Ghazals

The destination is far and the thorns have cut our feet. Give the stragglers a little time, leaders of the caravan. Only those left behind know the agony of the desert. What does the one riding in the litter care about thorn wounds? Anyone in this caravan who understands the language of love knows that words lie hidden inside the ringing of the bell. Let the gardener shut the gate of the rose garden in our face; a single glance through a crack in the wall is enough for us. If you pass by the garden with that graceful figure, the cypress will tie on a sash made from the ring-doves' collars. For a lifetime, doctor, I stayed silent and said nothing; now the burning of my heart has melted the seal that closed my lips.

To whom, for God's sake, can I speak of my helplessness? A king never listens to the cry of a beggar. They say every dark night has its dawn, but it seems our dark night has no morning. The morning breeze scatters roses at your feet, and I fear even a rose petal might bruise those soles. It is no part of loyalty to wound the one who loves you; stop torturing my heart and calling it fidelity. Beside your beauty, what beauty can others show? When does the faintest star shine before the sun? You asked what became of the doctor after our cruelty: my love, he died long ago, lost in longing for you.

Don't give the seekers of mere whim a place among true lovers; it would be a shame for you not to tell the rose from the weed. So that no dust of grief might settle on your heart from my cries, I held my very breath hidden in my chest out of fear for you. My sighs are storming the heavens tonight, so think carefully, dawn, and hold your breath. Aching with longing, you set out to open the litter; do you know what blood drips from the wailing of the caravan bell? That moon-faced one was hurt by the doctor's voice, and I fear she may suddenly count everyone a stranger, like the rest.

When I try to make friends even with the dogs at her door, my rival, out of envy, plants talk of separation between us. That careless flirt is leaving the garden, and I'm afraid she will renew her vow of faithlessness with some fresh flower. It isn't mercy that brings her to my side; she comes because she wants me weeping when she speaks the word goodbye. If for one night that moon-faced one lights up my gathering, the sun itself would come begging brightness from my lamp. May the one trapped in your snare, who longs to break free, never come to know the strange delight of captivity. Doctor, you expect human kindness from people; what is this, that you seek the ways of friendship from total strangers?

When that silver-bodied cypress appears at the edge of the meadow, the pheasants' uproar rises like the chaos of judgment day. In this garden, this is what scars me: for the young birds just learning flight, the season of captivity comes the moment their wings and feathers appear. I don't know the profit and loss of love's marketplace, but I do know that the goods called loyalty are rarely found here. What is this talk, as if the nightingale could do the moth's work? Where will you ever find another lover like me? No wonder if the doctor laughs at my weeping, for the joy of the drunk is born from the spilling of the cup.

Parted from our one and only idol, blood drips from every song we sing. From the millstone of the spinning heavens rose the cry of our shattered grain. The earth itself lies ruined and beside itself from the sound of our lover's lament. In the ocean of existence, like a pearl, our water and seed were complete within us. We broke free of ourselves, and the height of the sky became our nest. The thorns and dry twigs of our nest throw a hundred taunts at tulip and rose. By the fortune of love we are kings; sorrow is our army, the heart our treasury. Granite grief and silken anguish are the carpet at our threshold. The healing heavens writhe in on themselves at our reckless, self-forgetting laughter.

The good and evil of this world mean nothing to me; the prayer beads and the infidel's belt are one and the same in my eyes. The mirror's surface clouds over with my reflection, so thick is the dust of grief that has settled on my face. Like a bubble, I have no room for a heavy cup of wine; a single goblet is enough to lift me away. I will not open my eyes to the sea's bounty, like an oyster; a single teardrop is my precious pearl. May the habit of cruelty never slip from her memory, so carry word of me to that merciless beloved. I am glad to stand among the lovers, because at the healer's gathering these blood-weeping eyes give my face its color.

Prayers at dawn have their effect; so my hand clings to the hem of every daybreak. Every night, hoping for the meeting you promised, my eyes spread themselves like a carpet along your path. Those who should know gave me no sign of you, so I asked the clueless for news instead. My heart aches, a thousand regrets, that it fell into the trap of that lovely slender waist. Even though you are a doctor who deals in bitterness, your reed pen still pours out sweetness.

Gently empty your heart of grief for those who are like Layla. Driver of the caravan, lead the litter slowly out of this valley. Don't search this heart with your lashes anymore; the treasure of my heart holds no jewel but your love, which I have already dug out. What use is it to lift the veil from your face at the hour of my death? Seeing the flower only deepens the longing of the slaughtered bird. When my killer resolves to take my life, my fear is something else: I don't want to see my killer's hand stained with blood. Your companions sit warmly talking with you at the feast, while I, full of longing, watch the gathering from outside the door. How long must this go on? Only God knows where my dust will fall in this valley; with all my exhaustion, I have clutched the hem of the moving litter. The physician of this sea of love is hidden from sight; the moment you set me adrift in this boat, the shore vanished from my eyes.

