One of Hafez’s Molamma’āt (mixed Persian and Arabic) ghazals illustrates not only the unique transformation of Arabic prosody in Persian poetry, but also Hafez’s unique gift for copying, transforming, and improving the verses from previous ghazals (in this case a ghazal by the seminal master of the ghazal, Sanā’ī):
Sana’ī
Translation:
Last night a letter arrived unexpectedly from my beloved.
She said: “My heart has seen the pangs of the resurrection in being
parted from you.”
I said: “Does your loving heart have some sign of suffering?”
She said: “Are not the tears in my eye enough of a sign for
you?”
She said: “What are you planning?” I said: “A journey.”
She said: “Go in health, happiness and safety?”
I said: “You are not trustworthy.” She said: “Test me!”
[I replied:] ” Whoever tests an experienced person will surely regret it.”
I said: “Farewell! You shall not come and conquer my breast.”
She said: “So you want union with me in secret? No, by grace!”
She said: “Take hold of my tresses!” I said: “Scandal will come”
She said: “Do you really not know about love and scandal?”
Original:
دی ناگه از نگارم اندر رسید نامه
قالت: رای فوادی من هجرک القیامه
گفتم که: عشق و دل را باشد علامتی هم
قالت: دموع عینی لم تکف بالعلامه
گفتا که: می چه سازی گفتم که مر سفر را
قالت: فمر صحیحا بالخیر و السلامه
گفتم: وفا نداری گفتا که: آزمودی
من جرب المجرب حلت به الندامه
گفتم: وداع نایی واندر برم نگیری
قالت: ترید وصلی سرا و لا کرامه
گفتا: بگیر زلفم گفتم: ملامت آید
قالت: الست تدری العشق و الملامه
Rumi
Translation:
I tested you a lot, but it did not help me
Whoever tries the experienced will come to regret it
Original:
بسيارت آزموذى امّا نبوذ سوذم من جرّب المجرّب حلّت به الندامة
Hafez
Translation:
From my heart’s grief I wrote a letter to my beloved.
For an age, from your absence, I have witnessed the resurrection
I have a hundred signs of separation in my eye
Are not the tears of these eyes of mine for us a sign?
However much I tried, she did not help me
Whoever tries the experienced will regret it
I asked a doctor about the state of my beloved. He said:
Suffering is in nearness to her, health is in distance from her.
I said: Will scandal come if I wander about your alley?.
By God! We have never seen a love without scandal.
Hafiz has come like one seeking a cup even at the price of his sweet soul,
that he might taste from it, a goblet of grace.
Original:
از خون دل نوشتم نزدیک دوست نامه
انی رایت دهرا من هجرک القیامه
دارم من از فراقش در دیده صد علامت
لیست دموع عینی هذا لنا العلامه
هر چند کآزمودم از وی نبود سودم
من جرّب المجرّب حلّت به الندامه
پرسیدم از طبیبی احوال دوست گفتا
فی بعدها عذاب فی قربها السلامه
گفتم ملامت آید گر گرد دوست گردم
و الله ما راینا حبا بلا ملامه
حافظ چو طالب آمد جامی به جان شیرین
حتی یذوق منه کاسا من الکرامه
From: François de Blois, “A Bilingual Poem by Ḥāfiẓ,” Oriente Moderno , 1996, Nuova serie, Anno 15 (76), Nr. 2, LA CIVILTÀ TIMURIDE COME FENOMENO INTERNAZIONALE. Volume II (Letteratura — Arte) (1996), pp. 379-384.
Lovin’ you is easy, ’cause you’re beautiful
Makin’ love with you is all I wanna do
Lovin’ you is more than just a dream come true
And everything that I do is out of lovin’ you
No one else can make me feel the colors that you bring
Stay with me while we grow old, and we will live each day in springtime
‘Cause lovin’ you has made my life so beautiful
And every day of my life is filled with lovin’ you
Lovin’ you, I see your soul come shinin’ through
And every time that we-, ooh, I’m more in love with you
No one else can make me feel the colors that you bring
Stay with me while we grow old, and we will live each day in springtime
‘Cause lovin’ you is easy, ’cause you’re beautiful
And every day of my life is filled with lovin’ you
Lovin’ you, I see your soul come shinin’ through
And every time that we-, ooh, I’m more in love with you
I Am So Drunk From Thy Love That I No Longer Know Myself,
I Am In Wonderment In This Drunkenness And Yet Remain Silent.
Being Away From Thee Is Not Possible, Nor Is Thy Embrace Full Of Love,
Yet Bewildered Am I From The Perfume Of Thy Black Hair.
Unveil Thy Face, O Saki, For My Soul Is In Quest.
Give A Gulp Of That Wine That Will Remove My Breath And Mind.
In This Monastery Full Of Affliction I Have Accepted Much Suffering
With This Thought—That One Day I Would Drink The Wine Of Gnosis.
In This World I Have Thee, I Have Thee Alone.
Union With Thee Is The Goal Of My Life; I Continue To Strive On This Path.
The Fervor For Meeting Thee Burns Within Me Like Fire,
I Continue To Burn In This Fire Though I Am Annihilated And Silent.
We have seen the turning of thy face to heaven. And now verily We shall turn you toward a qibla [direction of prayer] which is dear to thee. So turn thy face toward the Inviolable Place of Worship, and ye, wheresoever ye may be, turn your faces toward it. Lo! Those who have received the Scripture know that is the Truth from their Lord. And Allah is not unaware of what they do.
Qur’an 10:87
We revealed to Moses and his brother, “Appoint houses for your people in Egypt and make your houses a qibla [direction of prayer], and establish worship. And give good news to the believers.”
Qur’an 2:155
To god belong the East and West, and wheresoever you turn, there is the face of God.
“Do you think my qibla is only here [before me]? By God, your bowing and prostrating are not concealed from me; I can see you even though you are behind my back.”
-Hadith
Rumi
Since the qibla of the soul has been hidden
everyone has turned his face to a different corner
(Masnavi 5:328-337)
Original:
قبله‌ی جان را چو پنهان کرده‌اند
هر کسی رو جانبی آورده‌اند
The Kaaba of Gabriel and the celestial spirits is a Lote-tree;
the glutton’s qibla is a cloth laden with dishes of food.
The qibla of the Knower is the light of union with God;
the qibla of the philosopher’s mind is fantasy.
The qibla of the ascetic is God, the Gracious;
the qibla of the flatterer is a purse of gold.
The qibla of the spiritual is patience and long-suffering;
the qiblah of form-worshippers is an image of stone.
The qibla of those who live in the inward is the Bounteous One;
the qibla of those who worship the outward is a woman’s face.
(Masanvi 6, 1896–1900)
Original:
کعبه‌ی جبریل و جانها سدره‌ای ** قبله‌ی عبدالبطون شد سفره‌ای
قبله‌ی عارف بود نور وصال ** قبله‌ی عقل مفلسف شد خیال
قبله‌ی زاهد بود یزدان بر ** قبله‌ی مطمع بود همیان زر
قبله‌ی معنی‌وران صبر و درنگ ** قبله‌ی صورت‌پرستان نقش سنگ
قبله‌ی باطن‌نشینان ذوالمنن ** قبله‌ی ظاهرپرستان روی زن
By virtue of that Light the calf becomes a qibla of grace;
without that Light the qibla becomes infidelity and an idol.
