you can count, old man. Figure up
how many Springs and Summers you ve lost
remembering how your hair before was black
as pitchy raven s wing, spine fletched like an arrow -
was it June that rained and spilled
milk upon your tarblack head?
Then your fancy was to while away your time
eating or in idle talk, aimless strolling
till from such good works as these your body
grew to that of a senile beast.
Elegance - no penury - awake or asleep
smothered in silk - sweet songs in your ear
while round you swarmed mate-hungry friends
with ebony muskblown swaths of curls.
Gone to the meadow like an ass in Spring,
in Fall sprawl beneath the twisting vine
with a jug of red beside your elbow -
you would admitThere was no one
in the world like me: clever, comme il faut,
poet and penman, deep emotions, and on my lips
le mot juste held as lightly as the
inktipped reed in my fingers. I stretched
my hand to the moon; never was the Emir
seen with goblet and vase if I
were not present. He used to call me
AYour Grace@ - you can imagine how that
sat with the ministers and whatnot.
And always your eyes strayed to the hands
of the rich, looking who brought sweetmeats,
who brought a new robe. A year went by
and no one made his way past your door
- certainly not that orphan brat of your
distant cousin or that neighbour of yours
fallen on evil times. Tongue long for a jest,
fingers short, too short for the bottom
of the purse of charity. An eleganttongue
indeed - for a jest; a luminous heart -
for verse.
If you called all this to mind
mightn t your face and your heart go black
as once your pomated locks? Tick tock
the cruel months counted off your
Junes and Julys while you slept pleasantly
as a donkey in the manger. Time s
Walpurgis Nacht, whirling, swirling
each moment a backnosed witch to blunt
the edges of your youth. The cypress
of your stature s a languid hunchback,
that moonlike visage pale and pocked.
Where are they now, yesterday s sponges,
the hopeful hangers-on? They spit
when you walk by. What s left?
What survives of your days but a sigh?
You never cared for religion -
and you missed the world - like wet bran
which is neither dough nor bread. The world
exiled you from an innocent faith, and for the rest
The Quest (it s your last quip) for barley
kept from Parnassus . The world
and its works are devil s fare - but faith
is pure. And one kept you
from attaining the other. Bit by bit
the days will gnaw you away like cheese
in the mousetrap of Time.
Time . . . .
perhaps there s still time to stuff your ears
against these songs and grow sober.
The milk of time soon fills the gut -
have you not drunk enough? Get hold of yourself.
Hire Wisdom as your Vazier. Meditate:
Why did they make the Macrocosm?
O Microcosm, ask yourself. The elephant
the lion, the camel are mightier than man -
why did God not send a prophet to the camels?
The Galactic Craftsman, why did he call me?
What does he want with an old rake like me?
Of all the animals he summons me -
he must have some business with me, his poor slave.
If knowledge of Him is obligatory
how and why? No, without the How and Why
the task is beyond me. He has neither
body nor weight (unlike us) but He does have
hearing and seeing . . .?
Your body is your grave.
Now don t go apoplectic on me -
gouty old fools like you find it hard
to take advice. Listen: in this grave,
this mausoleum of yours, do you think
your soul and intellect will suffice
for those Recording Angels who visit
the freshly buried? This tomb (I quote
the Messenger of God) is either Hell
or the Garden of Paradise - choose.
Yes choose - it s up to you -. but if you d follow
the better path, find yourself a guide.
And beware of false gurus, those
who call themselves men of sight but in fact
are blind as yourself. Remember
what the Prophet himself said on the day
he delivered his sermon by the Ditch,
whom did he name trustee? What did he say?
He tookAli by the hand and gave him his seat.
If the Prophet took his hand, shouldn t you?
Old man, if you confess, I m right
then Ali is your Imam and after him
Hassan and Husayn. Don t deny it, don t tell me
that after the Prophet you need no mediator.
The Gnosis of Ali is nopersonal opinion
of the eminent So-and-So - it s priceless
as some rare and mythical gem. Acknowledge him,
larn from him, strengthen the sinews of faith
and delight the heart s inner eye. The Water of Life
flows beneath his sweet words - drink
and die no more forever. The PROOF
gives you advice, the PROOF makes allusions -
my son, take the blessed counsel
of your sire.