of high spirit. Whoever bears the light of high spirit on his brow is like an oyster: if it takes a single drop from the sea, it gives back a pearl. Though I carry provisions for the road, bound at my waist like a millstone, better that, out of contentment, I bind a stone to my belly. As long as the dawn breeze plays the bride's attendant in the rose garden, adorning the drowsy eye of the narcissus and the coiling curls of the hyacinth, may your enemy be worthless as a thorn in everyone's eyes, and your friend, like the rose, be honored in the eyes of the world.

Last night, when they hung the curtain of evening across this indigo dome, the stars looked out through the windows of the sky and wiped away all the rust of darkness. I sat in a corner, heavy-hearted, when the full moon showed its face on the horizon. Suddenly, a moon-faced beauty with a lovely figure; suddenly, a rose-cheeked one of delicate form. From a wine left over from happier days, two or three cups still sitting in the alcove, she took up a goblet and looked at me, the broken-hearted one who drinks his own blood. A cup of this wine bright as an open eye, a cup of this wine red as a bathhouse pool of blood, clear and pleasant, sweet and fine, two years aged in its jar. If you only hold it, the elite approve; if you drink it, you defy the common crowd, as you should. It is wisdom-giving, this wine, so perhaps you should not fret over what is lawful and what is forbidden. With a wine like this, do not speak of shame; with a beauty like me, do not boast of reputation. Once she had silenced me with this kind of talk, once she had cornered me with this argument, a sigh slipped the reins from my hand, and weeping took the bridle from my heart. I sighed at the cruelty of the heavens, I wept at the sorrow of the times. I said: O sweet-spoken darling, O beauty of eloquent words, where are the feet to dance happily, where is the hand to lift the cup? To which friend should I give my heart, from which true companion should I seek delight? Where is my home and who is my beloved? Where is my gathering and which one is my friend? Everyone is glad, and I am joyless; everyone is fulfilled, and I have nothing. The birds have all gone back to their nests, the wild creatures have all bedded down in their dens. And I am cut off from the land of the beloved, cut off from the company of noble souls, beside mean and worthless companions, among low and base associates. Better to bridle the steed of resolve and leave this homeland of stubborn troubles. As is the custom and the way with kings: the empty-handed rarely reach the audience, let us bring the gift of praise and go to the court of the king of all mankind, to the threshold of Ali the chosen one, before whom the heavens bow with all seven limbs. He who rode upon the shoulder of the Prophet until the idols came crashing down from the sacred shrine, he who slept in the Messenger's bed on the night the Prophet of mankind set out to flee. The disagreement that is plain to see in the world, had you not been the ruler over its judgments, no one would tell falsehood from truth, no one would know the lawful from the forbidden. In the era of your reign all this became clear, once ambiguity was lifted from the world: the sanctity of the law, the honor of the community, the triumph of the faith, the majesty of Islam. The purpose behind all creation from the moon to the sun, the aim of all existence from Mercury to Mars, was nothing but your origination, nothing but your coming into being. In hope of your bounty and favor, each strives to gain a greater share of grace. Both the realm of earth depends on you for its success, and the wheel of heaven on you for its resolve. So much do the oppressors fear your justice that they dare not move toward forbidden deeds. Where predators share a single plain, how could the sheep graze freely in the pastures? How splendid is your prohibition: if, for instance, someone sets foot in a garden, until he gets the gardener's permission he cannot so much as smell a rose. Had your justice not guarded the earth, the affairs of this dusty world would find no order. Had your resolve not ridden the heavens, the wild horse of the sky would never have been tamed. God keep your steed, which at one moment gives steadiness and at another a graceful gait, lending its dignity to the shadows of the mountains, borrowing its speed from the arrows of falling stars. When in the hour of battle you bring beneath your thigh the swift-footed, swift-striding gray horse, with a gold-inlaid helmet on your head and a silver-bright sword in your hand, an iron coat of mail tight on your body, a fine straight lance held ready in your grasp, the sky dazzled by the leaping charger, the air darkened by the flying arrows, with no room to flee that battlefield, no place to stand and hold one's ground, you turn the whole arena of war crimson and ruby-red with blood. From your bow the brave fall captive, in your noose the warriors are trapped. So many flying arrows pour down from every side out of the curved bow, that the battlefield becomes a thicket of reeds where the lion makes his lair. From all the men your blood-drinking sword has felled in that arena, the heaps of bodies rise so high they reach the roof of the palace of the sky. O you, without the pull of your favor no quarry ever escapes the snare, a long time has passed in which, from longing for your resolve, my soul finds no rest in my body. Bitterness can be turned sweet by the pure water of deliverance. O you whose essence came pure from eternity, free of all sins and faults, I have done such deeds that I cannot bring even one of them to name with my tongue. From you I keep my hope on the Day of Judgment, when the herald calls out to all, that you will not leave me without hope in that crowd, and so, farewell and honor be yours.