The licence that comes from self-will is error;
the licence that comes from God is perfection.
In that quarter where the illimitable Light has shone,
infidelity has become faith and the Devil has attained unto Islam.
Original:
عجل با آن نور شد قبله‌ی کرم ** قبله بی آن نور شد کفر و صنم
کفر ایمان گشت و دیو اسلام یافت ** آن طرف کان نور بی‌اندازه تافت
(Masnavi 6: 2073)
Within the Ka‘ba the rule of the qibla does not exist:
what matter if the diver has no snow-shoes?
Do not seek guidance from the drunken:
why dost thou order those whose garments are rent in pieces to mend them?
The religion of Love is apart from all religions:
for lovers, the (only) religion and sect is God.
Original:
در درون کعبه رسم قبله نیست ** چه غم ار غواص را پاچیله نیست
تو ز سر مستان قلاووزی مجو ** جامه چاکان را چه فرمایی رفو
تو ز سر مستان قلاووزی مجو ** جامه چاکان را چه فرمایی رفو
ملت عشق از همه دینها جداست ** عاشقان را ملت و مذهب خداست
(Masnavi 6:1768-1770)
Since the Hand of God has made the Qibla manifest,
henceforth deem searching to be disallowed.
Hark, avert your face and head from searching,
now that the Destination and Dwelling-place has come into view.
If you forget this Qibla for one moment, you will become in thrall to every worthless qibla (object of desire).
When you show ingratitude to him that gives you discernment, the thought that recognises the Qibla will dart away from you.
Original:
قبله را چون کرد دست حق عیان ** پس تحری بعد ازین مردود دان
هین بگردان از تحری رو و سر ** که پدید آمد معاد و مستقر
ک زمان زین قبله گر ذاهل شوی ** سخره‌ی هر قبله‌ی باطل شوی
چون شوی تمییزده را ناسپاس ** بجهد از تو خطرت قبله‌شناس
Amīr Khusrow
Every sect has a faith, a Qibla to which they turn,
I have turned my face towards the crooked cap (of Nizamudin Aulia)
The whole world worships something or the other,
Some look for God in Mecca, while some go to Kashi (Banaras),
So why can’t I, Oh wise people, fall into my beloved’s feet?
Every sect has a faith, a Qibla.
Original:
هر قوم راست راهي، ديني و قبله گاهي
من قبله راست كرديم ،بر سمت كج كلاهي
…
Transliteration:
Har qaum raast raahay, deen-e wa qibla gaahay,
Mun qibla raast kardam, bar samt kajkulaahay.
Sansaar har ko poojay, kul ko jagat sarahay,
Makkay mein koyi dhoondhay, Kaashi ko koi jaaye,
Guyyian main apnay pi kay payyan padun na kaahay.
Har qaum raast raahay, deen-e wa qibla gaahay…
Mirza Ghālib
The one to whom I bow is beyond senses’ boundaries
The qiblah itself’s a pointer for those who can see
Original:
ہے پرے سرحدِ ادراک سے اپنا مسجود
قبلے کو اہلِ نظر قبلہ نما کہتے ہیں
Ibn ‘Arabi:
Contemplate the house: for sanctified hearts,
its lights shine openly
They look at it through God, without a veil,
and its august and sublime secret appears to them.
and famously:
My heart has become receptive to every form
A meadow for gazelles, and a cloister for the monks
A house for the idols, and the pilgrim’s Ka’aba
The tablets of the Torah, pages of the Qur’an
My religion is love’s own and wheresoever turn
Her caravan, that love is my religion and my faith
We have an example in Bishr, lover of Hind and her sister,
The perhaps most obvious poetic lines to cite are Rūmī's:
The qibla of the glutton, that is the table-cloth. The qibla for the gnostic: the light of union with God, … The qibla of those who worship the form: an image of stone …
“”For my purposes, religion will mean orientation—orientation in the ultimate sense, that is, how one comes to terms with the ultimate significance of one’s place in the world.”
“Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship–be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles–is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It’s the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It’s been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.
Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they’re evil or sinful, it’s that they’re unconscious. They are default settings.
They’re the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that’s what you’re doing.
And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the centre of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving…. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.
That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.”
Several of Rumi’s most musical ghazals begin with this refrain
Translation:
O Lovers, O lovers, the time has come to leave this world
In my soul’s ears resound the traveling drums from Heaven
Behold, the driver has risen and made ready the files of camels,
And begged us to acquit him of blame: why, O travelers, are you asleep ?
These sounds before and behind are the din of departure and of the camel-bells;
With each moment a soul and a spirit is setting off into the Void.
From these stars like inverted candles, from these blue awnings of the sky
There has come forth a wondrous people, that the mysteries may be revealed.
A heavy slumber fell upon thee from the circling spheres:
Alas for this life so light, beware of this slumber so heavy!
O soul, seek the Beloved, O friend, seek the Friend,
O watchman, be wakeful: it behooves not a watchman to sleep.
On every side is clamor and tumult, in every street are candles and torches,
For to-night the teeming world gives birth to the world everlasting.
Thou wert dust and art spirit, thou wert ignorant and art wise;
He who has led thee thus far will lead thee further also.
How pleasant are the pains he makes thee suffer while he gently draws thee to himself!
His flames are as water. Do not frown upon him.
To dwell in the soul is his task, to break vows of penitence is his task;
By his manifold artifice these atoms are trembling at their core.
O ridiculous puppet that leapest out of thy hole, as if to say, ‘I am the lord of the land,’
How long wilt thou leap? Abase thyself, or they will bend thee like a bow.
Thou didst sow the seed of deceit, thou didst indulge in derision,
Thou didst regard God as nothing: see now, O miscreant!
O ass, thou wert best with straw; thou art a caldron: thou wert best black;
Thou wert best at the bottom of a well, O disgrace of thy house and family!
In me there is Another by whom these eyes sparkle;
If water scalds, it is by fire; understand this.
I have no stone in my hand, I have no quarrel with anyone,
I deal harshly with none, because I am sweet as a garden of roses.
Mine eye, then, is from that source and from another universe;
Here a world and there a world: I am seated on the threshold.
On the threshold are they alone whose eloquence is mute;
It is enough to utter this intimation: say no more, draw back thy tongue.
