FÛZULÎ

The Rose Kaside

Out of the green screen it emerged and submitted its face, the rose

Wipe the verdigris from the mirror of the clean heart it did, the rose

O cup-bearer raise your cup, as the rose-bushes have manifested roses

You too are a pungent rose-bush, so manifest a rose

That moment has arrived when, for the sake of manifesting the wisdom

It will have the joy of opening its chest as the foremost of the ranks of flowers, the rose

The season has arrived when, for opening the domains of the heart,

It will be commander of the army of flowers in the rose garden, the rose

If you are a sensible human, have a tour of the garden in this season

As, with its hues and scents, it has turned the garden into heaven itself, the rose

It is this day which is perfect for wandering in the bazaar of the garden

Where the white blossom is the money-lender and a perfume seller, ʿ A ṭṭ âr himself, the rose

Having left the banquet of the rose garden, it returned again

And offered a glass of wine to the people of repentance, the rose

Just like Joseph came out and became the Sultan of Egypt

Having opened its bud it has become the ornament of the rose-garden, the rose

Imagine the closed bud like the solitude of Zuleykha

It emerged from there like Joseph with his skirt torn, the rose

Imagine, the rose has opened up and found calmness from the morning breeze

The morning breeze is Gabriel, and the heart of the Chosen Ahmad is the rose

It is the dew drop of the rose garden of the face of the Apostle of God

It tells of Him every moment by spreading its scent, the rose

It has spread in all directions pearls of dew from its colourful petals

Like the smiling lips of the beautiful ones, it has scattered jewels, the rose

Dazzling the doyens of gnosis with the shape of its state

It has opened a treasure of secrets for the people of gnosis, the rose

The morning breeze scatters the rose petals over greenery

As if the greenery is the sky and its wandering star the rose

In jest it concealed from the eyes the bud’s ink pot

No way of finding it, with any colour; What a trickster, the rose!

It turned away from the thorns and wants to separate, for no reason

Like a despicable magnate it is ashamed of its origins, the rose

What if the thorn of jealousy should prick the bosom of the rosebush

As soon as it separates from the bush, it enters the company of strangers, the rose

If the thorn should burn with disappointment in the flames, this is how it should be:

Though it draws beauty and ornament from the thorn, it becomes a darling to others, the rose

It has adopted infidelity as its trait and custom, so much so that

In the garden of the world it never shares in the fruit of life, the rose

I know not on account of what nightingale its blood is boiling continuously,

At times it is a prisoner of the thorn, at times up in flames, the rose

I strolled in the garden before dawn and saw it opening its notebook

It was manifesting this opening verse committed to memory, the rose

O cypress of the elegant gait! It is in love with your beauty, the rose

It has torn apart its wounded chest chest for you, the rose

What’’s a rose in comparison to you; there are a hundred different faces to you

You are a beautiful veiled idol; it’s just a common bazaar sweetheart, the rose

It has concealed the secret of your love in its chest in such a way

Even if they hanged it by its feet it would manifest it not, the rose

Every dawn it sets out in all directions to find kohl for the eyes

It asks the morning breeze about the dust of your threshold, the rose

Understanding from the messenger of the morning breeze that you are strolling in the rose-garden

It has prepared a golden treasure to scatter at your feet, the rose

Do not imagine these are rose-petals; gathered colourful bricks it has,

To draw a wall to protect its treasury of gold, the rose

So that the force of the wind does not disturb the throne of green,

It has struck a nail with its shadow to each of its tablets, the rose

Every dawn it draws a hundred circles on the plate of the rose garden

Manifestly it is using the beak of the nightingale as a pair of compasses, the rose

To enlighten the night darkness of the rose garden for a celebration

It has hung a candle full of light on every tree, the rose

It has lit so many candles but to what avail?

It turned the nightingale’’s day into darkness with its heart smoke, the rose

It turned the abode of this world to the vastness of paradise, but

For the nightingale, it darkened the world like a bud, the rose

If only they could understand: each of its petals is a silent tongue of its condition

It gives news of those veiled with dust, the rose

It is because of the wailing cries of the nightingale,

Not for no reason, that it has awakened from the sleep of non-existence, the rose

O gardener, this is the era of the Just Sultan, beware

Never allow it to be unjust and set the rose garden on fire, the rose

Let it not rip its bud-like shirt with the hand of oppression

Let it repent for its excessive excitement, the rose

Or else a report of its condition will be submitted to the Sultan at once

And it will fall foul of his wrath for its improper stance, the rose

He is such a rose in the garden of caliphdom that the spring of his prosperous state,

Ever since it enlighted the world, it stopped suffering from the thorn, the rose

In his just era, air was imprisoned in the dungeon of the dew-drops

Evidently it suffered slight offence from air, the rose

The morning breeze no longers transports rose-petals in its litter:

It has no right to ask the morning breeze to carry any load, the rose

Ever since it became aware of the cold wind of his world-burning rage

The garden of sedition of the evil no longer dares open a rose

The radiance of the heart of the believers is the candle which lights up the recluse of his kindness

In the rose-garden of his rage the infidels’ hearts have been branded like a rose

From the lord of religion, the felicitous Sultan Suleyman,

From the beauty of his good nature it acquires the delight of its modes, the rose

Since all eternity the aged celestial sphere has brought its affection to head

Just like the rose-faced ones who decorate their headgear with a rose

It would have never been disturbed by the change of seasons

Had it obtained for itself a ferman of perpetual safe passage, the rose

It would never be in demand with this colour in the bazaar of taste

Had it not made the decoration of its seal in the shape of a dînâr coin, the rose

To be a musician at his banquet, it grabs a tambourine

And learns the art of musical rotation from the nightingale every morning, the rose

In the kitchen of his generosity where the hyacinth is a servant to his smoke

It is not sitting idle, it has taken up the art of fetching thorns, the rose

The lands which he conquered are spared the affliction of sedition

Just as it inevitably separates from the thorns when it blooms, the rose

To describe the attributes of his beauty to the iris, it circulates

In the rose-garden a scroll which it opens every dawn from the buds, the rose

Is it a drop of dew, or has it opened its hand like a beggar

And taken a precious pearl from the treasure of his kindness, the rose?

In his era it has not abandoned the workplace of the rose-bush

Standing on one leg, it has become an architect, the rose

Do not believe it to be a dew drop; in the days of his justice, the nightingale’’s

Coin it has kept on its bosom, but it is spent on grieving, the rose

He is one bestowing cheerfulness on the realm with his unblemished outfit

If there exists in the garden of this world from paradise a rose

From the fixing of the world the celestial intention is he

From growing thorns the expectation of the foresighted is a rose

It does not diminish its luster to sing the praises of the thorn

It does not become a thorn when it bestows beauty and ornament to the thorn, the rose

The fruit of prosperity’’s sappling is this just Sultan

He is, of the sultans who came earlier, in the amounts of the [nine] heavens, a rose

If all the previous Sultans are no longer, no reason for rancour:

When they bear fruit, it is the custom for the trees to shed a flower

Fuzûlî, sing the praises of this Shah, for in the garden of his praise

It would have been its nightingale, had it found the power of speech, the rose

Though you have no esteem, do manifest his praise

It is the custom of this period for the thorn to be a companion of the rose

I do have hope as long as it is the custom of the turning of fortune that

Once a year it submits its face to the world, the rose

Unlike the garden of fortune, for him all the time, and from the garden of conquest

Let the kindness of All-Mighty God keep opening the freshest rose