The Diwan of Zeb-un-Nissa: Diwan-i-Makhfi—the Ghazals
The Diwan of Zeb-un-Nissa, by Magan Lal and Jessie Duncan Westbrook, [1913]
Athirst
For Thy love are my body and soul;
Like Mansur the grains of this clod,
My body, cry out—They are parts, Thou the whole,
Themselves they are God.
The waves
Of Thy deluge of love o’er the boat
Of mortality roll;
No Noah could lift from the deeps till it float
My love-drownèd soul.
And now
No more do the ready tears start
As laments from my tongue,
For like pearls the blood-drops that are drawn from my heart
On my lashes are hung.
Bear thou,
O Makhfi, with patience thy pain,
It is endless, and leave thou the night
Of thy passions; for then shall not Khizr attain
Such a spring of delight.
Within us stirs the leaven of Thy love,
As streams of water of Thy mercy run.
Look from above
And bless Mahmoud and all that he hath done.
Whether it be in Mecca's holiest shrine,
Or in the Temple pilgrim feet have trod,
Still Thou art mine,
Wherever God is worshipped is my God.
The morning I shall greet with tears and sighs,
And from my heart that burns with holy fire
A breath shall rise
To burnish thus my mirror of desire.
Give me thy tears, O Makhfi, let them rain
In quenching torrents on my burning heart;
So hot its pain
At every sigh I breathe the flames outstart.
And so I wait in this my sorrow's night,
Until thou givest to my weary sight
Thy beauty for my longing eyes' delight.
The world through Islam light in darkness saw
And walked safe guided by thy Scroll of Law,
Bowing to God in hope and holy awe—
To God, Who sinners can forgive and lead,
Inscrutable Himself, yet Who can read
The hidden heart and comprehend its need.
O Prophet, shining like a lonely gem,
The fairest of Heaven's highest diadem,
Look on men's need and intercede for them.
Thou art the veil through which the light doth shine,
Nay, thou thyself the very torch divine—
Naught else behold these dazzled eyes of mine.
Now tell me what the grain that drew the dove?
The mole it was upon a cheek so fair.
Tell me of what was wove the net of love?
The wandering curls of the Belovèd's hair.
The festival of love is holden here,
The goblet passes; drink thou of this wine,
Yea, drain it to the lees, and never fear
Intoxication that is all divine.
How easy ’tis to sigh and to complain!
All the world weeps to give its woe relief;
But proudly in thy heart conceal thy pain,
And silent drink the poison of thy grief.
Here is the source of light, the heavenly fount,
Here is the vision of eternal grace;
Brighter than Moses thou, when from the Mount
He came, God's radiance shining in his face.
But, Makhfi, tell me where the feast is made?
Where are the merry-makers? Lo, apart,
Here in my soul the feast of God is laid,
Within the hidden chambers of my heart.
With mine own hands the altar-fire I lit;
As flame within a lamp my heart afire
Glows even through the body casing it,
And burns it with desire.
Could I my foolish heart to ashes burn
Then might I rest, my sorrow then might cease;
Unto the ocean of Thy love I turn
To find within it peace.
I sink within its waters, nor above
Its surface can my weary limbs uplift,
Deep-drownèd I within the sea of love
Lapped by its waves must drift.
A wilderness this lonely heart of mine
Till love transformed it to another guise,
And now it shines as fair as the divine
Gardens of Paradise.
Unto the fields like pecking birds I go
To gather up the ears of golden grain,
But only tears, not corn, I gather—lo,
They fall in floods like rain.
O wise one, at the feast of love be glad,
But careful too, and guard thy cup of wine;
In ecstasy I drank the share I had,
O Sage, take heed of thine.
With slumber, Makhfi, heavy are thine eyes,
And though thy tale has not attained its close,
So deep a languor on thy spirit lies;
Seek thou for it repose.
I beat my flinty heart till from it flies
The spark divine of the eternal fire,
And from the flashing gleams I see arise
The lightning of Thy love—my heart's desire.
Come, O ye weak in faith, for help is here,
Behold these flashes from our hearts that fly,
Had ye the eye of faith they would appear
Like the white light that gleamed on Sinai.
