On the Faithlessness of Time, with Praise of the Chosen Messenger

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.