Poetryشعر

A nightingale held in its beak a rose petal of lovely colour,

and with that petal and its song it made sweet, piteous laments.

A star shone out and became the moon of the gathering,

became friend and companion to our startled heart.

At dawn the nightingale told its tale to the east wind:

"See what love for the rose's face has done to us!"

Last night, at dawn, they set me free from sorrow,

and in that darkness of night they gave me the water of life.

I want a bitter wine whose strength can throw a man,

so that for one moment I may rest from the world, its evil and its uproar.

O east wind, tell that graceful gazelle, gently,

that it is you who sent us out to the mountains and the desert.

Come, Sufi, for the cup has become a clear mirror,

so that you may see the clarity of the ruby-coloured wine.

Come, let us scatter roses and pour wine into the cup;

let us split the roof of heaven and lay down a new design.

Come, for the palace of hope has a very weak foundation;

bring wine, for the foundation of life is on the wind.

Curls dishevelled, flushed with sweat, lips laughing and drunk,

shirt torn open, singing a ghazal, a flask of wine in hand,

Do not find fault with the rends, O ascetic of pure nature,

for the sins of others will not be written against you.

I died as a mineral and became a plant;

I died as a plant and rose to the animal;

Good news, O heart: the east wind has come back again;

the hoopoe of glad tidings has returned from Sheba.

Every blade of grass that grows beside a stream

seems to have sprung from the lip of one with an angel’s nature;

Happy Shiraz, and its matchless setting!

O Lord, keep it from decline.

I said, "I grieve for you." Came the reply: "Your grief will end."

I said, "Be my moon." Came the reply: "If it should rise."

If that Turk of Shiraz takes my heart into her hand,

for her dark mole I would give away Samarkand and Bukhara.

In the name of the Lord who creates the soul,

the Wise One who creates speech upon the tongue;

In the name of the Lord of soul and wisdom,

beyond whom thought can rise no higher;

In pre-eternity the ray of Your beauty breathed forth in radiance;

love appeared, and set fire to the whole world.

Lost Joseph will come back to Canaan — do not grieve;

the hut of sorrows will one day be a rose garden — do not grieve.

The portico of my eye's gazing-place is your nest:

be gracious and come down, for this house is your house.

My heart is slipping from my hand; O you who have hearts, for God's sake!

Alas, the hidden secret will become plain.

In all the monastery of the magi there is none so frenzied as I:

my cloak in pawn for wine in one place, my book in another.

Now that in the rose's hand there is a cup of clear wine,

the nightingale with a hundred thousand tongues sings its praises.

O king of the fair, justice! against the grief of solitude:

without you my heart is at its last breath; it is time you came back.

The month of Ramadan has come, O friend with the face of the moon:

tie up the table-cloth and open the way that leads above.

Remember the day of union with the friends; remember;

remember those times; remember.

Saqi, kindle our cup with the light of wine;

minstrel, sing that the world's affairs have gone as we wished.

In the circle of our coming and our going

no beginning can be seen, and no end;

The cloud came and wept again upon the grass;

without rose-coloured wine one should not live.

An elephant was in a dark house;

some Hindus had brought it there to put on show.

Yesterday I saw a potter in the bazaar

stamping hard, again and again, on a lump of clay,

The valley of Seeking is the beginning of the work;

after it comes the valley of Love, which has no shore;

The sun of nearness shone out before them,

and from its radiance the soul of each was lit.

How long we shall not be, and the world will still be,

with no name of ours and no trace left behind.

For years my heart begged the cup of Jamshid from me,

and what it already held, it craved from strangers.

The breath of the east wind will scatter musk;

the old world will grow young once more.

The preachers who make this show in the mihrab and pulpit,

when they go into private, do that other thing.

This jug was once a wretched lover, as I am,

caught in the coils of a beloved’s curls;

We have not come to this door for pomp and rank;

we have come here for shelter from misfortune.

We looked to our friends for friendship;

what we supposed was itself mistaken.

Do you go wandering alone, or to the drunken ones?

Or do you go to the Beloved? Either way, you go with a graceful step.

Where is right conduct in affairs, and where am I, the ruined one?

See the distance of the road: from where to where!

Whoever keeps watch over the people of God,

God keeps him from misfortune in every state.

Your beauty, in concert with charm, took the world;

yes, in concert one can take the world.

Listen to this reed, how it complains,

telling the tale of separations:

Ah, O saqi, pass the cup around and hand it to me,

for love seemed easy at first, but then came the troubles.

The children of Adam are limbs of one body,

for in creation they are of one essence.

This caravan of life passes strangely by;

seize the breath that passes in delight.

Whoever has knowledge has power;

through knowledge an old heart grows young.