{"collection":"Islam","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/isl/spa/spa17.htm","path":"isl/spa/spa17.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/isl/spa/spa17.htm","text":"Selections from the Poetry of the Afghans, by H.G. Raverty, [1868]\nTo this degree is the heart affected by the love of Layl\u0101,\n That Majn\u016bn, for aye, uttereth the praises of Layl\u0101.\u00a0*\nHe repeated no other lesson whatever, in this world,\n Save that, on the black mole, and the ringlets of Layl\u0101.\nThis, unto him, is sleep, from pain and anguish free,\n That he be occupied, day and night, with thoughts of Layl\u0101.\nIf, by the sword of anguish, he to death's agonies be brought,\n He grieveth not, so that it be in the presence of Layl\u0101.\nLovers, that cry out, \"Layl\u0101! Layl\u0101!\" and mourn and bewail\u2014\n Kill the body, and make it immortal, by the name of Layl\u0101.\nHe desireth grief out of excessive woe, but findeth it not:\n The lover is ever happy, in grief and sorrow for Layl\u0101.\nThe whole of his love-pangs will, in a moment, disappear,\n When the long sought interview is brought about with Layl\u0101.\nDraw near, A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h! learn thou love from Majn\u016bn!\n For he is famous, in the world, for his love of Layl\u0101.\nLay thine hand very gently upon me, O physician!\n Behold my condition, and take pity upon me, my beloved!\nMy heart, for this reason, is wholly filled with anguish,\n That, thro\u2019 evil destiny, it beholdeth not its dear one near.\nShe is perfect and exquisite, in the excess of her beauty;\n Hence my heart, distracted and disordered, raveth for her.\nTho\u2019 the dear one, by her mouth, many favours conferreth;\n Still, every one receiveth the portion, by destiny decreed.\nNotwithstanding, when I make many supplications unto her,\n She saith unto me, \"Grieve not, poor soul! I am thine!\"\nBut next day, when I approach her, then, O my friend!\n She saith, \"Who is it I wherefore hath the rude fellow come?\"\nTho\u2019 I would tear her from my heart, yet it will not be;\n For she is, by nature, exceedingly generous, and noble withal.\nThe long sable locks hang her fair white face about\u2014\n She is gay and cheerful in disposition, and elegant in form.\nSince God hath given unto the heart-ravisher the rose's beauty,\n Wherefore should not the nightingale lover weep and bewail?\nO A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h! the parrot-like soul weepeth and is sad:\n It hath come again, O destiny! from the country of its love.\nMay God annihilate thee, thou fly of human nature!\n For no one mouth will have been left unpolluted by thy kiss!\nEvery wound, that may be thy place of alighting upon,\n Will for ever be afflicted with the irritation of thine eggs.\nThou deafenest the ears of the whole world, with thy din;\n Still thy mouth becometh not mute of its unpleasant buzz.\nThe whole world, through thee, hath into mere carrion turned;\n Yet sorrowfully, and in spite, wringest thou still thine hands.\u00a0*\nO thoughtless man! follow not the nature of the fly!\n These seeing eyes of thine from their ophthalmia cure!\nThou art the servant; then do thou the Almighty seek!\n Existence, without God, consider utterly valueless and vain!\nTake unto thee implicit faith; and scepticism's dark house,\n Thereby shalt thou whiten with the whiteness of its lime.\nLowliness and humility are the height of perfection for thee:\n The fiery nature of carnality, from pepper, take thou not!\nThine own original element thou wilt again obtain,\n When the neck of thy pride thou shalt from the yoke set free.\nSeize thou, O A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h! the good sword of courage;\n And the Hind\u016b temptations of the devil expel from thy breast!\nAlas! alas! for the dreadful, rolling rock of bereavement;\n That for aye committeth such ravages loving hearts upon!\nIt scattereth and separateth kind friends in all directions:\n O my God! let the night of separation be always brief!\nSince it thus, so ruthlessly, its arrows dischargeth,\n The abode of the lover only an empty cavern remaineth.\nFor his poor heart there will be no relief save weeping;\n He, like a widow sigheth, with raiment wet with tears.\nHis grief for the beloved rendeth the garment of reserve:\n The torrent of his tears furroweth the channels of his eyes.\nWherefore should not the afflicted heart weep flesh and blood,\n When the tears of bereavement form a lake therein?\nSince separation giveth not to the lover so much respite,\n The blood of his heart gusheth forth in streams from his eyes.\nHe will have no hope of finding relief in any direction:\n His very frame becometh a load of anguish to bear.\nIf woe shall afflict, and press upon thee, O A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h!\n In all sincerity and love, flee thou thy God unto?\nWould that the crows were not assembled in the nightingale's bower!\n That loving friends were ever assembled in the parterre of flowers!\nWhen the rose, without the presence of the beloved, may be looked upon,\n The eyesight will merely encounter a bed of thorns and brambles.