English
In Praise of Imam Ali, Father of the Two Grandsons
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.