I am that bird for whom thy grain is spread,
And whose enchantment is the charm I dread.
For my concerns dost thou arrange before,—
Thou openest for me of grace the door.
My service to approve the favour thine,
In trust to worship is the honour mine.
On thy path Surma-rubbed* my forehead lies;
Thou hast rubbed Surma on my longing eyes.
Loos'ning my tongue thy praises to express,*
Thy name's love on my heart didst Thou impress.
A morsel mild and luscious to the taste
Within my mouth Thou from my tongue hast placed
One to the teeth that never causes strain,
Nor the throat swallowing feels any pain.
In thanks for this my words with sweetness bless;
Sweeten my acts and save from bitterness.
To evil words turns not my tongue for me;
Let not my tongue become my misery.
If in my pen a word of evil lies,
Question of “how” and “wherefore” whence may rise,
Draw through my evil word a pardoning pen;
Cast me, like seed, not into strife again.
I am as grass in Thy reliance reared,
Of mud and water by Thy own hand cleared:
Through ill desire my head turns every way,
My foot still clinging to Thy street in clay.
That clay* that to my foot in Thy street clings
Excels the rose* of Thee no scent that brings.
As this grove's bud grant me a single heart,
And as the tulip but one scar impart.
Upon this road a single heart is gain,—
To have a double heart can be but vain.
The single kernelled pastah* teeth do not oppress,
As they the almonds do two kernels that possess.
A hundred grains the ear bears in its breast;
For grain its head is by the knife* oppressed.
Buds from the thorn that single grow up strong
From a thousand prickles do not suffer wrong—
Beyond all limit though my sins be found,
Far more than these will aye Thy grace abound.
Two hundred harvests though my fault should be,
But one sigh's lightning burns them up for me.
Though of my sins a hundred books full lie,
Thou mayst wash them from my tearful eye.
For each rose-cheek that tinged my eye with red,
My blood is now from ev'ry eyelash shed.
That face's image wash I from my eye,
And thus upon my face blood tears must lie.
Towards disgrace though much my look has striv'n,
In my affair great glory tears have giv'n.
My own two eyes are rivers of regret,
Enough of honour till the Judgment yet.
That from this commerce* profit I may gain,
Bear to the Prophet of my song the strain.