I moan like a harp, and, alas, you call it a song; I weep like a candle, and, alas, you take it for laughter. What will you do with my heart, which you bought out of whim, when you already own so many hearts for free? You are eager for this trade, and I know it well: your trade is digging into hearts and wounding them. You are faithless, yet so full of coyness and grace; a thousand pities that you keep no faith. Suppose you have seized my heart against my will, how will you guard it in the grip of burning fire? May I die for the way you look; though I stand before your eyes a hundred times, you act as if you never saw me. Do not let any other wrong me the way you do; I purchase you at the price of love and loyalty. Now you take the trouble to ask after me, when the pain of parting from you is killing me with all this grief. What joy have I in this glassy workshop of the world? What ease in this rust-green garden? Without you, the wine in my cup turns to poison; without you, the rose in my bed turns to thorns. Shall I cure love for you with patience? What a thing to say; fine silk cannot hold back a flame. Do not think me, who only boasts of patience out of whim, a worthy rival for the grief of your love. Thorns and brush cannot rein in a flood; a reed-bed cannot shield against lightning. What became at last of the bride of your beauty, that I see you ready to bow your head to my rival? You with your neglect, strolling the garden with your friends; I with my endurance, in a corner of sorrow, friendless. For God's sake, do not unveil in the garden, lest it sow a quarrel between the rose and the nightingale. A cry against my dark days and nights; no day was ever that black, no night ever that dim. From the mischief of these quicksilver stars, from the malice and cruelty of this rust-green sky. May no one's heart be pained, and pained like this; may no one's body be worn out, and grieving like this. Now I will carry my complaint to the court of the king, for fate has no intention of helping me. The king on the throne of sainthood, Ali, the friend of God, by whom the face of joy is forever rose-red. How fine: your conduct is the ornament of the law's scripture; how fine: your banner is the capital of world-rule. If your majesty calls for silence, the seed of rue holds itself still in the burning fire. When the cloud of your generosity scatters pearls, it sometimes makes the rains seem few against its abundance. The constancy of your covenant is a garden where, from all its petals, no flower has grown but the rose of faithfulness. Where the scent of your character opens like musk, the morning breeze no longer sets up a perfumer's shop. You have the power for every task except oppression; you have the means for every work except tyranny. Your commands are all effective like divine decree; your prohibitions all hold like destiny. Your effective command seeks no aid from the angels; your enforced ruling seeks no help from heaven. The nightingale of the garden has opened its tongue to praise you; the partridge of the hills stands at your command. If, with a pen of gold, they inscribe the record of your justice on the page of this rust-green sky, it would so affect the oppressive nature of the heavens that to the end of time it would never incline to tyranny again. Should the vigilance of your prudence light up its cheek to protect, out of compassion, the hearts of lovers, then how could the heart-stealers dig into hearts with their lashes? How could the idols wound hearts with their coyness? Whether mighty kings set it upon their crowns, or beautiful idols of Farkhar wear it in their eyes, the shoe of your steed holds that lofty a place; the dust of your procession holds that exalted a rank. Even if the bird of thought beats its wings a thousand years in flight, bound for the height of your domain, the Huma still cannot reach the roof of your glory, even if you bring it down a thousand steps in rank. What generosity, that at its height the ocean-hearted cloud draws shame from your pearl-scattering hand. Ever since your being became the ornament of existence, the sky rose up and spun in jubilation. Your glory grew so great that the heavens nearly stayed still and ceased their turning. Proof enough of your virtue: at the battle of Khaybar the Prophet gave you the title 'the Attacker.' It is fitting that blood should run from the envier's eye, since the rank of standard-bearer became yours alone. When the pen of fate wrote the decree of martyrdom upon you, from that day the heavens put on robes of color. How could it live forever, when death itself disowns your enemy in disgrace? O king, on the day of battle, even if all your foes join together for the sake of victory and triumph, and the earth turns crimson from the blood of the slain, and the air turns dark and rust-green with dust, still the fair bride of victory enters your chamber; still you take the bride of triumph in your arms. It is fitting that the heavens should seek to buy the crescent-shaped horseshoe of your steed as an earring for the divine throne. Blessed be God for this swift gray courser, from whom lightning has learned its fierce speed. So fast in its running, like a frightened gazelle struggling in the coils of a noose after being captured. Leaping like the breeze, the breeze of spring; moving like the cloud, the rain-bearing cloud. When in its display it races abreast of the sky's gray steed, that steed has no escape but from your noose. It rushes to flight like a swift gale; it pours downhill like a mountain flood. At rest, it is as calm as a mountain; in motion, it is as smooth as a flowing sea. I write your praise, O king, yet I know that I am not worthy of describing you. In a boundless ocean that has no shore, no swimmer is saved by reason or alertness. By that God to