(trans. R.A. Nicholson)
Original:
ای عاشقان ای عاشقان هنگام کوچ است از جهان
در گوش جانم می رسد طبل رحیل از آسمان
نک ساربان برخاسته قطارها آراسته
از ما حلالی خواسته چه خفته‌اید ای کاروان
این بانگ‌ها از پیش و پس بانگ رحیل است و جرس
هر لحظه‌ای نفس و نفس سر می کشد در لامکان
زین شمع‌های سرنگون زین پرده‌های نیلگون
خلقی عجب آید برون تا غیب‌ها گردد عیان
زین چرخ دولابی تو را آمد گران خوابی تو را
فریاد از این عمر سبک زنهار از این خواب گران
ای دل سوی دلدار شو ای یار سوی یار شو
ای پاسبان بیدار شو خفته نشاید پاسبان
هر سوی شمع و مشعله هر سوی بانگ و مشغله
کامشب جهان حامله زاید جهان جاودان
تو گل بدی و دل شدی جاهل بدی عاقل شدی
آن کو کشیدت این چنین آن سو کشاند کش کشان
اندر کشاکش‌های او نوش است ناخوش‌های او
آب است آتش‌های او بر وی مکن رو را گران
در جان نشستن کار او توبه شکستن کار او
از حیله بسیار او این ذره‌ها لرزان دلان
ای ریش خند رخنه جه یعنی منم سالار ده
تا کی جهی گردن بنه ور نی کشندت چون کمان
تخم دغل می کاشتی افسوس‌ها می داشتی
حق را عدم پنداشتی اکنون ببین ای قلتبان
ای خر به کاه اولیتری دیگی سیاه اولیتری
در قعر چاه اولیتری ای ننگ خانه و خاندان
در من کسی دیگر بود کاین خشم‌ها از وی جهد
گر آب سوزانی کند ز آتش بود این را بدان
در کف ندارم سنگ من با کس ندارم جنگ من
با کس نگیرم تنگ من زیرا خوشم چون گلستان
پس خشم من زان سر بود وز عالم دیگر بود
این سو جهان آن سو جهان بنشسته من بر آستان
بر آستان آن کس بود کو ناطق اخرس بود
این رمز گفتی بس بود دیگر مگو درکش زبان
“The time of meeting and union has come”
Translation:
O Lovers, O Lovers the time of union and meeting has come
A call came from heaven proclaiming
“Moon-faced beauties, come hither
The fiery wine has come, O demon of grief, go sit in a corner!
O death-pondering soul, you too go! O immortal Saqi, come now!
O drunk ones, O drunk ones, The enraptured whirling one has come
The chains of his locks have captured us and our heart’s yearning has captured him
O you on which the seven heavens are drunk
We are but a bead in your hands
O you from whose being ours is
A hundred greetings, welcome!
O sound of the reed with sweet stories
In your sound is the taste of sugar
From your sound comes the fragrance of faithfulness
night and day!
Begin again and tune those notes
Open those veils
for all good souls
O sun of our happy meeting
Be quiet, don’t tear the veil, drink the bowl of the silent
be a concealer (sattar), be a concealer (sattar), get used to God’s clemency
Original:
ای عاشقان ای عاشقان آمد گه وصل و لقا
از آسمان آمد ندا کای ماه رویان الصلا
ای سرخوشان ای سرخوشان آمد طرب دامن کشان
بگرفته ما زنجیر او بگرفته او دامان ما
آمد شراب آتشین ای دیو غم کنجی نشین
ای جان مرگ اندیش رو ای ساقی باقی درآ
ای هفت گردون مست تو ما مهره‌ای در دست تو
ای هست ما از هست تو در صد هزاران مرحبا
ای مطرب شیرین نفس هر لحظه می‌جنبان جرس
ای عیش زین نه بر فرس بر جان ما زن ای صبا
ای بانگ نای خوش سمر در بانگ تو طعم شکر
آید مرا شام و سحر از بانگ تو بوی وفا
بار دگر آغاز کن آن پرده‌ها را ساز کن
بر جمله خوبان ناز کن ای آفتاب خوش لقا
خاموش کن پرده مدر سغراق خاموشان بخور
ستار شو ستار شو خو گیر از حلم خدا
“I am an ancient lover”
This is a popular Afghan song attributed to Rumi, but I haven’t found it in a written collection, so it may be part of the oral tradition:
Translation:
O Lovers, O lovers, I am an ancient lover
O honest ones, O honest one, I am an ancient lover
At that time when the light of my love passed through the heavenly world
I myself was all there, I am an ancient lover
Adam was not, but I was; the world was not, but I was
Before all the worlds, I was, I am an ancient lover
I was with Noah in the ark, I was with Joseph in the well
In the fire with Abraham I was, I am an ancient lover.
Original:
ای عاشقان ای عاشقان من عاشق دیرینه ام
ای صادقان ای صادقان من عاشق دیرینه ام
این دم که نور عشق من از عالم علوی گذشت
آنجا همه خود من بودم ، من عاشق دیرینه ام
آدم نبود و من بودم ، عالم نبود و من بودم
پيش از همه عالم بودم ، من عاشق دیرینه ام
با نوح در كشتي بودم با يوسف اندر چاه بودم
در نار بودم با خليل من عاشق ديرينه ام
“O Lovers, I turn dust into gems”
Translation:
O Lovers, O Lovers, I turn dust into gems
O singers, O singers, I fill your drums with gold
“Oh thirsty souls! Oh thirsty souls! Today I am giving water to drink!
I will transform this dustbin into paradise, a celestial pool.”
“Oh helpless men! Oh helpless men! Relief has come! Relief has come! I turn everyone with a wounded and aching heart into a sultan, a Sanjar.
“Oh helpless men! Oh helpless men! Relief has come! Relief has come! I turn everyone with a wounded and aching heart into a sultan, a Sanjar.
Oh elixir! Oh elixir! Look at me, for I transmute a hundred monasteries into mosques, a hundred gallows into pulpits!
Oh unbelievers! Oh unbelievers! I unfasten your locks! For I am the absolute ruler: I make some people believers, others unbelievers!
Oh sir! Oh sir! You are wax in my hands! If you become a sword, I will make you a cup; if you become a cup, I will make you into a sword.
You were a sperm-drop and became blood, then you gained this harmonious formcome to me, oh son of Adam! I will make you even more beautiful.
I turn grief into joy and guide the lost, I make the wolf into Joseph and poison into sugar!
Oh sakis! Oh sakis! I have opened my mouth in order to marry every dry lip to the lip of the cup!
Oh rosegarden! Oh rosegarden! Borrow roses from my rosery! Then I will place your sweet herbs next to the lotus. Oh heaven! Oh heaven! You will become even more bewildered than the narcissus when I make dust into ambergris, thorns into jasmine.
“Oh Universal Intellect! Oh Universal Intellect! Whatever you say is true. You are the ruler, you are munificentlet me stop my speaking.”
