 Section 0 of The Dewan of Zebunnessa. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dedication by Jesse Duncan Westbrook. Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Thy Pleasance, Princess, now is desolate. Where once the gleaming watercourses traced their paths among the Cypresses, a waste stretches beyond thy ruined garden gate. The Rose is dead, the Bulbul flown away, and Zebunnessa but a memory. But where the wrapped fake ears God's praises tell, where at the shrine the pious pilgrims meet, thy verses mark fee, holy tongues repeat. Thy name is honoured and remembered well, for through thy words they win a fleeting gleam of the divine beloved of their dream. So might we, even in an alien tongue, bring from thy mystic garden where, apart, thou dwelt communing with thy burning heart. These echoes of the songs that thou hast sung, and catch thy vision of the soul's desire. The immortal phoenix with its wings of fire. J.D.W. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal One by Zebunnessa. Translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook. Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. To thee, first, from the clouds of whose mercy is borne the rose of my garden, I look. Let the praise of thy love, the beginning adorn of the verse of my book. A thirst for thy love are my body and soul. Like mansure the grains of this clod, my body, cry out. They are parts, thou the whole, themselves they are God. The waves of thy deluge of love are the boat of mortality-roll. Known Noah could lift from the deeps till it float my love-drowned soul. As slaves the powers of the darkness for me will obedient fly. If a word of my praise be accepted by thee, like Suleiman I. And now no more do the ready tears start as laments from my tongue, for like pearls the blood-drops that are drawn from my heart on my lashes are hung. Bear thou, home Mokfi, with patience thy pain, it is endless, and leave thou the night of thy passions, for then shall not Kezier attain such a spring of delight. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal too by Zebun Nissa. Translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook. Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. O thou, who all things mortal and divine hast fashioned, and by whom alone we live, may there still shine the torch of hope that thou to us didst give. Within us stirs the leaven of thy love, as streams of water of thy mercy run. Look from above and bless Mahmud and all that he hath done. Whether it be in Mecca's holiest shrine, or in the temple pilgrim feet of trod, still thou art mine, wherever God is worshiped, is my God. The morning I shall greet with tears and sighs, and from my heart that burns with holy fire, a breath shall rise to burnish thus my mirror of desire. Give me thy tears, O Mokfi, let them reign in quenching torrents on my burning heart. So hot its pain, at every sigh I breathe the flames out start. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal III by Zebun Nissa. Translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook. Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. O prophet, o'er the world thy soul-compelling banner is unfurled. See how thy faith hath spread till Iran and Arabia are led. Thy lips unclose, like petals of a newly-budded rose, and from them flow thy words of wisdom, till not only know the sons of men, but birds within the gardens sing again thy words of gold. O thou whose beauty I with joy behold, nature in truth made never loveliness like to thy youth, snared me at half till fame would I renunciations path with patience tread, and follow where thy holy feet have led. But how can I, my cherished joys, to my poor heart deny? O, even more, my cherished sorrows can I yield, for sore my heart doth bleed, where cruel love hath wounded it indeed. Look thou and see where from my wounds there drops continually a crimson flood, but fragrant flowers are springing from my blood, and every thorn wherewith my weary wandering feet are torn turns to a rose. O, Markfee, if the caba-keeper close to thee his door, complain not, thou possessest even more a holy place, for look into the well-beloved face, over his eyes arches more fair than caba-gates arise, thy heart shall bend, itself an archway welcoming the friend. My eager heart a-pang of rapture stings, when the long-wandering wind unto me brings, the perfume of thy presence on its wings. And so I wait in this my sorrow's night, until thou givest to my weary sight thy beauty, for my longing eyes delight. The world through Islam light in darkness saw, and walked safe, guided by thy scroll of law, bowing to God in hope and holy awe. To God, who sinners can forgive and lead, inscrutable himself, yet who can read the hidden heart, and comprehend its need. O, Prophet, shining like a lonely gem, the fairest of Heaven's highest diadem, look on men's need and intercede for them. Thou art