whom thought finds no path, to the depth of whose knowledge even full wakefulness cannot reach; by His wrath, that when it casts its shadow on a mountain, turns the dark, rose-red ruby into a phantom's color; by His grace, that if He looks upon hell, turns the dwelling of sinners into a rose garden; by that Bountiful One who spread the table of generosity from being, and feeds the wanderers of nothingness; by Ahmad, that king of both worlds, whose rank in glory has surpassed all you can imagine; by the rank and station of Abu Dharr and Salman, by the dignity and degree of Jabir and Ammar; by the chastity of the king of Canaan (Joseph), who in the sanctuary of union turned away from Zulaikha's seduction; by the restlessness of love and that coy beauty, with which Zulaikha set her heart on tormenting Joseph; by the simple-heartedness of an old woman whose love grew moment by moment with a longing to buy him; by a coquetry that was neither hidden nor plain, by a state that was neither drunkenness nor sobriety; by the dawn of union that strips patience from the heart, by the scent of parting that keeps the eye awake; by a moan that opens a spring of blood from rock, by a weeping that makes blood flow from the eye; by the famine of generosity, by the elixir of faithfulness, I swear by the humbling of honor and the honoring of the humble: that you may pour me, from the cup of your sainthood, that wine which the heavens could scarcely hold in a single goblet. I would not trade the title of being your servant for kingship, even if the sermon of world-rule were given to me. If I look with desire at the table of this world, may the pleasure of life be forbidden to me. Behold, your words are like the speech of the truthful informer; behold, your discourse is like revelation sent down by the Creator. A hundred thousand cries at the cold-heartedness of the age, for fine speech finds no warm market here. Art has no currency, and like unsold goods, no one buys excellence. What use is it that my pen scatters pearls? What good that my nature rains down jewels, when to these critics there is no difference at all between idle babble and graceful speech? Let me keep to praising God, for there is a great distinction between me and these reluctant companions. I praise myself from noble lineage; I am of the line of the Chosen One (Ali), and this is my worthy claim. Two servants attend me: intellect and wisdom; two attendants serve me: cleverness and alertness. The tonic I compound for the wounded drives the breath of sickness out of their constitution. Do not do this injustice to your own good sense, and shame on you; do not by mistake count me again among this crowd. Among the harsh croaking of this garden's crows, it would be fitting if I laughed out loud like a mountain partridge. Where is the vista of the divine throne, and where the window of a prison? Where is the zone of the heavens, and where a compass-drawn line? Where is the glow of a mote and where the radiance of the sun? Where the breeze of Egypt and where the scent of a flowerbed? Where is the crow and where the birds of paradise? Where is the wind and where the gazelles of Tartary? O king, though in my youth, drunk with heedlessness, my life has passed in wrongdoing, when you sit in judgment over the worth of my servitude, may my veil not be torn open to expose my deeds. Grant me refuge in your shadow on that field where from my lips rises a cry of 'mercy, mercy.' As long as the rose laughs in springtime, as long as the cloud weeps its grief, may your friend's work be nothing but laughter; may your enemy's lot be nothing but disgrace.

At dawn the nightingales of the garden raised a cry: open your eyes and seize the grace of being awake. Why do you sleep in this cradle of dust, unaware that the holy ones are searching, asking for you? How long will you sleep while the spirits watch over you from the high windows of these seven dusky palaces? Now that the caravan of grace arrives, rise up; they may place the banner of leadership in your hand. Look up at the dome of sky, at the seven planets; see the fixed stars upon the dusky vault. Behold the clarity of morning's mirror before it clouds over with the breath of the oppressed. How long will you sit frozen? Go and cry out a little; borrow that lament from the belted bell ringers. From the restlessness of the heavens you can tell that they have set out, eager, in search of someone. The cap of your power would brush against the sky, if you would lay your head upon this threshold. The close ones all bow in prostration; shame on you, why are you heedless of the Almighty's majesty? In that garden you could pin a flower in your hair, so why plant no rosebush in this garden of yours? If those scents of grace should reach your senses, no wonder you would unseal fragrance richer than Tartar musk. If you wish to light a gathering like a candle, give a little laughter and a great deal of weeping. With tears the color of heart's blood you can stain the page like a pen; let your robe go, even if it is woven with gold thread. For the sake of the friend, seek help from no one; and if you are set on seeking, ask for it from blood weeping love. A ruin that love has built into a home laughs at the palace of paradise, and rightly so. Whoever, by your love, gained sight like Joseph of Egypt becomes honored, though he suffer humiliation for two days. In the garden at dawn this song reached my ears from the nightingales of the old nests in the rose grove: If this is the safe flight of the garden, then blessed is love's blame, and blessed its captivity. A bride of an opening verse from the rose garden of thought untied the veil from a treacherous, rose red beauty. All allure, like the silver bodied beauties of Nowshad, all coquetry, like the moon faced ones of Farkhar.