Translation From: William Chittick’s Sufi Path of Love
Original:
ای عاشقان ای عاشقان من خاک را گوهر کنم
وی مطربان ای مطربان دف شما پرزر کنم
ای تشنگان ای تشنگان امروز سقایی کنم
وین خاکدان خشک را جنت کنم کوثر کنم
ای بی‌کسان ای بی‌کسان جاء الفرج جاء الفرج
هر خسته غمدیده را سلطان کنم سنجر کنم
ای کیمیا ای کیمیا در من نگر زیرا که من
صد دیر را مسجد کنم صد دار را منبر کنم
ای کافران ای کافران قفل شما را وا کنم
زیرا که مطلق حاکمم مؤمن کنم کافر کنم
ای بوالعلا ای بوالعلا مومی تو اندر کف ما
خنجر شوی ساغر کنم ساغر شوی خنجر کنم
تو نطفه بودی خون شدی وانگه چنین موزون شدی
سوی من آ ای آدمی تا زینت نیکوتر کنم
من غصه را شادی کنم گمراه را هادی کنم
من گرگ را یوسف کنم من زهر را شکر کنم
ای سردهان ای سردهان بگشاده‌ام زان سر دهان
تا هر دهان خشک را جفت لب ساغر کنم
ای گلستان ای گلستان از گلستانم گل ستان
آن دم که ریحان‌هات را من جفت نیلوفر کنم
ای آسمان ای آسمان حیرانتر از نرگس شوی
چون خاک را عنبر کنم چون خار را عبهر کنم
ای عقل کل ای عقل کل تو هر چه گفتی صادقی
حاکم تویی حاتم تویی من گفت و گو کمتر کن
Another one not found in the books,
“I am found”
Translation:
O Lovers, O Lovers, I am found, I am found!
From the face of that love I myself became enflamed with love, enflamed with love
The beloved says go and be disgraced in our love
I will be ashamed of asceticism, I will be disgraced, disgraced
My friend, if it becomes scary, I will put a belt around my waist
In infidelity, if I am sincere, I will be half-afraid, afraid
From the water of mercy, drops fall on me until I leave
How long will I be like that? I became the sea, the sea
The Saqi gives such wine, that from its dregs I am afflicted with pain
The taverns have all become wine, I’ve become wine
I am lost because for a while like a particle in his sun
Each particle of me became the sun, I am found, I am found.
Original:
ای عاشقان ای عاشقان پیدا شوم پیدا شوم
بر روی آن مهروی خود شیدا شوم شیدا شوم
معشوقه گر گوید برو در عشق ما رسوا شوی
من زهد را یکسو نهم رسوا شوم رسوا شوم
یارم اگر ترسا شود زنار بندم بر میان
در کفر اگر صادق نیم ترسا شوم ترسا شوم
زان آب رحمت قطره یی بر من فشان تا وا رهم
تا کی صدف باشم چنین؟ دریا شوم دریا شوم
ای عاشقان ای عاشقان پیدا شوم پیدا شوم
بر روی آن مه روی خود شیدا شوم شیدا شوم
معشوقه گر گوید برو در عشق ما رسوا شوی
من زهد را یکسو نهم رسوا شوم رسوا شوم
ساقی چنین می میدهد زان دُرد درد آلوده ام
میخانه ها را سر بسر صهبا شوم صهبا شوم
شد مدتی گم گشته ام چون ذره در خورشید او
هر ذره ام خورشید شد پیدا شوم پیدا شوم
“We’ve fallen into a whirlpool”
Translation:
O Lovers, O Lovers, today we and you have fallen into a whirlpool—who knows how to swim?
Though the world’s torrent should overflow and every wave become like a dromedary, why shall the waterfowl worry? It is the bird of the air that should be anxious.
Our faces are lighted up with gratitude, schooled as we are in wave and sea, inasmuch as ocean and flood are life-increasing to the fish.
Elder, hand us a towel; water, let us plunge into you; Moses son of ‘Imr ̄an, come, smite the water of the sea with your staff!
This wind concocts in every head a different passion; let my passion be for yonder cupbearer, and you may have all the rest!
Yesterday yon saki on the way snatched the caps of the drunkards; today he is giving yet more wine, preparing to strip us of our robes.
O envy of the Moon and of Jupiter, with us, yet hidden from sight like a peri, gently, gently you are drawing me on—will you not say whither?
Wherever you go, you are with me still, you who are my eyes and my brightness; if you will, draw me to drunkenness, if you will, transport me to annihilation.
Know that the world is like Mount Sinai, and we like Moses
are seekers; every moment an epiphany arrives and cleaves the mountain asunder.
One portion becomes green, one portion becomes narcissus- white; one portion becomes a pearl, one portion ruby and amber.
You who seek to behold Him, gaze upon this mountain chain of His. O mountain, what wind has blown upon you? We have become intoxicated with the echo.
O gardener, gardener, why have you come to grapple with us? If we have carried off your grapes, you have carried off our purse!
Translation from: Arberry, Mystical Poems of Rumi
Original:
ای عاشقان ای عاشقان امروز ماییم وشما
افتاده در غرقابه‌ای تا خود که داند آشنا
گر سیل عالم پر شود هر موج چون اشتر شود
مرغان آبی را چه غم تا غم خورد مرغ هوا
ما رخ ز شکر افروخته با موج و بحر آموخته
زان سان که ماهی را بود دریا و طوفان جان فزا
ای شیخ ما را فوطه ده وی آب ما را غوطه ده
ای موسی عمران بیا بر آب دریا زن عصا
این باد اندر هر سری سودای دیگر می‌پزد
سودای آن ساقی مرا باقی همه آن شما
دیروز مستان را به ره بربود آن ساقی کله
امروز می در میدهد تا برکند از ما قبا
ای رشک ماه و مشتری با ما و پنهان چون پری
خوش خوش کشانم می‌بری آخر نگویی تا کجا
هر جا روی تو با منی ای هر دو چشم و روشنی
خواهی سوی مستیم کش خواهی ببر سوی فنا
عالم چو کوه طور دان ما همچو موسی طالبان
هر دم تجلی می‌رسد برمی‌شکافد کوه را
یک پاره اخضر می‌شود یک پاره عبهر می‌شود
یک پاره گوهر می‌شود یک پاره لعل و کهربا
ای طالب دیدار او بنگر در این کهسار او
ای کُه چه باد خورده‌ای ما مست گشتیم از صدا
ای باغبان ای باغبان در ما چه درپیچیده‌ای
گر برده‌ایم انگور تو تو برده‌ای انبان ما
“Whoever sees his face”
Translation:
Lovers, lovers, whoever sees His face, his reason becomes distraught, his habit confounded.
He becomes a seeker of the Beloved, his shop is ruined, he runs headlong like water in his river.
He becomes in love like Majnun, head spinning like the sky; whoever is sick like this, his remedy is unobtainable.
The angels prostrate before him who became God’s dust, the Turk of heaven becomes the servant of him who has become His Hindu [slave].
His love places the aching heart on his hand and smells it; how did not that rejoice which has become His.
Many a breast He has wounded, many a sleep He has barred; that magical glance of His has bound the hand of the magicians.
Kings are all His beggars, beauties clippings of His [beauty], lions drop their tail on the earth before His street-dogs.
Glance once at heaven, at the fortress of the spiritual ones, so many lamps and torches on His towers and battlements.
The keeper of His fortress is Universal Reason, that king without drum and tabor; he alone climbs that fortress who no longer possesses his own ownness.
Moon, have you seen His face and stolen beauty from Him? Night, have you seen His hair? No, no, not one hair of Him.
This night wears black as a sign of mourning, like a black- robed widow whose husband has gone into the earth.
Night makes a pretense and imposture; secretly it makes merry, its eye closes no eye, its brow is set awry.
Night, I do not believe this lamenting of yours; you are running like a ball before the mallet of fate.
He who is struck by His mallet carries the ball of happiness, he runs headlong like the heart about His street.
