English
To the Mean Heavens, and in Praise of Ali, Commander of the Faithful
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.