Come to the feast of love, for it is spread;
Share ye the wine-cup where we drink so deep;
Behold the wine—the tears that we have shed,
The wine-cups are our eyes that ever weep.
But, as we drink, upon us falls the spell,
The dream, the vision, and the ecstasy;
The wine of pain turns blood, nor can we tell
If we exist, or if we cease to be.
Ofttimes my heart can sing and can rejoice,
Pouring forth hymns throughout my rapturous days;
Alas, that powers of evil choke my voice,
And blast my thoughts, and burn my psalms of praise!
Behold my luckless heart,
So broken, so dissolved by pain,
It even flows in tears between my lashes;
And yet how can I part
With it, while still to me remain
Its shards—I wait till it is burnt to ashes.
I knew long, long ago,
Your promises were less than naught,
I blotted them for ever from my mind.
Why was I born to know
An age above all others fraught
With love ungrateful and with fate unkind?
But grasp thy joy; who knows,
Makhfi, what may to thee befall?
The firm foundations of the earth may shake,
The breeze that blows
May, if this empty life be all,
The bubble of our vain existence break.
The rapturous nightingale sings,
Wooing the rose
In the midst of the garden new-born:
But only the gardener knows
Of the labour that brings
To the garden its beauty; he toiled in the heat,
And his feet
Have been wounded by many a thorn.
Immortal is beauty, for, see,
Like the sun in his might,
It illumines the worlds and all things that
are made
With the joy of its light;
For this be our thanks unto Thee,
Upon us Thy mercy bestow!
Consider how weak,
How afflicted we are and how sorrowful;
then
When we passionate seek
For oblivion, and Thou dost know
How time on our desolate spirit has beat
And brought us defeat—
O save us, nor let us endure it again.
O happy the seer who knows
Good and evil are one,
Who has learned how self-poised he may live,
Who is shaken by none,
To whom spring with its rose
And autumn are equal:—not him canst thou
teach
Or, careless one, preach
To him; thou indeed hast no counsel to give.
If perilous love doth thee lead,
If thou enter his track,
In the desert like Majnun thou dwell’st
evermore,
Thou shalt never look back;
Nor even take heed
O Makhfi, as out of the nest
The fledgling birds fall
And fluttering, helpless, are caught in the
snares,
So see after all
Thou art caught like the rest,
For, flying too boldly, thy feeble wings fail,
And thou dost bewail
Thy fate, thus enmeshed in the net of thy cares.
To the forbidden path turn not aside,
And, tyrannous Belovèd, let thine eye
Look on thy victims trampled in thy pride,
Who for a glance from thee would gladly die.
Some pay their worship at the Kaaba shrine,
Some pray within the Temple courts apart,
But, Makhfi, think what secret joy is thine,
To bear thine idol ever in thy heart.
Dust falls within the cup of Kaikobad
And King Jamshid,
Nor reeks the world if they were sad or glad,
Or what they did.
Only to-day have we, and through the sand,
With feet that tire,
We march, but never reach the promised land
Of heart's desire.
I follow on where Wisdom's feet have led,
And firmly hold,
The while this hard and thorny path I tread,
Her garment's fold.
How many hearts, O Love, thy sword hath slain,
And yet will slay!
They bless thee, nor to God will they complain
At Judgment Day.
My heart is hot within me, yea, has burst
In flames of love the while
So fierce that like a drop to slake my thirst
Were all the floods of Nile.
So deep in sin am I—I cannot wend
Where holy pilgrims fare
To Mecca, even if Abraham, God's friend,
Should come to lead me there.
I tire of wisdom's kingdom which is mine,
I tire of reason's sway:
Passion of love, O carry me to thine,
A hundred miles away.
Lo, when I come unto the water's side
The obedient waves retire,
My flaming heart exultantly shall guide
Like Moses' torch of fire.
Tell me, O Makhfi, is it I who sin?
Is this my sin I bear?
Is it the body's or the soul's within
That lived and sinned elsewhere?
See how the budding flower,
Emerging fair from out her torn green dress,
Is beauteous in the garden for her hour,
As Yusuf in his youthful loveliness.
