6. Planets, Metals, Etc..
Reveille! Time to get up! from the couch of sloth! my son!
And gaze upon the globe with the orb of sagesse!
Eating and sleeping is the work of a creature with whom
you my ignoramus cannot hope to compare: the ASS.
Why do you suppose God gave you a brain?
foe eating and snoring contests with donkeys?
Tie round your fat head the turban of Wisdom
then one night raise your eyes to the lapis lazuli vault
or heaven like an emerald seas surging waves
which cast bright pearls from stygian trenches:
dark night crawling with stars like the armour
of Alexanders legions glinting through tenebrous shades.
See the Pleiades like seven sisters sitting side by side
Venus palefaced as terrified girl and Mars
with the baleful eye of a he-lion. Ponder:
Did the Dogstar grow silvery grey or Capella
begin to glow like a scarlet carnelian by themselves?
Each might the spheres spin their cerulean twine
about the throats of thousands upon thousands
of blossoming narcissus and lay their distant fires
around the harvest of the water lilies. But -
if these lights are really fires, how has this harvest
never been sent to increase or diminish?
Without, wick or wood fire never gives
light and radiance. If fire is that which needs fuel
that which needs no fuel cannot be fire.
The Sun is the maker of fire, distinguish, my boy,
between the maker and the fire itself.
Or if that which you see is an army, who
is its general? Socrates spoke of seven
commanders of these troops, prudent and energetic.
The Moon (said he) is green and from it grows
salt and bowels of the earth, silver in stone.
Mars breeds ill-tempered iron and from the womb
of the Sun (so he maintained) all gold is born.
>Jupiter he claimed >is the father of tin
and all copper has Venus for its dam.
Quicksilver is the daughter of Mercury
and Saturn the mother of gloomy lead.
Thus did the Greek associate with seven worlds
these seven melting metals; are the words
of this great sage true? Reason! come
and arbitrate my argument with him. I say
these planets are mere agents, helpless
with no will of their own. Each is charged
as guardian of a certain function - but
a true leader could never be an agent,
a slave or servant - no - he must be the king
who brought into being the very stars themselves
and the greensward on which they play.
It must be his command that alone has raised
without a scaffold the foundations of sea and land,
his decree that harmonises dry earth
with humid water, his power that revolves
the swift and gateless millwheel of the heavens;
and through him the dusty world adorns itself
with countless beauties. Four fecund sisters
and their innumerable spawn praise and glorify
HIM without end beneath this finespun azure
pavilion - but - who has ever heard such praise
of the seven planets? Unless by some hallucinatory
tintinnabulation on the broken eardrum of the heart?
Seize the hand of God or youll regret it! Find
a new-minted ear, a fresh eye to gaze upon
this great sovereign - for he will not grant you
audience unless you cut off your ears and pluck
your eyes from the webs of this world.
Your lord summons you to the heights why
have you cast yourself in the Pit? Climb
to highest heaven on feet of knowledge
and wings of devotion.
Oh you who tread the wilderness
of Insolence, your body lard, your soul starved thin
your arms coiled like snakes around the neck
of this deceitful world (imagining shes some
gorgeous slut) and clasp to your bosom something
more venomous than a king cobra -
seclude yourself from the world or not,
it makes no difference, shell have her
vengeance, her stiletto-satisfaction in the end.
To expect fidelity from this infidel is
to blow on sifted ashes hoping for fire and warmth.
This ghoul, this vampire has kicked a million
like you off the wharf and drowned them
in the shoreless passageless sea.
The world is a scab: it hurts
but it feels so nice to scratch it.
You think its pleasant and cozy as hot milk and sugar
but when it means you ill, watch out:
neither Caesar nor the Emperor of China
can do a thing to save you.
Sometimes it appears to you as a young bride
dripping with earings, bracelets and a diadem
who with sinuously erotic gestures, blushing
like a virgin, removes from her face
first the dust of humility and then - the veil . . .
suddenly, just as you anticipate . . . well
we wont go into that - suddenly like a lunatic
she whips out a dagger and stabs you in the throat.
In doing battle with this psychopath forge yourself
a sword of patience, a helmet of faith;
pluck gnostic buds from the branch of religion
and gaze upon devotional hyacinths in the
in the pasture of knowledge. The here-and-now
is no mansion for the wise but merely
a thoroughfare to be passed and left behind;
it is a twig whose yield is forbidden us to enjoy
- no matter then it bears fruit of not.
Compared to God, the partnerless judge, this world
cannot be counted even as an atom.
If He cared a whit for the worlds worth
do you suppose Hed allow an unbeliever
to take from it even a sip of water?
This is but a store where you can buy
road-provision for your trip to the Hereafter,
only a book wherein you must read
the mysterious calligraphy of your Lord.
Do not deny these hints from the PROOF
(truth can never be denied); you may learn
most readily to decipher the divine script
if you enter the Prophets house - then
in your footsteps tulips and lilies will spring up
and water-mint grow. But God will not permit
you to enter this house except behind ALI
the hero whose glory in the conquest of Khaybar
ha spread from Qayrawan to China,
whose sword has dumbfounded the lions;
Ocean before his great heart has shrunk
into a single drop; his words are a restingplace
a lamp of enlightenment for the heart
his sword a pit of fear and confusion to the foe -
Gods gift to Muhammad - his name Ali
his nickname Kawthar. If you yearn to see
to glaze upon that blessed countenance, that holy face
then hurry to the threshold of the IMAM MUSTANSIR
and do him the honour to approach, face in the dust,
towards that Kaaba of this world and the hereafter
that sacred temple of glory and majesty.
The sun dims before his shining face and the universe
before his doorstep appears but a heap of dirt.
By your sword, by your words, the battlefield
and pulpit have at last attained to grandeur;
without your blessed face the world itself
remains unknown, naked and unadorned.
Only by your knowledge has religion been known:
religion is the frankincense, your heart the pyx.
Hail, PROOF of the land of Khorasan, well done!
This propaganda, this eulogy of the Prophet and his House.
The point of your eloquent pen is a lancet
stuck in the eye of the enemies of true faith.
Such astonishing brocades you spin - tell me
are the famous looms of Shustar hid in your heart?
Spend your remaining years in weaving
these poems of piety, and in devotion.
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