Our cheeks are like saffron through love of His tulip bed, our heart is sunk like a comb in His hair.
Where is love’s back? Love is all face, back and face belong to this side, His side is only face.
He is free of form, His business is all form-fashioning. O heart, you will never transcend form because you are not single with Him.
The heart of every pure man knows the voice of the heart from the voice of clay; this is the roaring of a lion in the form of His deer.
What is woven by the hand of the One becomes revealed, becomes revealed from the workmanship of the weaver and his hand and shuttle.
O souls His shuttle, O our qibla His street, heaven is the sweeper of this street, this earth its mistress.
My heart is burning with envy for Him, my eyes have be- come His water bags: how should He be wet with tears, while the sea is up to His knees?
This love has become my guest, struck a blow against my soul; a hundred compassions and a hundred blessings to his hand and arm!
I flung away hand and foot and had done with searching; my searching is dead before His searching.
Often I said, “O heart, be silent to this heart’s passion”; my ha is useless when my heart hears His hu.
Translation from Arberry, Mystical Poems of Rumi
Original:
ای عاشقان ای عاشقان آن کس که بیند روی او
شوریده گردد عقل او آشفته گردد خوی او
معشوق را جویان شود دکان او ویران شود
بر رو و سر پویان شود چون آب اندر جوی او
در عشق چون مجنون شود سرگشته چون گردون شود
آن کو چنین رنجور شد نایافت شد داروی او
جان ملک سجده کند آن را که حق را خاک شد
ترک فلک چاکر شود آن را که شد هندوی او
عشقش دل پردرد را بر کف نهد بو می‌کند
چون خوش نباشد آن دلی کو گشت دستنبوی او
بس سینه‌ها را خست او بس خواب‌ها را بست او
بسته‌ست دست جادوان آن غمزه جادوی او
شاهان همه مسکین او خوبان قراضه چین او
شیران زده دم بر زمین پیش سگان کوی او
بنگر یکی بر آسمان بر قلعه روحانیان
چندین چراغ و مشعله بر برج و بر باروی او
شد قلعه دارش عقل کل آن شاه بی‌طبل و دهل
بر قلعه آن کس بررود کو را نماند اوی او
ای ماه رویش دیده‌ای خوبی از او دزدیده‌ای
ای شب تو زلفش دیده‌ای نی نی و نی یک موی او
این شب سیه پوش است از آن کز تعزیه دارد نشان
چون بیوه‌ای جامه سیه در خاک رفته شوی او
شب فعل و دستان می‌کند او عیش پنهان می‌کند
نی چشم بندد چشم او کژ می‌نهد ابروی او
ای شب من این نوحه گری از تو ندارم باوری
چون پیش چوگان قدر هستی دوان چون گوی او
آن کس که این چوگان خورد گوی سعادت او برد
بی‌پا و بی‌سر می‌دود چون دل به گرد کوی او
ای روی ما چون زعفران از عشق لاله ستان او
ای دل فرورفته به سر چون شانه در گیسوی او
مر عشق را خود پشت کو سر تا به سر روی است او
این پشت و رو این سو بود جز رو نباشد سوی او
او هست از صورت بری کارش همه صورتگری
ای دل ز صورت نگذری زیرا نه‌ای یک توی او
داند دل هر پاک دل آواز دل ز آواز گل
غریدن شیر است این در صورت آهوی او
بافیده ی دست احد پیدا بود پیدا بود
از صنعت جولاهه‌ای وز دست وز ماکوی او
ای جان ما ماکوی او ، وی قبله ی ما کوی او
فراش این کو آسمان وین خاک کدبانوی او
سوزان دلم از رشک او گشته دو چشمم مشک او
کی ز آب چشم او تر شود ای بحر تا زانوی او
این عشق شد مهمان من زخمی بزد بر جان من
صد رحمت و صد آفرین بر دست و بر بازوی او
من دست و پا انداختم وز جست و جو پرداختم
ای مرده جست و جوی من در پیش جست و جوی او
من چند گفتم های دل خاموش از این سودای دل
سودش ندارد های من چون بشنود دل هوی او
“Enjoy every moment of life”
Original:
عیش‌هاتان نوش بادا هر زمان ای عاشقان
وز شما كان شكر باد این جهان ای عاشقان
نوش و جوش عاشقان تا عرش و تا كرسی رسید
برگذشت از عرش و فرش این كاروان ای عاشقان
از لب دریا چه گویم لب ندارد بحر جان
برفزوده‌ست از مكان و لامكان ای عاشقان
ما مثال موج‌ها اندر قیام و در سجود
تا بدید آید نشان از بی‌نشان ای عاشقان
گر كسی پرسد كیانید ای سراندازان شما
هین بگوییدش كه جان جان جان ای عاشقان
گر كسی غواص نبود بحر جان بخشنده است
كو همی‌بخشد گهرها رایگان ای عاشقان
این چنین شد وان چنان شد خلق را در حقه كرد
بازرستیم از چنین و از چنان ای عاشقان
ما رمیت اذ رمیت از شكارستان غیب
می جهاند تیرهای بی‌كمان ای عاشقان
چون ز جست و جوی دل نومید گشتم آمدم
خفته دیدم دل ستان با دلستان ای عاشقان
گفتم ای دل خوش گزیدی دل بخندید و بگفت
گل ستاند گل ستان از گلستان ای عاشقان
زیر پای من گل است و زیر پاهاشان گل است
چون بكوبم پا میان منكران ای عاشقان
خرما آن دم كه از مستی جانان جان ما
می نداند آسمان از ریسمان ای عاشقان
طرفه دریایی معلق آمد این دریای عشق
نی به زیر و نی به بالا نی میان ای عاشقان
تا بدید آمد شعاع شمس تبریزی ز شرق
جان مطلق شد زمین و آسمان ای عاشقان
And this poem by Amir Hushang Ebtahaj that begins in the same way:
Original:
ای عاشقان، ای عاشقان پیمانه ها پر خون کنید
وز خون دل چون لاله ها رخساره ها گلگون کنید
آمد یکی آتش سوار، بیرون جهید از این حصار
تا بردمد خورشید نو شب را ز خود بیرون کنید
آن یوسف چون ماه را از چاه غم بیرون کشید
در کلبه ی احزان چرا این ناله ی محزون کنید
از چشم ما آیینه ای در پیش آن مه رو نهید
آن فتنه ی فتانه را برخویشتن مفتون کنید
دیوانه چون طغیان کند زنجیر و زندان بشکند
او زلف لیلی حلقه ای در گردن مجنون کنید
دیدم به خواب نیمه شب خورشید و مه را لب به لب
تعبیر این خواب عجب، ای صبح خیزران، چون کنید؟
نوری برای دوستان، دودی به چشم دشمنان
من دل بر آتش می نهم، این هیمه را افزون کنید
زین تخت و تاج سرنگون تا کی رود سیلاب خون؟
این تخت را ویران کنید، این تاج را وارون کنید
چندین که از خم در سبو خون دل ما می رود
ای شاهدان بزم کین پیمانه ها پرخون کنید
Where’s the good news of union that from this life I rise?