\nThe garden bloometh in beauty from the face of the beloved;\n Then, without her, let not the heart unto the parterre incline!\nThose clouds which may not contain the water of beneficence,\n Forbid that such clouds should the face of the sky overcast!\nWhen the snaky curls fall all dishevelled round her face,\n Save mine own head, I see none other suitable penance to pay.\nSince the dark mole upon her cheek is destroyed thereby,\n Forbid that the rain of tears should ever her face suffuse!\nThe countenance of the beloved one is like unto the rose:\n Let not autumn affect it: be it ever fresh in the parterre!\nThe blast of autumn, that scattereth the leaves of the rose\u2014\n Would to heaven that blast into the flames could be cast!\nThe anguish of separation consumeth A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h's heart:\n O then once more unite him, the company of his friends unto!\nO heart-ravisher! there will be none other in the world like unto thee:\n Draw aside thy veil, or thy lover will of sorrow and grief expire!\nWith breast consumed by passion, I ever follow in search of thee;\n But thy abode is neither on earth, nor in the heavens to be found.\nI will wander throughout the world, as a Santon or a Darwesh;\n Or I will saturate my garments with the flood of my tears.\nO fragrant zephyr of the morn! news of her bring thou to me!\n Make thou my heart to smile the parterre of flowers within!\nWhen thus I weep and bewail, my object, in so doing, is this,\n That my heart may a nightingale be in the rose-bower of thy face.\nThe heart, at the depredations of thy beauty, lamenteth,\n Like as the nightingale's heart bewaileth when autumn arriveth.\nIn this world, the heart will not from spoliation be exempt;\n Thou consumest hearts\u2014a wondrous fire in thy nose jewel is.\nThe world's censures and reproaches he taketh not to heart:\n The lover standeth in the plain, and raiseth his voice on high.\nWith all her tyranny and injustice, I would not abandon love,\n Were I, A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h, with the powers of endurance prepared.\nAlas! alas! for sweet life, that passeth thus away!\n That, like unto a stream, floweth past, and is gone!\nWherefore, then, is the heart not aware of its departure,\n When life, alas! passeth thus so swiftly away?\nWhy, O my heart! hast thou thus from grief become?\n When existence, like the breeze, bloweth for ever away!\nTho\u2019 thou may\u2019st erect mansions, in all symmetry and grace,\n Filled with regret, alas! thou must leave them all behind!\u00a0*\nSorrow! sorrow! and for ever sorrow, O my heart!\n That loving friends from each other are severed so soon!\nThose dear ones are like unto spring's fragile flowers,\n That in autumn's heats, alas! wither and fade away!\nThis separation is as hell, and absence its heated stones,\u00a0*\n That fall, alas! the poor devoted lover's head upon.\nIt behoveth us here the world to renounce, for \u2019tis inconstant:\n Alas! it possesseth neither good nor advantage to carry away.\nHad meeting ne\u2019er taken place, separation we had not known:\n Alas! \u2019tis from meeting that the very heart's blood floweth.\nIf friendship be thy aim, with bereavement make friends;\n For, alas! it cometh upon thee from thine own hands\u2019 deeds.\nFriendship is like the rose; but its produce is the thorn:\n The thorn becometh sharp, and, alas! to the quick it pierceth.\nWhy grievest thou, A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h! for \u2019tis a period of joy?\n The drum of meeting soundeth: alas! union's hour is near.\nO would that there were not, in the world, the pangs of absence!\n That the heart in this ocean of separation were not o\u2019erwhelm'd!\nLet not the heart of the beloved be of love and constancy divested,\n Though the pains of bereavement may have the lover despoiled!\nWherefore may not the heart of the lover be lacerated,\n When every moment it is stricken by separation's sharp sword?\nAfflictions, like unto black snakes, twist and twine thereon,\n When the flood of bereavement goeth straight unto his heart.\nWhole bands from this world depart, one following the other;\n For the ocean of separation hath laid the whole universe waste.\nFrom this heat the very mountains will, like water, melt,\n Should the fiery glow of bereavement unto them attain.\nThe cypress-like in stature have been laid low, A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h!\n But let not thy body ever bend under absence's load.\nWhy weepest thou thus to-day again, O my heart?\n Thou sighest and complainest ever, O my heart!\nLike as the hart that loseth her fawn is distracted,\n So thou showest thy alarm and inquietude, O my heart!\nSee also! thou acquirest not patience by exhortation:\n Wailing and lamenting, thou rendest thy garment, O my heart!\nLike as the Hind\u016b widow advanceth impatiently to the pyre,\n So thou turnest thy back to sweet existence, O my heart!\nI do not comprehend all these complainings of thine:\n What makest thee so soft and so sensitive, O my heart?\nFrom the pangs of grief thou shalt then be again released,\n When thou sacrificest thine own affections, O my heart!