لمن يرى منطق للعقل سحار — أبو المعالي الطالوي

To one who sees, his speech is an enchantment to the mind;

whenever he speaks, thoughts are bewildered by it.

A letter from him came to me and reminded me

of youth’s abundance, when the abode of play was my home—

days when the bough of hopes flourished in its freshness,

time wore a smiling face, and passion was my neighbor.

No—rather, like upland blossoms that the hand of youth

spent the night opening, while rains clothed them in brocade;

or like wine circulated by the graces of one

whose sweet saliva—not wine—holds intoxication.

Within its folds, once longing is unfolded, are secrets;

in it are hopes and desires fulfilled for the soul.

Among them: my sipping from the cup’s mouth amid hills

on whose rain-drenched boughs birds sang,

among youths like radiant stars, journeying with whom

was a full moon whose lights shine in glory’s heaven—

especially the day the dew scattered its pearls

over a carpet of hills clothed in flowers,

in a garden where at dawn its nightingales sang,

while every hour of it is dawn-magic for the lover.

The air is turbulent and the rain pours down;

the lover waits expectantly and the cup flows lavishly.

Arise, my hope; let us renew our covenant with the cup,

for I yearn for the cup and cherish its memory.

Appear to us beside wine’s sun, a full moon of loftiness,

its halos stars and moons from among us.

Be safe and endure as long as a star journeys and

the morning sun rises and a planet appears on the horizon,

extolled in glory, blessed in station, while,

as you wish, destinies run according to what you choose.

Radiant ones, courted by flowers with their glances—

amid the hills—or is it the garden’s fragrant breeze?

Or has wine been blended with pure water, giving it

rays and lights in the cupbearer’s hand?

Or are they pearls gleaming upon the string of composition,

arranged upon maidens’ throats?

Or the verse of one whose signs of eloquence dazzled

beholders, leaving their eyes bewildered?

The virtuous, astute, discerning man—may youth never cease

to be his home, nor passion his neighbor;

may the cup’s course from his hand never be halted,

nor its circling, in which lifetimes are fulfilled.

Ever since he murmured at that station, the

wine-filter cleared, and when you answered the call, cares departed—

in a garden where the eyes of its narcissi wounded

the poppy’s cheek, while the drinkers gazed on.

The flowers smile and the dew streams;

the breeze blows gently and the wine flows lavishly

from the palm of a cupbearer whose face is like the full moon:

when it appears, moons hide along the horizon.

Sweet to kiss, honeyed in saliva—for us,

in his sweet saliva, not in wine, lies intoxication—

beneath spreading shade where flowers delighted

and birds warbled upon the hills of its pleasure ground.

It rose in station above the river of al-Ubulla, when

rivers flowed through its spacious hills.

Here she is, a maiden to whom no fault is attached,

as you see—except that her glance is sorcery.

Had Mihyar rivaled her in love poetry, he would not

have surpassed his forerunners through love poetry—Mihyar.

Abide supported, Muʿīn al-Dīn, possessor of a tongue

sweet in utterance; may thoughts never fail you.