Go, breeze of spring,
Haste to tell Yakub, blinded by his tears,
The tidings that shall end his sorrowing
And lift the darkness from his troubled years.
Treading love's path so long,
Under such heavy burdens did I bow,
At last my chastened heart has grown so strong,
No task, no pain, can bend my spirit now.
O fortunate,
More blessed than Alexander's lot is mine.
Come to me, O ye thirsty: this my fate—
To know the giver of celestial wine.
This is my pride—
That I the rose of all the world have sought,
And, still unwearied in the eager quest,
Fainted nor failed have I, and murmured not;
Thus is my head exalted o’er the rest,
My turban glorified.
O blessèd pain,
O precious grief I keep, and sweet unrest,
Desire that dies not, longing past control!
My heart is torn to pieces in my breast,
And for the shining diamond of the soul
I pine in vain.
Behold the light
That from Thy torch of mercy comes to bless
The garden of my heart, Beloved One,
With the white radiance of its loveliness,
Till my wall's shadow shall outvie the sun,
And seem more bright.
O Makhfi sorrowing,
Look from the valley of despair and pain;
The breath of love like morning zephyr blows,
Pearls from thine eyelids fall like gentle rain
Upon the garden, summoning the rose,
Calling the spring.
But, Makhfi, look with a discerning eye—
Deeper than thy despair thy bliss may lie;
Though on the path of love thy feet may tire,
New strength shall come to thee, and new desire.
This mirror, my heart, is broken against my desire;
O Heaven, give me not of your pity, nay, rather admire
My soul that is proud;
My head, though I beat it in sorrow, has never been bowed.
Think not that with joy and with ease I pursue my desire;
With heart that is weary, with footsteps that lag and that tire,
I follow my quest,
To attain through the difficult way to the kingdom of rest.
As the long-prisoned bird,
Forgetting that it ever flew, and heard
Songs of the wild, and pinions wide unfurled,
Makes of the cage its world.
No fear indeed thou hast,
O heart within the net of love held fast,
Of separation's bitter agony—
Thy love is one with thee.
Sadly we wait and tire,
And sight of the Belovèd Face desire
In vain, till in our hearts the hope is born
Of Resurrection morn.
O heart, thine be no less
Than the ascetic Brahman's faithfulness,
The knotted veins his wasted body bears
As sacred thread he wears.
Why dost thou then complain
That on thy feet there drags this heavy chain?
Nay, it befits thee well such weights to wear;
Much hast thou learned to bear.
As, far upon the hills,
Despairing Ferhad, weary of life's ills,
Welcomed kind Death, and wept, so for relief
Weep thou and salve thy grief!
And see the thorny waste
Whereon thy bruisèd feet their pathway traced,
This wilderness, touched by thy blood that flows,
Blooms fragrant as the rose.
O Love, shall I repine
The noose of death around my neck to twine
At thy behest? Nay, if thy glory gain,
Proud am I in my pain.
O Makhfi, if thy fate
Be that, without the garden, desolate
Thou dwell—reck not of it; life is a dream,
And we, that seem
To live and move and love, no more at all
Than shadows on a wall.
How strong thou hast become, O moth, how great,
Worshipping thus the flame! this is thy fate—
Vainly to love and die, yet thou canst bear
The burning sparks and ever scorn despair:
Thou knowest, fluttering nearer to the fire,
In death thou shalt be one with thy desire.
O cruel Love,—when on the Judgment Day
Thy tyranny God shall in full repay,
And all the blameless blood that thou hast shed
Shall be revenged upon thy haughty head:
Black shall the place of judging be, no less
Than Kerbela's accursèd wilderness.
Haply indeed, O Judge, wilt thou be kind,
And pity in thy heart for sinners find;
Think of the memory of their disgrace,
How dark humiliation stains their face,
The shame that stings and goads them to repent—
Will these not be sufficient punishment?
Within the desert of the world astray,
How many weary wanderers lose their way!
But Love with beckoning hand appears, to bless,
Finds them a pathway through the wilderness,
And though, like Majnun, in the wild they roam,
Leads them through toils and tribulations home.