\nThou shalt take thy recreation in the court of the beloved,\n If thou wilt resign thine own will and pleasure, O my heart!\nThe heart-ravishers are pert and capricious, and deceiving withal;\n Then how long wilt thou sigh and weep for them, O my heart?\nIn the world the roses of spring are manifold in number,\n If, like the nightingale, thou lamentest for them, O my heart!\nThe murky night will become unto thee the sunny day,\n When, like the moth, thou sacrificest thyself, O my heart!\nThe rose-bud of desire thou shalt make to bloom thereby,\n If thou make truth the rain-clouds of thy spring, O my heart!\nThe long night of autumn shall never be tardy in passing,\n If thou on this path takest sincerity with thee, O my heart!\nThou shalt ever be gladdened with the sight of thy beloved,\n When the dark mind thou the bright dawn makest, O my heart!\nA\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h, O world! remembereth no other prayer\u2014\n In beholding the dear one's face, employ me, O my heart!\nWhat an hour of bliss it was, when we, in retirement, each other's society enjoyed!\n The beauty of thy face was a bed of roses, and my heart a nightingale disporting therein.\nWith the wine of union it was intoxicated: of the marplot it was free from dread:\n Compared with the excessive torments of separation, to it was bliss, the meeting of to-day.\nThat was an hour of joy and felicity, when the \u1e24um\u0101\u00a0* of union o\u2019ershadow\u2019d its head:\n Why then should not the heart its yearnings show, when with sorrow it was constantly filled?\nOn whom the beloved her glance directed, the entire world was delightful unto him:\n Union with the dear one is God's gift: not that it was brought about by other means.\nIndeed, with but one look towards the charmer, even Paradise itself was forgotten by me:\n My beloved was one without simile or resemblance, and her beauty the rose's excelled.\nThere are many cypresses within the grove; but in stature my friend all, all of them surpassed:\n I enjoyed the contemplation of my dear one; for she than nectar was sweeter, by far, to me.\nWhen I would her loveliness behold, how could sun or moon with it compare?\n For hot, long shall A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h extol her, when all the world was occupied with her praise?\nI cry unto Thee, O God! for I am of my sins and wickedness ashamed;\n But hopeless of Thy mercy, no one hath ever, from Thy threshold departed.\nThy goodness and clemency are boundless; and I am of my evil acts ashamed:\n \u2019Tis hopeless that any good deeds of mine will avail; but Thy name I'll my refuge make.\nWhen I my iniquities review, I say, O that I were but a mere blade of grass!\n The lusts of the flesh and the Devil are so implanted within me, that, O God! I can nothing do.\nTho\u2019 I strive to the utmost, there's no escape for me out of the Devil's evil well:\n If it be possible the heart from evil to guard, how shall the eyes be protected?\nO A\u1e25mad! seek thou help from the Almighty, but not from pomp and grandeur's aid!\nIf I shall say anything of the beloved, what then shall I say?\n Such is in my destiny, then of my fate, what shall I say?\nThough the charmers are somewhat softened in heart,\n Of fortune's crooked, wayward course, what shall I say?\nI do not complain of the sable locks of the beloved;\n But her eyes are blood-shedders: of the slaughtered, what shall I say?\nI greatly longed to behold that sweet countenance of hers;\n But it killeth the heart: of such a face, what shall I say?\nThey, who show no tenderness, are rivals unto themselves:\n Thy beloved should be thy beloved: of a rival, what shall I say?\nThe morning's breeze, that causeth the rose to smile,\n Is the zephyr itself; then of the morn, what shall I say?\nThe thorn which may be with the rose, is also the rose:\n Since it belongeth to the rose, of the thorn, what shall I say?\nThe harsh words of the dear ones, tho\u2019 a load, are still acceptable:\n Since lovers are under a load of obligations, of the load, what shall I say?\nIf the rose be the heart's bower, it is the lamp of the nightingale's heart:\n Since it is the lamp of his heart, of the lamp, what shall I say?\nThe despoiled crieth out, and distracteth others\u2019 hearts too:\n He remembereth the departed loved one: of the despoiled, what shall I say?\nO A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h! tho\u2019 it be a stake, it is a bed of flowers also:\n Since the stake of the beloved is a bower, of the stake, what shall I say?\n294:* See note at page 29, and Introduction, page xx.\n296:* This refers to flies rubbing their heads with both fore legs, which the author calls wringing their hands sorrowfully and in spite.\n299:* See Horace, Ode 13th, Book II.:\u2014\n300:* Hell is said to be paved with stones, which thus make the infernal fire the more excessive by the transmission of heat.","title":"Selections from the Poetry of the Afghans: A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h, Abd\u0101l\u012b, Sh\u0101h Durr-i-Durr\u0101n: The Poems of A\u1e25mad Sh\u0101h, Abd\u0101l\u012b","type":"page"}