يا شيخ الإسلام الذي — أبو المعالي الطالوي — Saqi

O Shaykh of Islam, who
is the ultimate goal of my quest,
O finest learned scholar,
whose judgments are like shooting stars,
and you whose heights are a stronghold
against the calamities of misfortune,
and you whose domain is a sanctuary,
a place of safety for seekers.
Hearts yearn toward him,
from non-Arabs and Arabs alike;
then turn back from him, having
attained the utmost of their desire,
from a dew-moistened garden
with fertile grounds.
Its hills were drenched, and down bent
over it the rain-spouts of the clouds,
until its branches were clothed
and the boughs' heads donned turbans,
and the blossoms smiled, revealing
the daisies' cool, gleaming teeth.
Except for a youth at your door,
weeping with streaming tears;
he has a tormenting thirst
to sip the white honey.
From it he completes a copy
worn out by the passage of ages;
and one quire is missing from it,
which he copies from close at hand.
And it returns, offering praise
for the master of letters,
who speaks the decisive word when
kneecaps rub together,
and who pierces the adversary when
the Arabs' backs cry out.
May he keep rising ever upward,
through knowledge, to the loftiest ranks,
as long as bewitching song rings out
from gray doves atop the boughs,
and the luminous full moon shines,
rising in deep darkness,
and a star travels through the night,
heading for the circuit around the pole.