As Noble as the Aspirations of the Determined
The determination of individuals matches the strength of their resolve,
And honor comes as deserved by the virtuous.
The minor finds greatness in trivial matters,
While the great diminish the value of the grand.
The sword of the state exacts its weight from the army,
Even as seasoned troops falter against it.
One seeks from others what they cannot offer themselves,
And that is a claim far beyond the fierce.
As you stand, there is no doubt for one who meets death,
As if you are nestled within the eyelid of fate, sleeping.
Heroes pass you in silence, defeated,
While your face shines brightly and your smile remains wide.
You surpassed the limits of courage and counsel,
To the extent that your people believe in your hidden wisdom.
You embraced their wings with a heartwarming grasp,
As the hooves tread softly beneath it.
Each Individual Reaps What They Have Cultivated
Each person reaps the rewards of their own time,
With the state’s sword, extending its thrust against enemies.
Even if whispered slanders attempt to deceive him,
He finds joy in confronting his foes with resolve.
And sometimes it is the aspiring who harm themselves,
While leading the army to its demise without guidance.
The arrogant, who seldom recognizes his Creator,
Finds triumph as he witnesses his sword in hand.
He is like the sea; be cautious when it seems tranquil,
For a storm is hidden beneath its calm depths.
For I have seen the waves engulf the reckless youth,
And this brings forth calamity to the determined.
Kings of the earth bow before such a force,
Departing in ruin only to greet him in submission.
O Holiday, In What State Do You Return?
O holiday, in what condition do you return?
With what is past, or is there a renewal within you?
As for my beloved ones, the vast desert lays between us,
I wish there was a way across that buffer,
For time has left no remnant in my heart or chest,
For the eye nor the neck could ever forget you.
Oh my cupbearers, is there wine in your cups,
Or do those cups carry with them sorrow and grief?
Am I but a rock, why do I feel unmoved,
By this beloved wine and these enchanting melodies?
For I have come to those who deceive, their patronage limited,
And my travels have stagnated without respite.
The generosity of men is a matter of hands and words,
And thus they are neither plentiful nor generous.
Death does not seize the soul of any of them,
Without holding a piece of its corruption tightly.
Every time a wretched man betrays his master,
There is a setup for him in the city of deception.
The enslaved have become the leaders of the fallen,
For the free are enslaved, and the servant is adored.
The servant cannot be the brother of a worthy free man,
Even if he is born in the guise of nobility.
Never purchase a servant without a rod in hand,
For truly, servants are filth beneath deceit.
I never thought I would live in a time,
Where a servant would insult me, while I am praised.
Nor did I assume that people had vanished,
And that those akin to my dear would be found.
No Horses Here to Gift You
There are neither horses here to gift nor wealth,
So let eloquence enrich our spirits, since circumstances do not.
And reward the prince whose arrival brings sudden joy,
Without words, yet the kindness of people manifests in their talk.
The Soul’s Desires Harbor a Deep Secret
Sorrow consumes the stoutest body, spiraling to thinness,
And it grays the young one’s hair, causing aged appearances.
A wise person struggles amidst pleasure, using his intellect,
While the ignorant luxuriate in their miseries.
From animosity, what reaches you can be beneficial,
But from friendship, what brings harm can cause pain.
He Who Finds the Path to Greatness
He who discovers the path to elevation,
Should not leave his mounts without a prominent ridge.
I have not seen faults within others,
As significant as the incompleteness of those able to achieve.
I resided in the land of Egypt, yet behind me,
Travelers take turns on the roads, with none ahead of me.
And the bed grew wearisome next to me,
Feeling weary of meeting each year.
Little return comes to my ailing heart,
While many envy my difficult ambitions.
Physically unwell, yet unable to rise,
I am deeply intoxicated without provisions.
My visiting friend appears as if knowing modesty,
For she only graces me in darkness.
I offered delicacies and delightful treats,
Yet she rejected them and settled amidst my bones.
The skin stretches tight over my essence and her,
Widely allowing forms of ailments instead.
Whenever she departs, she leaves me cleansed,
As if together we partake of the forbidden.
As dawn drives her away, tears cascade,
Falling like four streams together.
I watch the timing without yearning,
Like the longing observer of passionate attractions.
And her promises ring true but trouble me,
When trouble tosses you into depths of despair.
O daughter of time, among all daughters,
How did you manage to weave through the crowd?
You have wounded a wounded soul—there remains no place,
For swords nor arrows to dwell upon.
I departed from my beloved with no farewell,
And I bid goodbye to the land without a greeting.
My physician tells me, “Have you eaten?”
Yet your ailment lies within your drinking and your food.
And in his remedy, he knows I am generous—
Longing has made his body suffer.
He has grown accustomed to wandering through the corridors,
Entering a haze amongst the dimness.