In the garden, the rose commanded a cavalry of flowers,
And put to flames again the dwelling place of the bulbul.
In the crucible of the bud the nightingale purifies gold,
That the rose might craft itself a ring for its ear.
The rose will not open the opium-vial of the bud to the knowers of mysteries,
So long as it is withdrawn, master of the secret of the trance.
The bulbul teaches the Parliament of birds to the garden of children,
Like the Perfumer, ‘Attar, the rose makes clear its every chapter.
Eager waiting opens wounds in the nightingale’s heart.
O Lord! Why does the rose keep such a tight collar on the bud?
Know this! In the rosebower every leaf is a page of delicate meaning,
Each bud The treasury of inner truth, each rose The dawn of illumination.
Truly, the flame and cotton can have no dance together.
The roses enfold the bulbul, like a salamander, in flames.
It is the black burn at its breast that makes each poppy loved,
So the rose in the meadow cannot shy from the cruelty of the thorn.
No wonder the flames of jealousy turn the bulbul to ash;
The playful rose hangs, laughing from the neck of every branch.
The rose made the bulbul’s nest a howdah for its kin,
Thus it seems to have made ready its caravan of exile.
It is time the rose caused the mouths of baby nightingales to open,
And thus make shepherd’s pipes of the bulbul’s nest.
The rose begs the morning breeze for the dust of the Monarch’s feet
As salve to cure the eye of the ailing narcissus of the garden.
What a Lord is Sultan Suleyman, the sound and firm of heart,
For whom the sun is but a gilded rosette on the portico of his palace!
The scent that wafts from the markets of China is but a trace of his virtue’s scent.
The rose, lord of flowers, is but a leaf in the chapter of his generosity.
Were it not, once a year, to bow its head in the dust at his feet,
The rose would not have bejewelled its ruby crown with pearls of dew.
Your enemy’s head, drenched in blood on the point of your spear,
Is like that tall and slender sapling tipped by a rose.
In the era of your justice, it is time that the rose beg mercy, O Shah!
For taking the blood of the bulbul, to rouge its face.
The bud is ever tight-lipped but in describing your justice;
And the rose recites no litany but that of your kind gifts.
My Lord, I came but to rub my face in the tracks of your hounds.
To me they are the only thornless roses in the bower of this world.
The rose made the nest of the bulbul a bowl for begging,
And thus came importunate to your court like a ragged dervish.
The rose-bush has adorned itself with brands all bloody,
O lord of beauty, since it became the lover of your face.
Tears made of dew are born on the rose’s face,
As it bewails the ill fortune of your slave Hayâlî.
O you, mighty as Jemshid, though I be transitory, my words live on.
The rose itself is destroyed but its traces remain in the rose-water.
Though I have come after Necâtĺ and Nevâyî, why sorrow?
The thorn sprouts first from the branch and after the thorn, a rose.
Though the thorn of grief bloodied my heart like the bud,
The fruit of the sprout of my fortune’s garden is a rose.
Just as every point of rain has for its source a cloud,
As the roses are drawn without compasses in the shapes of circles,
Let prosperity be the bud of the rose-bower of your reign,
And you, with rose-garden cheeks, smile like a rose at every breath.