THE
 
LAMENT OF BĀBĀ TĀHIR
 
PROSE TRANSLATION
 

Note.—In the following translation I have endeavoured to offer a certain measure of ordinary English expression. Where the precisely literal signification has suffered eclipse, it has been restored in the notes. The notes appended to the foregoing text must also be referred to when characteristic Oriental images occur in this translation.

1.
Happy are they who live in the sight of Thee,*
Who hang upon Thy words,* and dwell with Thee,
Too frail to approach, I see Thee from afar,
And seek the sight of those that see Thee ever.*
2.
Without Thee in the Garden, Lord, may no rose bloom,
Or, blooming, may none taste its sweet perfume,
So, should my heart expand when Thou art not nigh,
’Twere vain! my heart’s grief naught could turn to joy.*
3.
Happy are they indeed whose Friend is God,
Who, giving thanks, say ever, “He is God!”;*
Happy are they who always are at prayer,
Eternal Heaven is their just reward.*
4.
That phrase, “They said ‘Yes!’” fills me with alarm,
I bear more sins than does a tree bear leaves;
When, on the last day, “They-that-read-the-Book” shall read,
I, bearing such a record, will hang my head.
5.
Lord! who am I, and of what company?
How long shall tears of blood thus blind mine eyes?
When other refuge fails I’ll turn to Thee,
And if Thou failest me, whither shall I go?
6.
Homeless as I am, to whom shall I apply?
A houseless wanderer, whither shall I go?
Turned from all doors, I come at last to Thee,
If thy door is denied, where shall I turn?
7.
If Thou killest me miserably—whom fearest Thou?
And if Thou driv’st me forth abject—whom fearest Thou?
Though a half-hearted thing, I fear none,
Thy heart is the two worlds—whom fearest Thou?
8.
Drunkards and drunk though we be, Thou art our Faith,*
Unstable, weak though we be, Thou art our Faith,
Though we be Muslims, Guebres, Nazarenes,
Whate’er the Outward Form,* Thou art our Faith.
*           *           *           *
9.
He who has suffered grief knows well its cry,
As knows the Assayer* when gold is pure;
Come then ye Burnt-in-Heart, chaunt we laments,*
For well we know what ’tis to Burn-in-Heart.*
10.
When o’er the Garden wall the branches hang,
The garden’s keeper suffers ever bitter grief,
They must be cut back, even to the roots,
Even though pearls and rubies be their fruit.
11.
Briar and thorn beset thy way, O Heart,
Beyond the Dome of Heaven is thy road;*
If thou art able, then thy very skin
Cast off from thee, and lighten thus thy load.*
12.
Come, O ye Burnt-in-Heart, let us gather round,
Let us converse, setting forth our woes,
Bring scales, make trial of our weight of woe,
The more we burn, the heavier weighs our grief.*
13.
O Burnt-in-Heart, come ye and mourn with me,
Mourn we the flight of that most lovely Rose;
Hie we with the ecstatic Nightingale to the Rose-Garden,
And when she ceases mourning,* we will mourn.
14.
A falcon I! and, as I chased my prey,
An evil-eyed-one’s arrow* pierced my wing;
Take heed ye Heedless! wander not the heights,*
For, him who heedless roams,* Fate’s arrow strikes.
*           *           *           *
15.
My horse said yesterday to me: “There is no doubt
“But that your stable is a coign of Heaven;
“Here is not grass nor water, straw nor grain,
“’Tis fit for Angels, not for beasts like me!”*
*           *           *           *
16.
’Tis Heaven’s whim to vex me, and distress,*
My wounded eyes hold ever briny tears,
Each moment soars the smoke of my despair to heaven,
My tears and groans fill all the Universe.*
17.
O Lord! this heart of mine afflicts me sore,*
I weep* this heart of mine both day and night;
Often I grieve but for my grief; O Some-one
Rid me of this heart that I may be free.*
18.
By day and night the desert is my home,
By day and night mine eyes shed bitter tears,
No fever rocks me, I am not in pain,
All I know is that day and night I grieve.
19.
O wicked, wanton, wastrel heart of man,*
When the eyes sin the heart must bear the doul:*
If the eyes never saw a lovely face,
How would the heart e’er know where beauties are?
20.
Beneath the tyranny of eyes and heart I cry,
For, all that the eyes see, the heart stores up:
I’ll fashion me a pointed sword of steel,
Put out mine eyes, and so set free my heart.