I am a holy bird, from this world’s net I arise
And I swear by your love, that if you call me your slave
that up from the world’s sovereignty and rank I will arise
O Lord, from the cloud of your guidance, let rain fall
Before the time when, from the midst, dust-like I will arise
Sit beside my grave with a musician and with wine
So that with your scent dancing from the tomb I will arise
Rise and show your stature, O idol of sweet moves
So that from this life and world, dancing I arise
Although I’m old, hold me tight in your arms for one night
So that at morning light, young, from your embrace I’ll arise
On the day of my death, take a break to visit me
So that Hafez, from this life and this world, will arise
Original:
مژده وصل تو کو کز سر جان برخیزم
طایر قدسم و از دام جهان برخیزم
به ولای تو که گر بنده خویشم خوانی
از سر خواجگی کون و مکان برخیزم
یا رب از ابر هدایت برسان بارانی
پیشتر زان که چو گردی ز میان برخیزم
بر سر تربت من با می و مطرب بنشین
تا به بویت ز لحد رقص کنان برخیزم
خیز و بالا بنما ای بت شیرین حرکات
کز سر جان و جهان دست فشان برخیزم
گر چه پیرم تو شبی تنگ در آغوشم کش
تا سحرگه ز کنار تو جوان برخیزم
روز مرگم نفسی مهلت دیدار بده
تا چو حافظ ز سر جان و جهان برخیزم
Moriya Sen’an
Translation:
Bury me when I die beneath a wine barrel in a tavern. With luck, the cask will leak.
Original:
我死なば
酒屋の瓶の下にいけよ
もしや雫の
もりやせんなん
Ware shinaba sakaya no kame no shita ni ikeyo moshi ya shizuku no mori ya sen nan
(note the pun on the poet’s name “Moriya Sen’an” and the last line:
“with luck the cask will leak”—”mori ya sen nan”)
Hafez
Translation:
One whose heart has been revived by love can never die
Our everlastingness is engraved upon the cosmic scroll
Original:
هرگز نمیرد آن که دلش زنده شد به عشق ثبت است بر جریده عالم دوام ما
Translation:
When I am dead, open my grave and see
The cloud of smoke that rises round thy feet:
In my dead heart the fire still burns for thee;
Yea, the smoke rises from my winding-sheet!
Original:
بگشای تربتم را بعد از وفات و بنگر
کز آتش درونم دود از کفن برآید
Translation: Gertrude Bell
Me
Lips scalded by love’s tongues of flame
Can never taste death’s bitter pain
Emily Dickinson
Unable are the Loved to die
For Love is Immortality
Nay, it is Deity—
Unable they that love—to die
For Love reforms Vitality
Into Divinity
Macedonio Fernández-Creíyo Yo
Translation:
Love’s reach does not to everything extend, for
it cannot shake or break the stab of Death.
Yet little can Death take
if in a loving heart the fear of it subsides.
Nor can Death much take at all, for it cannot
drive its fear into the heart where Love resides.
That if Death rule over Life, Love over Death.
Original:
No a todo alcanza Amor, pues que no puede
romper el gajo con que Muerte toca.
Mas poco Muerte logra
si en corazón de Amor su miedo muere.
Mas poco Muerte logra, pues no puede
entrar su miedo en pecho donde Amor.
Que Muerte rige a Vida; Amor a Muerte.
If thou commit me to the grave, say not “Farewell, farewell”
For the grave is a curtain hiding the communion of paradise
After beholding descent, consider resurrection
Why should setting be injurious to the sun and moon?
To thee it seems a setting, but ’tis a rising’
Tho’ the vault seems a prison, ’tis the release of a soul
What seed went down into the earth but it grew?
Why this doubt of thine as regards the seed of man?
What bucket was lowered but it came out brimful?
Why should the Joseph of the Spirit complain of the well?
Shut thy mouth on this side, and open it beyond
For in placeless air will by thy triumphal song.
(From R.A. Nicholson, Selected Poems form the Divani Shamsi Tabriz, p. 94-96)
Original:
به روز مرگ چو تابوت من روان باشد
گمان مبر که مرا درد این جهان باشد
برای من مگری و مگو دریغ دریغ
به دوغ دیو درافتی دریغ آن باشد
جنازه‌ام چو ببینی مگو فراق فراق
مرا وصال و ملاقات آن زمان باشد
مرا به گور سپاری مگو وداع وداع
که گور پرده جمعیت جنان باشد
فروشدن چو بدیدی برآمدن بنگر
غروب شمس و قمر را چرا زبان باشد
تو را غروب نماید ولی شروق بود
لحد چو حبس نماید خلاص جان باشد
کدام دانه فرورفت در زمین که نرست
چرا به دانه انسانت این گمان باشد
کدام دلو فرورفت و پر برون نامد
ز چاه یوسف جان را چرا فغان باشد
دهان چو بستی از این سوی آن طرف بگشا
که های هوی تو در جو لامکان باشد
Clare Harner
Do not stand By my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night. Do not stand By my grave, and cry— I am not there, I did not die.
Say unto brethren when they see me dead,
And weep for me, lamenting me in sadness:
“Think ye I am this corpse ye are to bury?
I swear by God, this dead one is not I.
I in the Spirit am, and this my body
My dwelling was, my garment for a time.
I am a treasure: hidden I was beneath
This talisman of dust, wherein I suffered.
I am a pearl; a shell imprisoned me,
But leaving it, all trials I have left.
I am a bird, and this was once my cage;
But I have flown, leaving it as a token.
I praise God who hath set me free,
and made For me a dwelling in the heavenly heights.
Ere now I was a dead man in your midst,
But I have come to life, and doffed my shroud.”
(Translation by Martin Lings)
Original:
قل لإخوان رأوني ميتا فبكوني ورثوني حزنا
أتظنون بأني ميتكم ليس هذا الميت والله أنا
أنا في الصور وهذا جسدي كان لباسي وقميصي زمنا
أنا در قد حواني صدف طرت عنه وبقى مرتهنا
أنا عصفور وهذا قفصي كان سجني فتركت السجنا
أشكر الله الذي خلصني وبنا لي في المعالي وطنا
كنت قبل اليوم ميتا بينكم فحييت وخلعت الكفنا
Zheng Ting
Translation:
Illusion appears, illusion ceases The biggest illusion among all is our body Once a pacified heart finds its place There’s no such body to look for
Original:
幻生還幻滅
大幻莫過身
安心自有處
求人無有人
John Donne-“Death, Be Not Proud”
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
The Iwan of Chosroes in Iraq is the only visible structure remaining of the Sassanid capital of Ctesphion (Madā’in in Arabic), about 35 km south of present-day Baghdad. Its Iwan, or arch, the largest vault of unreinforced brickwork in the world, is considered an architectural marvel. Possibly constructed during the reign of Anushirwan (Chosroes I) c 540 AD, the ruins of this palace have served as inspiration for many poets, particularly due to Islamic legends that this Iwan cracked upon the birth of the Prophet Muhammad, signaling the emergence of Islam as a new empire and civilization that would replace that of the Sassanids.