Since I cannot reach you to kiss your feet, I kiss the ground wherever you set them down. A thousand bodies of those you've slain lie fallen along your street; step carefully, my love, do not set your foot upon the earth. If out of mercy you won't look toward the slain, at least cast a glance their way, just to watch. Come, for without the flower of your face, weighed down by so much sorrow, I no longer know a stroll through the garden from a walk in the wild. There is no trace of any traveler in this valley; I'm lost: who can I ask for word of my beloved? Who is the healer that has hurt you? Beware, don't stain your sweet lips with the poison of complaint.

My poverty and loneliness have gone past every limit; if you mean to forgive me, my friend, the time is now. Since you spilled my blood so cruelly while I wept, just walk across my grave; that alone is payment enough for it. The king is asleep while a crowd of the wronged stands at his gate; how can a king be so heedless of those crying out for justice? Since your mercy grows greater than any apology, though I am guiltless I will offer an apology for my faults. Tell me, caravan-leader, who rides in that camel litter? Their moaning makes the caravan bell drip blood. When should I open my lips about my pain before the healer? You are the one who sends the wound, and you give the cure. Even though we stay silent, merciless heavens, cruelty should have a limit, injustice a measure. If I have become a stranger to those I knew, it is no wonder; I have tested my familiar friends too many times. How long will the healer and I stay drunk in the tavern? Give us life, you who are lost in your own drunkenness.

Tonight another grief is heaped upon my grief; so please, don't pull the wine cup from my hand tonight. Last night you set fire to my harvest and walked away; I wish you would pass by my ashes tonight. They tell me stories to calm me, and I'm afraid the thought of her will be driven from my head tonight. Better that the doctor spare me the pain of a cure; I no longer believe in my own recovery tonight.

Tonight I expect this from my blood-weeping eyes: that they send a caravan of tears toward her street. Surely that fire-faced beloved is coming to our gathering, for tonight, like a candle, my soul has caught fire. When I tied my belt to dance at the assembly, I told myself that tonight no lover will carry his life away alive. My heart pounds beyond all limits; I hope tonight that my chest becomes the target for the arrow of her coyness. The surge of my weeping leaves no room for a single word, or else tonight I have many complaints against my sullen fate. A flowing river appeared on every side from my weeping eyes; Tabib, once again, tonight your mind has fallen to Isfahan.

The doorman won't dare, though the king's favorites are there; let someone tell the sultan: things have gotten beyond me. Don't break our thread of closeness, you who love to break things off, for once you tear it apart you can never tie it back together. Now you regret what you did, after a sigh has risen from my heart and an arrow has already left the bow. I'm afraid you'll be hurt by this game; think it over. How long can you keep burning a heart, wounding a soul? I'll endure your scorn, because there's no one like you for me; you kill me cruelly, because there are so many like me for you. Your face was a moon, but the sky's moon went dim beside it; your figure was a cypress, but the garden's cypress bowed before it. I'm faint with weakness, friends, lend a hand; bring my hand to my collar, for my robe has slipped from my grasp. Lucky messenger, for God's sake, news of my love: I have heard nothing, so tell me if there's any word. Get up, your companions are ready to set out, if you mean, sleeper, to join this caravan. Master, have mercy on how helpless I am; I lost my whole stake and was left empty-handed. How can I pitch my tent by this spring, when whole crowds have gone with thirsty lips, and the spring is still right here? What a pity: we stayed in the trap this whole time, doctor, longing for a prey that escaped the corner of its cage.

My life is gone and only half a soul remains; I am the straggler left behind by a caravan. On the path through the meadow a faint trace remains; a nest of thorns is all that is left. The nightingale is about to spread its wings, but neither a flower nor a garden remains. Like those left behind, my eyes still gaze with longing after the vanished caravan. Of all those birds with their golden nests, one lone bird is left in the empty nest. The grief of the departed is branded on my heart; a fire from that caravan still smolders in me. My body has worn thin like the new moon, yet my forehead still rests upon a threshold. See my weakness: like the candle at dawn, only half a life is left in me. Long ago, doctor, my boat was lost; it drifts still on a boundless sea.

My grieving heart has gone looking for someone; it cries for justice, searching for a judge who will hear its case. For God's sake, do not ignore me in my exhaustion, for my life has reached its final breath. I ache with the grief of a captive bird that flew free from one trap only to fall into the corner of a cage again. Because of you my mind has left my head and patience my heart; a frenzy fills me head to toe, and longing has settled in my chest. What a shame, Tabib, that the beloved keeps company with a stranger; a flower, alas, has fallen into the embrace of a worthless thorn.

