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A courtier risks destruction every hour --
Distance yourself from kings and worldly power.
A king is like a raging fire, men say;
The wisest conduct is to keep away.
A king and his slave
There was a monarch once who loved a slave.
The youth s pale beauty haunted him; he gave
This favourite the rarest ornaments,
Watched over him with jealous reverence --
But when the king expressed a wish to shoot,
His loved one shook with fear from head to foot.
An apple balanced on his head would be
The target for the royal archery,
And as the mark was split he blenched with fear.
One day a foolish courtier standing near
Asked why his lovely face was drained and wan,
For was he not their monarch s chosen one?
The slave replied: If I were hit instead
Of that round apple balanced on my head,
I would be then quite worthless to the king --
Injured or dead, lower than anything
The court can show; but when the arrow hits
The trembling target and the apple splits,
That is his skill. The king is highly skilled
If he succeeds -- if not, the slave is killed .
The heron s excuse
The heron whimpered next: My misery
Prefers the empty shoreline of the sea.
There no one hears my desolate, thin cry --
I wait in sorrow there, there mourn and sigh.
My love is for the ocean, but since I --
A bird -- must be excluded from the deep,
I haunt the solitary shore and weep.
My beak is dry -- not one drop can I drink --
But if the level of the sea should sink
By one drop, jealous rage would seize my heart.
This love suffices me; how can I start
A journey like the one that you suggest?
I cannot join you in this arduous quest.
The Simorgh s glory could not comfort me;
My love is fixed entirely on the sea.
The hoopoe answers him
The hoopoe answered him: You do not know
The nature of this sea you love: below
Its surface linger sharks; tempests appear,
Then sudden calms -- its course is never clear,
But turbid, varying, in constant stress;
Its water s taste is salty bitterness.
How many noble ships has it destroyed,
Their crews sucked under in the whirlwind s void:
The diver plunges and in fear of death
Must struggle to conserve his scanty breath;
The failure is cast up, a broken straw.
Who trusts the sea? Lawlessness is her law;
You will be drowned if you cannot decide
To turn away from her inconstant tide.
She seethes with love herself -- that turbulence
Of tumbling waves, that yearning violence,
Are for her Lord, and since she cannot rest,
What peace could you discover in her breast?
She lives for Him -- yet you are satisfied
To hear His invitation and to hide.
A hermit questions the ocean
A hermit asked the ocean: Why are you
Clothed in these mourning robes of darkest blue?*
You seem to boil, and yet I see no fire!
The ocean said: My feverish desire
Is for the absent Friend. I am too base
For Him; my dark robes indicate disgrace
And lonely pain. Love makes my billows rage;
Love is the fire which nothing can assuage.
My salt lips thirst for Kausar s** cleansing stream.
For those pure waters tens of thousands dream
And are prepared to perish; night and day
They search and fall exhausted by the Way.
* Blue was the colour of mourning in ancient Persia; the epic poet Ferdowsi (10th -11th
centuries) mentions it as being worn by the first of the legendary Persian kings,
Keyumars, when in mourning for his son Siyamak.
** A stream that flows through paradise.
The owl s excuse
The owl approached with his distracted air,
Hooting: Abandoned ruins are my lair,
Because, wherever mortals congregate,
Strife flourishes and unforgiving hate;
A tranquil mind is only to be found
Away from men, in wild, deserted ground.
These ruins are my melancholy pleasure,
Not least because they harbour buried treasure.
Love for such treasure has directed me
To desolate, waste sites; in secrecy
I hide my hopes that one fine day my foot
Will stumble over unprotected loot.
Love for the Simorgh is a childish story;
My love is solely for gold s buried glory.
The hoopoe answers him
The hoopoe answered him: Besotted fool,
Suppose you get this gold for which you drool --
What could you do but guard it night and day
While life itself -- unnoticed -- slips away?