Below are three of the most famous poems inspired by these ruins. The first, written by the Senegalese Sufi shaykh, Ibrahim Niasse, upon his visit to the site in 1960, references many of the miraculous legends surrounding the Prophet’s birth and life; it is a celebration of the coming of the spiritual reality of the Prophet Muhammad into the world, eclipsing all other temporal power, and representing the miraculous, but inevitable triumph of truth, justice and spiritual authority over seemingly invincible political authority and power. The second, by the Persian poet al-Khaqānī, inspired by his visit to the site on his way back from ḥajj, is one of the most-celebrated Persian qasidas and takes the ruins as a moralizing reminder of the transience of power, wealth and glory, and the inevitable march of time which tramples all underfoot. The third, and oldest of these poems is by the ‘Abbasid court poet al-Buḥturī, and is a complex and vibrant celebration of the glory of the Sassanid kings, an appropriation and alliance of their civilization and time with that of the poet, and a textured reflection on memory, time, decay, and renewal. Whereas al-Buḥturī’s poem is largely celebratory of the memory of bygone glory and nobility, Khāqāni’s verse emphasizes its transience and evanescence, and the moral renewal such contemplation can provoke (as described in Qur’an 3:137, 6:6, 30:9, 40:21, 40:82, 44:25 etc.), and Niasse’s shorter, more straightforward and repetitive poem takes the ruins as a reminder of the glory of the spiritual reality of the Prophet and the once, future, and always victory of the truth over earthly power. All three poems are filled with literary allusions, creative and evocative imagery, literary devices, and profound musicality, as you can hear in the recordings below.
Ibrahim Niasse (d. 1975)
Translation:
Was it Chosroes’ Iwan that was crushed, heralding
The emergence of the Prophet and Chosroes’ evanescence?
O Chosroes Anushirvan, when Muhammad came with
His greatest signs, was it your castle that he saw?[1]
O Chosroes Anushirvan, when Muhammad came
Did the rivers run dry? Or did they gush forth?
O Chosroes Anushirvan, when Muhammad came
Did not the Magi come to you extolling him?
O Chosroes Anushirvan, did not Muhammad come
Reciting, reminding, warning and giving glad tidings?
While the idols had prostrated to God, speaking [of his coming]
And the soothsayers had told of what was hidden?
Greetings of peace to the light of God that
Overshadowed, by his lights, the lights of Chosroes and Caesar
Greetings of peace to he who brought, while he was in Mecca
A light by which Chosroes’ Iwan was cracked
Greetings of peace to being’s secret and its mystery
For God’s alone is what is more exalted, and precious, and dazzling
Greetings of peace to he who came, while existence, all of it
Was darkness, and from his lights it was illumined
Greetings of peace to him from a lovelorn servant
In Baghdad, exhausted from having spent the night in sleepless contemplation
So he who razed this castle while he was a child in Mecca
did not leave behind any appearance of that infidelity
So he who razed this castle while he was in Mecca
He will demolish the castles of infidelity whenever he is remembered
Upon him be the blessings of God and then His peace too
For I see that the lot of Muslims is abundant fortune
Upon him be the blessings of God and then His peace too
And the share of the enemies of religion is a scourge of destruction
[1] An allusion to a miracle of the Prophet at the Battle of the Trench: when attempting to split a rock while digging a trench to protect the Medinan community, the Prophet’s three blows produced three flashes of light by which he reported that he saw three landmarks: the palace of Chosroes, the castles of the Yemen and those of Syria, each representing an opening of a direction for the spread of Islam (East, South, and North/West).
Original:
أإيوان كسرى هل دهاك وأنذرا بروز نيبيّي إنّ كسرى تقهقرا
أكسرى أنوشروان جاء محمّد بآياته الكبرى وقصرك أبصرا
أكسرى أنوشروان جاء محمّد وهل قطع الأنهار أم هل تفجّرا
أكسرى أنوشروان جاء محمّد وهل قد أتاك الموبذان مكبّرا
أكسرى أنوشروان جاء محمّد يرتِّل ذكراً منذراً ومبشّرا
وقد سجد المعبود لله ناطقاً وقد أبنأ الكهان ما كان مضمرا
سلام على نور الإله الذي خبت بأنواره أنوار كسرى وقيصرا
سلام على من جاءوهو بمكّةٍ بنورٍ به إيوان كسرى تكسّرا
سلام على سرّ الوجود ورمزه فللّه ما أعلى وأغلى وأبهارا
سلام على من جاء والكون كلّه ظلام ومن أنواره قد تنوّرا
سلام عليه من خديمٍ متيّمٍ بببداد وهناً لا ينام تفكّرا
فمن هدّ هذا القصر وهو بمكّةٍ وليداً فلا يبقي لذا الكفر مظهرا
ومن هدّ هذا القصر وهوبمكةٍ سيهدم قصر الكفر حين تذكّرا
عليه صلاة الله ثمّ سلامه وأبصر حظّ المسلمين موفّرا
عليه صلاة الله ثمّ سلامه يلقى عدوّ الدّين سوطاً مدمّرا
al-Khَāqānī (d. 1199)
Translation:
(By Julie Meisami, from Qasida Poetry in Islamic Africa and Asia: Eulogy’s Bounty, Stefan Sperl and Christopher Shackle, eds. (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 163-169.
Awake!, O heart that sees portents, reflect on what you see,
Awake! Consider Madaʾin’s great arch as admonition’s mirror.
Leaving the banks of the Tigris, alight at Madaʾin,
on its ground let spill from your eyes, another Tigris
The very Tigris weeps a hundred Tigrises of blood; you’d say
Heat makes its bloody torrent pour fire from its lashes
Consider how the Tigris’ lips have caused its mouth to foam;
You’d say its fevered sighs of pain have caused its lips to blister
Consider how the fire of grief is grilling Tigris’ liver;
Have you ever heard of water that was roasted by a fire?
Again and again weep over the Tigris; give it alms from your eyes,
Even though the Tigris itself bestows its alms on the seashore.
Should the Tigris mingle its lips’ cold sighs with the burning of its heart,
Half of it would freeze over, half become a fiery grate
When the Aivan’s chain of justice broke apart in Madā’in,
The maddened Tigris was enchained, its waves twisted like chains
Now and again, in the tongue of tears, call out to the Aivan
In the hope that with your heart’s ear you will hear an answer from it.
Each palace battlement will give you counsel again and again;
Heed the advice of the battlement’s head from the bottom of your heart.
It says: ‘You are of earth and we are now your earth; so take
Two or three steps upon us; scatter two or three tears as well.
‘Truly the owl’s lamenting wail has caused our heads to ache.
‘Pour rosewater from your eyes to ease our headache and grief.
Indeed why should you marvel so? For in the world’s pleasance
‘The owl follows the nightingale; laments follow sweet songs.’
‘We are the court of justice, yet have suffered this injustice.
‘Say, what reversal will befall the castles of the unjust!’
‘You’d say this Aivan, lofty as the sky, had been overturned by command
Of the turning of the sky itself, or of Him who turns the sky.
You laugh at my eyes, as if to say, ‘What does he weep for here?’
