English
In Praise of Ali, Father of the Imams and Help of the Faithful
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.