Wherefor my tears fell down in floods like rain,
And as I sighed
I thought of my desires unsatisfied,
And memory summoned up with vain regret
The garden where we met,
But meet no more, I tell my heart with pain.
What have I then to do with high estate?
Fortune I lay aside
And all wherein the world has taken pride:
Yet in this day of my humility
Precious to me
As wine of kings I hold my cup of fate.
Gleaming within the garden through the night
A radiance fair our feasting to illume;
What is this glamour shining through the gloom?
My heart's blood, glowing, yields the heavenly light.
O, I have drunk my cup of cherished grief,
And love the torment of my wounded heart;
As the scars heal I tear their lips apart,
And in my pain find rapturous relief.
Why should I then permit the winds of care
To ruffle thus my soul, as airs of spring
Through the Belovèd's tresses wantoning?
For I have risen to fortune from despair.
O fear not, if within the house of prayer
The feeble camphor candle fails and dies;
From out the flaming furnace of my sighs
Will rise another light, more fierce, more fair.
A hermitage, with peace my soul to bless,
Here in a corner of the wilderness,
Unseen by secular eyes shall I possess.
Who is the man who boasts to be Love's slave,
And yet this petty life of his would save?
Poor Love, whose votaries are not more brave!
When I was young I asked, and Love gainsaid;
What slips, what wanderings, on Love's road I made,
Until I summoned Wisdom to my aid!
The mirror of my heart I burnish bright
Until, reflected fair for my delight,
The Self's eternal beauty greets my sight.
Like Yaqub blinded by his agony,
No face in all the world is aught to me;
What use have eyes except to look on Thee?
See, Makhfi, cruel Love,
How in his haughtiness he rides above
The hearts of men, how red
His sword with lovers' blood that he has shed!
The morning breeze that from the garden flies
Can give no joy, no gladness, to my eyes;
For, useless breeze, never to me he brings
The fragrance of Thy garments on his wings.
But here before the garden door I wait;
Why should I deem myself unfortunate?
For by Thy holy threshold shall I stay,
And with my lashes sweep its dust away.
This bird, my heart, is taken in Thy net
And flutters unavailingly; but yet,
Thy captive though it be, how canst Thou keep
Prisoned the sighs that from my bosom leap?
O rare and precious Phœnix of the soul,
Vainly I sought for thee; beyond control
My heart has yearned for thee; ever thy wings
Have hung above my soul's imaginings.
O bulbul, glad within the garden sing,
’Tis Makhfi who has won for thee the spring
That blossoms in thy heart; but in her own
The barren winds of lonely autumn moan.
To drink of my blood I am thirsting, to shed it
abroad like a sea,
To sacrifice all am I seeking, to die as a victim
for Thee.
My heart through the anguish of loving has
swooned ’neath the load of its grief,
Come thou with thy magic, O music, and give
to my spirit relief.
Like Ayub I sit in the ashes o’erwhelmed by the
wrath of the skies,
Yet out of the night of my sorrow shall hope
like the morning arise:
Yet, Makhfi, unveiled is thy secret, abroad all
thy passion is told:
Who saw not the beauty of Yusuf when he in
the market was sold?
Forgive me then, I pray,
That I no wine in the assembly quaffed,
For I have drunk of a diviner draught,
Its fragrance ever haunts me, night and day.
My heart a bird doth seem
That never joyfully can soar and sing,
For, shut within its cage of sorrowing,
It sees the garden only in a dream.
Shall I not then complain
When every atom of my body cries
Against your tyranny, O cruel skies,
That yield me days so dark and full of pain?
Grant me, O Fate, this boon,
Give me a little day of joy, of spring,
When even in its cage my heart might sing
Glad as a bird: Death comes, thou knowest, soon.
How many, many years
Within the prison walls of lonely grief
Shall I remain and never know relief,
Like Yaqub, blinded by my useless tears?
Though my proud soul
Torn from its saddle low into the dust
May be by cruel hands of fate downthrust,
I know my feet will somehow reach the goal.
As through life's desert fare
Love's pilgrims, Makhfi, may it be thy pride
Unto Love's realm their caravan to guide,
Thy footsteps be the bell to lead it there.