But in this place they weep at those eyes that are not moved to tears
The white-haired crone of Madā’in is no less than Kufa’s old woman
The narrow chamber of the one is not less than the other’s oven
Do you know then what you must do? Make Madā’in equal Kufa
Make your breast a fiery oven; seek the flood from your eyes.
This is that very Aivan where, from the impress of men’s faces,
The dirt of its threshold was transformed to an idol-temple’s wall
This is that very court wherein, of the rulers of the world
Babylon’s king was a Daylami, Turkestan’s king, and Indian
This is that very portico whose grandeur was so awesome
That the lion of its hangings assaulted Lion’s heaven
Imagine it is that very age, and look, with reflection’s eye
On the chain before the court, the splendid assembly in the field
Dismount from your horse, and place your face upon the mat of earth and see
How great Nu’man is checkmated beneath its elephants’ feet
Nay, nay: see, like Nu’man, those elephant-felling kings themselves
Slain by the elephants Night and Day in the winding turns of time
How many an elephant-slaying king has been slain with a king-elephant
By the chess-player of his destiny, mated, deprived of hope.
The earth is drunk, for it has drunken deep–instead of wine—
From the cup of Hurmuz’s skull, the heart’s blood of Anushirvan
So many words of counsel then showed plainly in his crown
That now a hundred fledgling kites are hidden in his brains.
Kisrā and his golden citron, Parviz and his golden quince
Were swiftly carried off the wind, became as one with the earth
Parviz at every feast would scatter herbs of gold; transform
his golden carpet into a garden sprouting golden herbs
Parviz has vanished now; speak less of that vanished one.
where now is his feast, his golden herbs? Go and recite ‘How many…’
You ask, ‘Where have they gone, those crowned heads?’ Behold!
The belly of the earth swells pregnant with them ever more.
The pregnant earth takes long in giving birth. Indeed,
The task of giving birth is difficult, though impregnation’s easy.
It is the blood in Shirin’s heart, that wine the vine gives forth;
It is Parviz’s clay that forms the jar its grower offers
How many tyrants’ bodies have been swallowed by the earth?
No matter, she of greedy eyes is still not sated by them.
She mixes rouge to paint her face from the blood of children’s hearts,
This aged crone with whitened brows, this mother with black dugs
Khāqānī: like a beggar, seek admonition from this court,
That at your door, hereafter, the Khāqān [regal] will seek charity.
If today a traveller seeks provision from the sultan,
Tomorrow at the traveller’s door the sultan will seek provision.
If gifts from every town provision Mecca’s road,
Then you take Madā’in’s provision as a gift for Sharvan’s sake
Everyone takes from Mecca prayer-beads of Hamza’s clay
Then you take from Madā’in prayer-beads from the clay of Salman.
Look on this sea of insight, don’t pass by without a drink;
One cannot leave the shore of such a sea with thirsting lips.
When friends return from journeying, they bring with them a gift.
This bit of poetry is a gift brought for the hearts of friends.
Observe then in this poem what magic he displays,
The dead man with a Christlike heart, the madman with a wise soul.
(by Samer Ali from Reinterpreting al-Buḥturī’s “Īwān Kisrā Ode”: Tears of Affection for the Cycles of History, Journal of Arabic Literature , 2006, Vol. 37, No. 1 (2006), pp. 65-67)
I saved myself from what defiles my self
and rose above the largess of every craven coward.
I endured when Time shook me,
seeking misery and reversal for me.
Mere subsistence from the dregs of life have I.
Days have rationed it inadequately.
Stark is the difference between him who drinks at will twice a day
and him who drinks every fourth day.
As if Time’s inclinations are predicated on the vilest of the vile.
My purchase of Iraq was a swindler’s ploy,
after my sale of Syria, a trickster’s sale.
Do not test me endlessly about my knowledge
of these ordeals to deny my misfortunes.
You once knew me as a man of qualities,
disdaining petty matters, undaunted.
But the scorn of my cousin,
after heartfelt kindness and amity, disturbs me.
When I am scorned, I am likely
to be seen rising not where I spent the night.
Sorrows attend my saddle. I direct
my stout she-camel to Mada’in [Ctesiphon].
I console myself for such luck
and find solace in a site for the Sasanians, ruined.
Perpetual misfortune reminds me of them;
misfortune makes one remember and forget.
They live the good life, shaded by guarded peaks,
which tire and baffle the gaze.
Its gates, on Qabq Mountain, are secure, extending to the uplands of Khilat and Muks.
The abodes are unlike the ruins of Su’da,
in a wasteland, bare and plantless.
Heroic feats-were it not for my partiality-the
feats of ‘Ans and ‘Abs would not surpass them.
Time despoiled their era of vitality. It
devolved to worn-out rags.
As if the Arched Hall, for lack of humanity, and sheer abandonment,
is a grave’s edifice.
If you saw it, you would know that the nights
are holding a funeral in it after a wedding.
It would inform you of a troop’s marvels,
their record does not gray with obscurity.
When you see a panel of the Battle at Antioch,
you tremble among Byzantines and Persians.
The Fates stand still, while Anushirvan
leads the ranks onward under the banner
In a deep green robe over yellow.
It appears dyed in saffron.
Men in combat are under his command.
Some are quiet and hushed.
Some are intense, rushing forward with spear-points.
Others are cautious of them, using shields.
The eye depicts them very much alive:
they have between them speechless signs.
My wonder about them boils till
my hand explores them with a touch.
Abu al-Ghawth [poet’s son] had poured me a drink without stinting,
for the two armies, a draft
of wine. You would think it a star
lighting the night or sun’s luscious kiss.
You see, when it renews joy and
contentment for the drinker, one sip after the other,
That it was poured into glasses-into every heart.
It is beloved to every soul.
I fancied Kisra Aparviz handing me
a drink and al-Balahbadh [king’s minstrel] my companion.
A dream that closes my eye to doubt?
Or desire that alters my fancy and guesses?
As if the Arched Hall, by its wondrous craftsmanship,
were hollowed in the cliff of a mountain side.
It would be thought, from its sadness-
to the eyes of morning and evening visitors-
Distraught like a man torn from the company of loved ones,
or distressed by the breaking of nuptials.
Nights have reversed its luck. There, Jupiter
whiled the night but as a star of misfortune.
It shows hardiness, but the cruel weight of Time
is fixed upon it.
It’s no stigma that it was ravished of
silken carpets, stripped of damask drapes.
Towering, its ramparts rise high,
It looms over the summits of Ridwd and Quds.
Donning white clouds, you do not
glimpse of them but cotton tunics.
It is not quite known: Is it the work of humans for jinn
to live in or the work of jinn for humans?
Yet, as I gaze upon it, it attests
its builder is among kings not the least a cipher.
As though I see generals and troops,
as far as the eye can see.
As though foreign embassies suffer in the sun.
They are dismayed standing behind crowds, kept waiting.
As though minstrels in the Hall’s center
croon lyrics between plum-like lips.
As though the gathering were the day before yesterday
and the hurry of departure just yesterday.
As though the seeker of their trail could hope
to catch up with them the morning of the fifth day.
It was built up for joy forever, but
their domain is for condolence and consolation now.
