Ismaili.NET - Heritage F.I.E.L.D.

. . . something in my horoscope . . . stars are against me . . .

Good heavens, drive these vapours away! It ill befits

the wise to rebuke the sublime and distant spheres.

If they make a profession of cruelty, in any case,

you make a habit of patience - and don t put off

till tomorrow what ought to be done today.

If you create an evil star for yourself

you can hardly expect a favourable horoscope.

He who acts like an angel acquires an angel s face.

Have not seen Spring come to the desert

giving each freshborn tulip the countenance of a star?

You, an intelligent being, ought to imitate

and accept for yourself the virtues of the wise.

Look, the narcissus, spun of silver and gold

like the crown of Alexander; the orange tree s

aureate fruits give it the grace of Caesar s pavilion.

The poplar is sterile because it has chosen fruitlessness;

if you turn away from Wisdom how will your head

be exalted? Trees which do not produce

are burned for fuel, which all they deserve.

If your tree bears the fruit of knowledge

you can govern the stars yourself. But beware

not to count among the sciences the arts

of penmanship and poetry, which are simply aimed

at acquiring worldly status and wealth - no,

that is something else entirely. One finds various words

in human speech, but after all, the magic spells

of a sorcerer and the revelations of a prophet

are by no means the same thing, any more

than a noble falcon can be compared

to a partridge. Prophets give the science of Truth

to those they deem worthy of such sovereignty;

Moses bestowed knowledge of Aaron - Samari

had no hand in the affair, just as you,

shackled, stumbling on your feet before the horseman

are not worthy of anything but slavery.

Admit it: you have sold yourself to the King of Shugnah

or the Emir of Mazandaran - aprofessional poet

or a minstrel (the only difference being that a poet

stands up to a declaim his flatteries, the minstrel

sits to pluck or toot). Bah! Someone ought to

slice out your insolent tongue before you write

another bloody poem about the box-tree or the tulip

or the bright moonface and curly ambergris-scented locks

of some insipid beloved, or produce yet another ode

in praise of the vast erudition of some nobleman

who in fact can only belch forth ignorance as a marsh

ferments illsmelling bubbles. You versify lies

out of greed, and falsehood is capital in the bank

of unbelief. Well, I am one who will reuse to cast,

beneath the feet of swine, this pearl - the Persian language.

I will show you how and when to bow and prostrate yourself

like a cypress in the morning breeze, the wiseman

humbles himself before the one whom God has chosen

among all creatures for a Guide, the whose works

of justice have erased from the world s face

every smudge of oppression: the Imam of the Time.

What sorcerer could make a magic to compare

with that of his lovers, the Partisans of the Imam?

So wise one might think him more than human,

so much more generous than his station demands,

justly seated in the place of highest honour,

the planet Mars set as a jewel in his bezel ring.

God to him, in whose Father s hand is written

the talisman of the bold feats of Khaybar, to him

in whose outward form one might discern the

the character of Ali, whose bright light of knowledge

binds the exoterist s eye. If he (this exoterist)

were truly seeking to become human he would drive

the donkeylike qualities from his head - how can he

reckon me a stupid as himself? How can counterfeit

be compared with genuine gold? Shouldn t it be obvious

that compared to his, my prose and verse so adorn

plain white paper that it gains the beauty of brocade?

Read my two books of poetry and discover how

the eloquence of Persian, the precision of Arabic verse

have combined in me.