What wonder if the fire within me rise
Into a flame outleaping fierce and swift,
And that the heavy vapour of my sighs
Unto the darkened eyes of Heaven should drift!
Think not, though at the feast no more I sit,
That I have done with joy: there still remains
The dream that once was mine—I cherish it,
Like wine its memory courses in my veins.
What though within this valley of Despair
From sorrow I can never find surcease,
May I be given, in answer to my prayer,
One day at least of rest, one night of peace!
So sad my fate that, though I long and toil
Until my forces flag and faint and tire,
I cannot burnish off the stains that soil,
The rust that dims my mirror of desire.
And yet, O Makhfi, if with eyes made clear,
Freed from the world's illusion, thou shalt see,
Lo, the faquir's torn garments shall appear
More regal than the robes of majesty.
And strange it is that even in my heart
The sweet tormenting flame of my desire
Is quenched; impatiently I pulled apart
The brands and killed the fire.
And never did the blossoms of success
Within my hope's enchanted garden bloom,
And my fair beacon-light of happiness
Is sunk in gloom.
Faithless Belovèd, many friends are Thine;
So many love and have been loved by Thee,
They give their hearts, what carest Thou for mine?
What need hast Thou of me?
As through the gloom the radiant sun above
Comes brightening the world, and shades depart,
So do I burnish with the oil of love
The rust from off my heart.
I vainly stretch imploring hands that long
To touch Hope's gleaming garment as she flies;
Though my desire may fail, yet Hope is strong
And keen, and never dies.
When on the cup that held the drink divine
Of last night's feast the light of morning falls,
The joy of night, the magic of the wine,
The goblet's sight recalls.
Like thee, O Ferhad, in my loneliness
Toiling upon the mountains I have been,
But never drank the sherbet of success,
Sweet as thy lips, Shirin.
Although the times on my unhappy head
Have heaped the burdens I can hardly bear,
I have not wept; I smile in pride instead;
Upon my brow are graved no lines of care.
For many years hath sorrow dwelt with me,
Yet I repine not, and so fiercely wage
My war against despair, it turns to flee—
I am the Rustum of this later age.
Though callous Fate upon me vengeance wreak,
O breezes blowing from the heavens above
Bring unto me what I, like Yaqub, seek—
The perfume of the garments of my Love.
What weary days
Are these, that never in the perfumed ways
The bulbul sings among the cypress trees;
Only the morning breeze
Finds entrance there, and with the roses plays.
Masiha, thou canst heal,
Thou wise Physician, hear our heart's appeal!
Give us the bitter draught to cure our grief,
And grant relief;
Blame not the shrinking from thy cup we feel.
Glimmer not, pearly dawn,
Let not the veil of night be yet withdrawn;
I long to send, with arrows of my sighs,
Unto the skies
My eager prayers before the night be gone.
If, on the Judgment Day,
Grieving for my transgressions, I shall pray
For mercy for the evil I have done,
O Self-Existent One,
Grant that my tears shall wash the sin away.
O Makhfi, for thy fate
Be not thou fearful nor disconsolate;
Higher, upon the Day of Reckoning,
Faquir than king,
There shall be then none lowly and none great.
Knotted within my heart,
The very chords that answered to thy touch,
My heart-strings at thy presence thrill and start,
For I have sighed and have lamented much.
O ye who sleep in peace,
You know not of the troubles Love can send,
The days whose tribulations never cease,
The weary nights that drag without an end.
Where, then, does Mecca lie?
Here is the Kiblah where I make my prayer:
Tell me the physic for my malady—
The anodyne for grief is everywhere.
O Love, where dost thou lead,
Upon what travel fares our caravan?
By Hedjaz desert shall thy footsteps speed,
The longest journey since the world began.
The fountain of my spirit has run dry,
So that in tears no more my sorrow flows,
Mute is the heart that wailed continually,
Silent the bulbul in the garden-close.
Here, as we tread the pilgrim's way, we find
The torch of inspiration like a fire,
Men see it not, so dull they are and blind,
They yearn not for the garments of desire.
To each was given on the Creation-day
His fitting portion, his appointed share,
Why should’st thou then demand from destiny
More joy than others have, less pain to bear?