Though Majnun wept in the wilderness from grief for Layla, if you knew the secrets of love, you would see that Layla wept far more. When talk turned, in the gathering, to a face like fire, last night I saw the candle weep beyond all measure. At the feast of union, blood poured from a familiar eye; pity the stranger, when even the friend wept blood there. On the night of parting I hid my pain-filled sigh inside my heart, while the sky, in dread of a sudden raid, wept on and on. It was our blood-shedding eye that, in the healer's circle, wept every moment in longing for those wine-red lips.

I have no wish left to ask of my love, for I can no longer endure being needlessly ignored. See how fate offers me the cup of joy only now, when the glass has fallen and no wine remains. On the road of love my heart was so battered against the thorns that not a single thorn is left in the whole wilderness. If I weep at the edge of the meadow, it is a place for weeping, for the flower I came to admire is gone. Tell the heavens to stop trying to shatter my glass, for not a single stone is left in the whole wilderness. The door to happiness is shut on me because grief has crowded my heart so tightly that no room is left. How long, healer, will you wear yourself out trying to cure me, when I no longer have any hope of being healed?

Though I can't reach the hem of that moon-faced beloved, thank God my own hand can still reach my collar. Why should one restless with love fear the torment of separation? A flood never worries about the highs and lows of the road. My friends comfort me even when my beloved is absent. Happy is the one whose true state no one knows. Sometimes I weep from parting, sometimes I moan from love; all my burning life produces is tears and sighs. In searching for the beloved, my only guide is wandering, Tabib; like the caravan bell, my eyes on the road never look for a resting place.

Since the cupbearer turned cold toward me with playful disdain, like a candle at a gathering, fire has fallen into my soul. No desire for the world fits in my heart anymore; there the grief has fallen caravan upon caravan. Apart from the ring of her hair, my heart finds no rest, like a bird that has fallen far from its nest. When that envy of spring rose to wander the garden, the rose, robbed of its worth, fell from the gardener's eye. If they ask you about your weary lover, tell them: I saw him lying helpless in the sickbed of sorrow.

Once more my heart has become the target for cruelty's arrows. Have I committed some crime that has lodged itself in your memory? You came without warning, as if to kill me with joy, while my heart wonders: has my love grown kind to me at last? Her skirt is clean of any dealings with rivals. God is on my heart's side, even if it has fallen into suspicion. Each time I pack my bags to follow my beloved again, a hundred caravans of tears begin to flow from my eyes. Cold now toward others and toward the beautiful ones, I fear they think this healer has turned out just like the rest.

My love set me on fire, yet no trace of it shows; strange, that from this hidden fire not a single spark appears. When you strike my warm chest with your arrow, don't tear it open, for no mark of your arrowhead can even be found in this heart. The candle has burned out and the moth has given up its flight; what can I do, when my long night finds no dawn? See my cruel luck: I'm a prisoner in a palace with no visible crack and no door to be found. All lovers carry bleeding hearts, yet among them all no lover as broken hearted as I can be found. Show some mercy in this desert, cloud of generosity; for your clear water, no one thirstier than me can be found. I've launched my little boat and still hope to reach safety, in an ocean where no trace of any shore can be found. You are like the sun lighting the world; in the realm of beauty shine on, shine, for no other like you can be found. A fiery breath has grown absorbed in circling the sanctuary, one with no wing or feather like the birds of that holy place. Many a jewel has spilled into the treasury of thought, yet no jewel as precious as the thought of you can be found. Everyone planted a sapling and the gardener gave it fruit; it's only my planting that bears no fruit at all.

Why ask how I am, you faithless one? My heart lies in ruins, bleeding with grief for you. Don't try to talk me out of wine and worship, preacher! When love grows complete, it becomes the next-door neighbor of madness. I never hold a grudge against an enemy's cruelty; nothing stays in this overturned bowl of fate. Tabib carries a love you can read in his tears: from the depths of his heart comes weeping as red as a tulip.

Take back your love from anyone who does not satisfy your heart; tear your heart away from anyone whose heart is not turned toward you. How long will you keep telling me, 'Don't give your heart to the beautiful ones'? Adviser, what is it to you? My heart is not your heart! You promised me union, but I am not satisfied, because your tongue and your heart never agree. The road into her heart is harder than solid stone; my eyes, you have nothing there but your useless weeping. You said there was no room for anyone in your gathering; so besides the 'doctor', who else is missing from your circle?

My chest burns, my lashes drip blood, and dawn is near. Know this: my sighing is about to take effect. Who is there to tell our friends back home that we never reached the shore, and danger is close. I am that garden with a hundred plagues lying in wait; what good is it that my sapling is close to bearing fruit? Keep striving toward the healer's home, the goal you seek; the road is long, but the destination is right before your eyes.