English
On the Pleasure of Sorrow and in Praise of the Prophet
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.