O Makhfi, for thy counsel all have come,
Their secrets thou hast kept concealed, apart,
But why should’st thou, who for their sakes art
dumb,
Tell shamelessly the secrets of thy heart?
No unguent salves these wounds upon my heart,
The diamond lancet's healing pang I crave,
So keen my pain I tear my scars apart,
Come with thy kindly cruelty, and save!
From out my keeping has my heart been reft,
Why, let it go then: wherefore should I weep?
Over the empty hut a faquir left
No watchman comes his careful guard to keep.
Hearken, the time of parting sounds for thee.
How long, O Makhfi, wavering like the fire,
A Kafir shall thy restless spirit be,
Blown like a flame, tormented by desire?
Chide not that ’mongst the flowers
The bulbul doth ecstatically sing;
His passion, yea and his delight, are ours,
Along the garden paths meandering.
We, by our pain made brave,
Seek not despair nor hope; neither outlast
Their little day. We take but what Fate gave,
Not as Zuleikha, brooding o’er the past.
O careless ones, in vain
The treasure of your life has passed away,
Heedless that nothing of your years remain,
You talk like children of another day.
How vain the tears you weep!
Your sorrow fruitless, your remorse too late;
The threshold with your lashes wherefore sweep,
When, Makhfi, see, the shrine is desolate?
I have no hope, no comfort, anywhere,
Caught by the fluttering tresses of thy hair.
No flower can open in my garden bed
Until my heart's blood dyes its petals red,
Sing softly of thy love, or silent be,
O Makhfi, lest the Hunter secretly
Shall come and hear thy voice, and capture thee.
No ease, no respite anywhere
Is now for me, for in Thy snare
Blindly or willingly I fall,
No liberty have I at all,
Bound by the fetters of Thy hair.
So many tears mine eyes have shed,
Such streams of blood my heart has bled,
That now mine eyes can weep no more,
Nor can the failing fountains pour,
For dry the source from which they fed.
Thou, Makhfi, in the burning fire
Of love and unassuaged desire
Tossing in wild remorse, shalt dwell;
Love's secrets weakly didst thou tell,
So thou shalt pay with penance dire.
Though all the day the leaping fire of sighs
May from my fast-consuming heart arise,
Winds of mischance so blow and scatter it,
My torch is not yet lit.
I leave the world, and to the woods I fly,
But in the forest hunted still am I;
I seek the silence of the lake and hill,
But Love pursues me still.
The malady of Love has turned my brain,
For all my life I have abode with pain;
Then why should I from sorrow seek to flee?
Sorrow is kin to me.
Here in the dwelling of unhappiness,
My silent, desolate sorrow I possess;
For how can shining love with me remain
Within this house of pain?
O Makhfi, from this goblet thou shalt gain
No exaltation, no surcease from pain;
For tears of blood that flow from eyes grown dim
Fill it unto the brim.
So weary, Makhfi, are thine eyes with tears,
Darkened the world appears,
Nor can they tell, by grief and watching worn,
The rosebud from the thorn.
No longer can I bear
The separation and the bitter grief;
Afflicted am I—grant my soul relief!
Weary and broken—look on my despair!
O Thou, whose praise we tell,
Sever the tyrant bonds, give to the slave
His freedom, save him, Lord, as Thou did’st save
Yusuf, the Moon of Canaan, from the well!
My tears fail, for they must;
The spring that fed their fountains has run dry;
Give me Thy peace, O Lord; for what am I?
Only a handful of afflicted dust.
But flowers of hope return
To bloom within my garden of desire,
For God can call even from flames of fire
Tulips like torches to arise and burn.
So much of mine own blood I shed,
So long the journeys I have done,
So difficult the path I tread,
To catch the garment of the sun!
New balm within my heart is borne,
New lightnings from my glance arise,
Why then your anger, and the scorn
Flashing from your narcissus eyes?
Out of my heart you reft away
The life, my heart from out its place
You ravished, and I can but pray—
O lift the veil that hides your face!
O Reason, that can speed
A runner in the valley of desire,
We need not strength like thine, for we possess
A remedy to cure us when we tire;
The thorns and brambles are the salves we need
For pain and weariness.