The love of gold and jewels is blasphemy; [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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A courtier risks destruction every hour --
Distance yourself from kings and worldly power.
A king is like a raging fire, men say;
The wisest conduct is to keep away.
A king and his slave
There was a monarch once who loved a slave.
The youth s pale beauty haunted him; he gave
This favourite the rarest ornaments,
Watched over him with jealous reverence --
But when the king expressed a wish to shoot,
His loved one shook with fear from head to foot.
An apple balanced on his head would be
The target for the royal archery,
And as the mark was split he blenched with fear.
One day a foolish courtier standing near
Asked why his lovely face was drained and wan,
For was he not their monarch s chosen one?
The slave replied: If I were hit instead
Of that round apple balanced on my head,
I would be then quite worthless to the king --
Injured or dead, lower than anything
The court can show; but when the arrow hits
The trembling target and the apple splits,
That is his skill. The king is highly skilled
If he succeeds -- if not, the slave is killed .
The heron s excuse
The heron whimpered next: My misery
Prefers the empty shoreline of the sea.
There no one hears my desolate, thin cry --
I wait in sorrow there, there mourn and sigh.
My love is for the ocean, but since I --
A bird -- must be excluded from the deep,
I haunt the solitary shore and weep.
My beak is dry -- not one drop can I drink --
But if the level of the sea should sink
By one drop, jealous rage would seize my heart.
This love suffices me; how can I start
A journey like the one that you suggest?
I cannot join you in this arduous quest.
The Simorgh s glory could not comfort me;
My love is fixed entirely on the sea.
The hoopoe answers him
The hoopoe answered him: You do not know
The nature of this sea you love: below
Its surface linger sharks; tempests appear,
Then sudden calms -- its course is never clear,
But turbid, varying, in constant stress;
Its water s taste is salty bitterness.
How many noble ships has it destroyed,
Their crews sucked under in the whirlwind s void:
The diver plunges and in fear of death
Must struggle to conserve his scanty breath;
The failure is cast up, a broken straw.
Who trusts the sea? Lawlessness is her law;
You will be drowned if you cannot decide
To turn away from her inconstant tide.
She seethes with love herself -- that turbulence
Of tumbling waves, that yearning violence,
Are for her Lord, and since she cannot rest,
What peace could you discover in her breast?
She lives for Him -- yet you are satisfied
To hear His invitation and to hide.
A hermit questions the ocean
A hermit asked the ocean: Why are you
Clothed in these mourning robes of darkest blue?*
You seem to boil, and yet I see no fire!
The ocean said: My feverish desire
Is for the absent Friend. I am too base
For Him; my dark robes indicate disgrace
And lonely pain. Love makes my billows rage;
Love is the fire which nothing can assuage.
My salt lips thirst for Kausar s** cleansing stream.
For those pure waters tens of thousands dream
And are prepared to perish; night and day
They search and fall exhausted by the Way.
* Blue was the colour of mourning in ancient Persia; the epic poet Ferdowsi (10th -11th
centuries) mentions it as being worn by the first of the legendary Persian kings,
Keyumars, when in mourning for his son Siyamak.
** A stream that flows through paradise.
The owl s excuse
The owl approached with his distracted air,
Hooting: Abandoned ruins are my lair,
Because, wherever mortals congregate,
Strife flourishes and unforgiving hate;
A tranquil mind is only to be found
Away from men, in wild, deserted ground.
These ruins are my melancholy pleasure,
Not least because they harbour buried treasure.
Love for such treasure has directed me
To desolate, waste sites; in secrecy
I hide my hopes that one fine day my foot
Will stumble over unprotected loot.
Love for the Simorgh is a childish story;
My love is solely for gold s buried glory.
The hoopoe answers him
The hoopoe answered him: Besotted fool,
Suppose you get this gold for which you drool --
What could you do but guard it night and day
While life itself -- unnoticed -- slips away?
The love of gold and jewels is blasphemy; [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]