Night after endless night
I sat in lonely grief remembering thee;
Tears fell into my heart disconsolate.
How long have I, in striving to be free,
Broken my bleeding nails, but never quite
Untied the knot of fate!
Thou shalt attain success,
O happy lover, walking on the height;
Thy shadow greater shall be evermore
Than King Jamshid's, and plumes and pinions bright
As hath the Phœnix, shall thy soul possess,
Arrogantly to soar.
By sorrow crucified,
A true believer lost his life for thee,
And yet did not attain what I attain:
This new delight which is bestowed on me
Even the friends who travelled by my side
Could never know nor gain.
Red with its fount of tears
Thy rosy face doth like a tulip show,
To tell what dreams within thy heart arise.
My tears have washed with their unceasing flow,
The magic cup wherein the world appears
Displayed before mine eyes.
Behold Love's path—it seems
So long, O Makhfi; but be strong to tread
Its toilsome way, and come, nor look behind;
The temple where thou canst bow down thy head,
The idol fairer than thy fairest dreams,
Thou shalt desire, and find.
Though, Makhfi, God shall pardon at the last,
The Skirt of Intercession hold within thy fingers
fast.
Down unto death I went,
The Heavens upon me showered their cruel blows.
Pity me, O ye Chosen Ones of God!
O Enemy, when shall I gain repose,
How long shall I groan under chastisement,
Wince ’neath the rod?
How darkened is my fame!
Extravagantly have I spent my store,
And empty-handed in the market stand;
A dervish am I, and can give no more,
No emperor, with glory round my name
And lavish hand.
The time of spring is past,
The rose-leaves in the garden drift apart,
Among the trees the bulbul sings no more.
How long, O madness, shalt thou hold my heart?
How long, O exaltation, shalt thou last
Now spring is o’er?
How uselessly is spent
And cast away the treasure of my life,
In bitter separation from my Friend!
Surely, O cruel Heavens, might now my strife
My grief, my pain, my weary discontent,
Attain the end!
O King, O Teacher, see
E’en in the tale of Alexander's fate,
Most fortunate of mortals, thou canst read
Of Dara, broken and disconsolate;
Yea, sorrowful his shadowed history
Appears indeed.
If from thy moon-like face the veil arise,
No more will Yusuf turn regretful eyes
Homeward to Canaan: he will only see
Thy face, and offer all his love to thee.
No remedy can heal the heart's distress
Except the vision of thy loveliness.
Here, suffering souls, the solace that you need!
Tear not your wounds, no longer make them bleed.
How difficult the hunted deer to find,
Although his scent be left upon the wind;
How hard to reach thee, though thine every tress
Breathes musk of Khotan through the wilderness!
O happy Makhfi! fortunate thy day!
For thou at the Belovèd's feet may lay
Thy song in homage; happier still, if thou
Sing rapturously evermore as now!
Like Khizr, strong and fair,
Whose soul is steeped in the immortal spring,
The well of life, thou shalt be worshipping
With holy words of prayer.
Born to the Khalif's place,
None other heired such high estate as thine,
Thou hast the beauty that is all divine,
Fairer than peri's grace.
From hope I turned in hate;
No further now false hope can cozen me.
I know the cruel Heavens conspired with thee
To darken thus my fate.
Makhfi, thy life flows fast,
The days from out thy hand drop evermore;
O turn no weary traveller from thy door,
Give him what cheer thou hast.
Let not the valley of thy love
A place of bitter torment prove
For dolorous souls, already worn
By all the penance they have borne,
Betrayed by love, and left forlorn.
No flower, no nightingale am I,
So from the garden mournfully
I go. O breezes, free to stray,
Back to her garden find your way,
And greeting to my Love convey.
Exiled and driven from thee I pass
Upon my journey; like the grass
And patient reeds I bend and shake,
As my despairing road I take,
Leaving the body for thy sake.
Sell not the jewel of thy soul so cheap,
No friends can help thy heart its wealth to keep.
O King of all the roses, be thou kind
Unto the bulbul, whose unquiet mind
Makes him a mad faquir in loving thee;
For even kings who ride in majesty