the veil through which the light doth shine, nay, thou thyself the very torch divine. Not else behold these dazzled eyes of mine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal Five by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Here is the path of love, how dark and long its winding ways, with many snares beset, yet crowds of eager pilgrims onward throng, and fall like doves into the Fowler's net. Now tell me what the grain that drew the dove, the mould it was upon a cheek so fair. Tell me of what was wove the net of love, the wandering curls of the beloved's hair, the festival of love is holding here, the goblet passes, drink thou of this wine, yay, drain it to the leaves, and never fear intoxication that is all divine. How easy it is to sigh and to complain, all the world weeps to give its woe relief, but proudly in thy heart conceal thy pain, and silent drink the poison of thy grief. Here is the source of light, the heavenly fount, here is the vision of eternal grace, brighter than Moses thou, when from the mount he came, God's radiance shining in his face, the wine at night unto the morning lends its exultation, morning to the night its dream bequeaths in turn, so never ends the sequence of the happy soul's delight. But, Markfee, tell me where the feast is made, where are the merry-makers? Low, apart, here in my soul the feast of God is laid, within the hidden chambers of my heart. My heart is looted of its treasure, left careless and unprotected, to my shame, and thus I weep, feeling myself bereft, loving myself to blame. With mine own hands the altar fire I lit, has flame within a lamp my heart of fire glows, even through the body casing it, and burns it with desire. Could I, my foolish heart to ashes burn, then might I rest, my sorrow then might cease. Unto the ocean of thy love I turn, to find within it peace, sink within its waters, nor above its surface can my weary limbs uplift. Deep-drawned I, within the sea of love, lapped by its waves must drift. A wilderness this lonely heart of mine, till love transformed it to another guise, and now it shines as fair as the divine gardens of paradise. I would the time my longing might outpour, my grief might turn to hymns, my pain might tell in songs like that sweet singer sang of yore. David of Israel. Unto the fields like pecking birds I go, to gather up the ears of golden grain, but only tears, not corn, I gather, lo, they fall in floods like rain. O wise one, at the feast of love be glad, but careful too, and guard thy cup of wine. In ecstasy I drank the share I had. O sage, take heed of thine, with slumber mock thee heavy are thine eyes, and though thy tale has not attained its close, so deep a langer on thy spirit lies, seek thou for it repose. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazol Seven by Zeb Unnessa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. As at the coming of the spring-tide rains, rivers of sap through growing trees upstart, so runs thy love throughout my very veins, yea, to the tender tendrils of my heart. I beat my flinty heart till from it flies the spark divine of the eternal fire, and from the flashing gleams I see arise the lightning of thy love, my heart's desire. Come, O ye weak in faith, for help is here. Behold these flashes from our hearts that fly. Had ye the eye of faith they would appear in the white light that gleamed on Sinai. Come to the feast of love, for it is spread. Share ye the wine-cup where we drink so deep. Behold the wine, the tears that we have shed. The wine-cups are our eyes that ever weep. But as we drink, upon us falls the spell, the dream, the vision, and the ecstasy. The wine of pain turns blood, nor can we tell if we exist or if we cease to be. Within the jungle of this world of woe, the lion of desire stalks ravenous. Gooded with faith, let us as hunters go. If we resist him, he will flee from us. Oftentimes my heart can sing and can rejoice, whoring forth hymns throughout my rapturous days. Alas, that powers of evil choke my voice, and blast my thoughts, and burn my psalms of praise. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. Gazal Eight by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. From the glance thou bestowed, oh, beloved, flow's beauty no words can express. My life, it were little to offer, in thanks for thy bountifulness. How shamed were the pious assembly, how grieved in their hearts when they heard that, for love of thy fluttering tresses, the uttermost nations were stirred. My heart is riven in fragments, ravaged by tears of my grief, but to one whom thy lashes have wounded, never their cometh relief. At thy feet, oh, haughty beloved, I lay down the pride of my brow. I am near to thy heart as thy raiment. Why, sayest, a stranger art thou? Oh, Muckfee, walk boldly like Majnun in the valley of grief undismayed. Goat round with thy new dedication, the promise of love thou hast made. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. Gazal Nine by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Oh, Sockie, do thy task. Into this moon-like goblet pour the golden wine that, shining like the sun, from out the dusky flask comes, till my goblet bubbles o'er, as from the clouds the dawn when night is done. Behold my luckless heart, so broken, so dissolved by pain, it even flows in tears between my lashes, and yet how can I part with it, while still to me remain its shards? I wait till it is burnt to ashes. I knew long, long ago your promises were less than not. I blotted them for ever from my mind. Why was I born to know an age above all others fraught with love ungrateful and with fate unkind? But grasp thy joy. Who knows, Mockfee, what may to thee befall? The firm foundations of the earth may shake, the breeze that blows may, if this empty life be all. The bubble of our vain existence break. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal Ten by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. I ask not from heaven that it give fortune or power. I ask but to garden a part. Where for the brief hour that we are appointed to live, of earth the delight that is nearest to divine, might be mine, to live in the love of the friends of my heart. The rapturous nightingale sings, wooing the rose in the midst of the garden new-born, but only the gardener knows of the labour that brings to the garden its beauty. He toiled in the heat, and his feet have been wounded by many a thorn. Immortal is beauty, for, see, like the sun in his might, it illumines the world and all things that are made with the joy of its light. For this be our thanks unto thee, and for the great teachers vouchsafed in our need to guide and to lead their presence to be our safe shelter and shade. Upon us thy mercy bestow, consider how weak, how afflicted we are, and how sorrowful, then, when we passionate seek for oblivion, and thou dost know how time on our desolate spirit has beat and brought us defeat, oh, save us, nor let us endure it again. Oh, happy the seer who knows good and evil are one, who has learned how self-poised he may live, who is shaken by none, to whom spring with its rose and autumn are equal, not him canst thou teach or careless one preach to him, thou indeed hast no counsel to give. If perilous love doth thee lead, if thou enter his track, in the desert like a mad noon, thou dwellst evermore, thou shalt never look back, nor even take heed to thy life if thou lose it or keep it, and pain shalt disdain, nor seek on the limitless ocean of love for ashore. Oh, mock-fee, as out of the nest the fledgling birds fall and fluttering helpless are caught in the snares, so see after all thou art caught like the rest, for, flying too boldly, thy feeble wings fail, and thou dost bewail thy fate, thus enmeshed in the net of thy cares. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 11 by Zebun Nissa. Translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook. Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Awake! Arise! My soul! For it is spring! Let the Narcissus, with its scent divine, cast its bewitchment, let the Saki bring his idol, for indeed he worships wine. To the forbidden path turn not aside, and tear in us beloved, let thine eye look on thy victims trampled in thy pride, who for a glance from thee would gladly die. Some pay their worship at the Kaba shrine, some pray within the temple courts apart, but, mock-fee, think what secret joy is thine, to bear thine eye to lever in thy heart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 12 by Zebun Nissa. Translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook. Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Friends had I, many friends, who shared with me days glad and sad, but mine they are no more. I am cut free from all I had. Dust falls within the cup of Kaikobad and King Jamshid, nor wrecks the world if they were sad or glad, or what they did. Only today have we, and through the sand, with feet that tire, we march, but never reach the promised land of heart's desire. I follow on where wisdom's feet have led, and firmly hold. The while this hard and thorny path I tread, her garments fold. How many hearts, oh love, thy sword hath slain, and yet will slay! They bless thee, nor to God will they complain at judgment day. When in the mosque to seek thine idol there thou wendest, may thy steps fold gently, mark fee, lest thou scare the birds away. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal Thirteen by Zebun Nissa. Translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook. Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Why should I argue that on Sinai celestial radiance close? I cannot reason, though the world deny. My heart enlightened knows. My heart is hot within me, yea, has burst in flames of love, the while so fierce that, like a drop to slake my thirst, were all the floods of Nile. So deep in Sinai I cannot wend where holy pilgrims fare to Mecca, even if Abraham, God's friend, should come to lead me there. I tire of wisdom's kingdom which is mine, I tire of reason's sway, passion of love, oh, carry me to thine a hundred miles away. Although when I come unto the water's side the obedient waves retire, my flaming heart exultantly shall guide like Moses' torch of fire. Though evil days are mine, of joy bereft, with pain that never ends, fate do with me your worst, there still is left the friend beyond all friends. Tell me, oh Markfee, is it I who sin? Is this my sin I bear? Is it the bodies or the souls within that lived and sinned elsewhere? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 14 by Zebun Nisse, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Oh, foolish heart, thy carelessness how can I comprehend? Hast thou no strength, no will, to tear apart the barrier that divides me from my friend? See how the budding flower, emerging fair from out her torn green dress, his beauty is in the garden for her hour, has usuf in his youthful loveliness. Go, breeze of spring, haste to tell Yaqub, blinded by his tears, the tidings that shall end his sorrowing and lift the darkness from his troubled years. Treading love's path so long under such heavy burdens did I bow, at last my chastened heart has grown so strong, no task, no pain, can bend my spirit now. Oh, fortunate, more blessed than Alexander's lot is mine, come to me, O ye thirsty, this my fate, to know the giver of celestial wine. I have wiped clean my heart from actions, yea, and from desires as well, and yearn alone for peace, to have no part at judgment day, either in heaven or hell. Behold the fire renewed within my heart, my sighs have lashed it with their breath until the flames outstart, nor may this feeble cage, my body, stay the fluttering of this bird, my soul, that longs to fly away. The rocks would melt and into tears would flow, could they but hear the never-ending murmur of my woe? For in the dark foreboding of my heart there sounds the warning bell that calls the caravan to start. O love, I have bewailed for all these years thy tyranny, but none has heard my voice except my tears. Behold how poor I am, but yet so proud, I would not sit at Hottim's table with the eager crowd. See, I have watched throughout the lonely night of separation, when there never came my heart's delight, and in my desolation tears of blood gushed from my stricken, widowed heart in never-ending flood. Yet to me, purged by grief, does hope arise, my withered chaplets change to fragrant flowers of paradise. Love holds me in these cruel fetters bound, my faithfulness to thee. Beside thy feet a beaten hound, I crouch and fawn for crumbs of love from thee. O mock thee, if thy sighs could reach the bosom of the sea, even within the cold and lightless deep caught from thy heart a quenchless flame should leap. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Of deeper die, so in my heart a flower of passion blows, see the dark stain of its intensity, deeper than all. This is my pride, that I, the rose of all the world have sought, and, still unwirried in the eager quest, fainted nor failed have I, and murmured not. Thus is my head exalted over the rest, my turban glorified. O blessed pain, O precious grief I keep, and sweet unrest, desire that dies not, longing past control, my heart is torn to pieces in my breast, and for the shining diamond of the soul I pine in vain. Behold the light that from thy torch of mercy comes to bless the garden of my heart, beloved one, with the white radiance of its loveliness, till my wall's shadow shall outvi the sun, and seem more bright, I humbly sit apart. The carbar courts the true believer's tread, I dwell outside, nor mix my praise with theirs. Yet every fibre of my sacred thread, more precious is to God than all their prayers, he sees the heart. O mock-fee sorrowing, look from the valley of despair and pain, the breath of love like morning Zephyr blows, pearls from thine eyelids fall like gentle rain upon the garden, summoning the rose, calling the spring. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Gazal Seventeen by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. The wine of my delight has lost its taste. The earth of my existence turns a waste, no wholesome grass grows there, but only weed. My flaming spring of life has passed indeed. I searched for joy, but never found the end, my empty hands outstretched, can greet no friend, and if God's pardon never come to me, then less than withered grass my prayers must be. But, mock-fee, look with a discerning eye, deeper than thy despair thy bliss may lie. Though on the path of love thy feet may tire, new strength shall come to thee, and new desire. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Gazal Seventeen by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Tyrannical love that goads me and gives me no rest, as proud as thine arrogant self is this heart in my breast. It will keep in its pain its faithfulness, though it be trampled beneath thy disdain. This mirror, my heart, is broken against my desire. O heaven, give me not of your pity, nay, rather admire my soul that is proud, my head, though I beat it in sorrow, has never been bowed. Think not that with joy and with ease I pursue my desire, with heart that is weary, with footsteps that lag and that tire I follow my quest, to attain through the difficult way to the kingdom of rest. Yet, mock-fee, look up from thy desolate region of night, and see how the army of sorrow has taken to flight. Dawn comes and despair has vanished before the miraculous arrows of prayer. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal Nineteen by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Desolate One O when shalt thou the shining garden see again. Keep thou within thee, holy and apart, the garden of thy heart. Has the long-prisoned bird forgetting that it ever flew and heard songs of the wild and pinions wide unfurled makes of the cage its world. No fear indeed thou hast, oh heart within the net of love, held fast of separation's bitter agony. Thy love is one with thee. Sadly we wait and tire and sight of the beloved-faced desire in vain, till in our hearts the hope is born of resurrection mourn. Oh heart, thine be no less than the ascetic Brahman's faithfulness, than knotted veins his wasted body-bears, as sacred thread he wears. What is a lover's fate? What shall befall to him unfortunate? The world shall cry to please its idle whim, crucify him. Why dost thou then complain that on thy feet there drags this heavy chain? Nay, it befits thee well such weights to wear, much hast thou learned to bear, as far upon the hills despairing far hard, weary of life's ills welcomed kind death and wept, so for relief weep thou and salve thy grief, and see the thorny waste whereon thy bruised feet their pathway traced. This wilderness touched by thy blood that flows, blooms fragrant as the rose. Oh love, shall I repine the noose of death around my neck to twine at thy behest? Nay, if thy glory gain, proud am I in my pain. Oh Markfee, if thy fate be that without the garden dazzle at thou dwell, wreck not of it. Life is a dream, and we that seem to live and move and love no more at all than shadows on a wall. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazel 20 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Safely the kings had kept their regal seat, nor ever known the poison of defeat, had not the Turks the invading army led, and the crown toppled from each kingly head. So were we not, oh master, led by thee. Vain were our struggles scant our victory. How strong thou hast become, oh moth, how great, worshipping thus the flame. This is thy fate, vainly to love and die, yet thou canst bear the burning sparks and ever scorn despair. Thou noest, fluttering nearer to the fire, in death thou shalt be won with thy desire. Oh cruel love, when on the judgment day thy tyranny, God shall, in full repay, and all the blameless blood that thou hast shed shall be revenged upon thy haughty head. Black shall the place of judging be, no less than carbola's accursed wilderness. Happily indeed, oh judge, wilt thou be kind, and pity in thy heart for sinners find. Think of the memory of their disgrace, how dark humiliation stains their face, the shame that stings and goads them to repent. Will these not be sufficient punishment? Within the desert of the world astray, how many weary wanderers lose their way, but love with beckoning hand appears to bless, finds them a pathway through the wilderness. And though, like Majnoun, in the wild they roam, leads them through toils and tribulations home. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Garzaal XXI by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Unto the garden of attainment near our pathway led, and never were our eyes unhungered fed with vision of thy blessed countenance. Never a glance attained we of that face for ever fair, wherefore my tears fell down in floods like rain, and as I sighed, I thought of my desires unsatisfied, and memory summoned up with vain regret the garden where we met, but meet no more, I tell my heart with pain. What have I then to do with high estate? Fortune I lay aside, and all wherein the world has taken pride. Yet in this day of my humility, precious to me as wine of kings, I hold my cup of fate. Despair not, sorrow laden mock thee, though no grass appears within this desert watered by thy tears. Why, with their arguing, do learned men question God's mercy when his works, his infinite compassion show? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 22 by Zabun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Green is my garden, watered by my tears, and through my soul the perfume of the rose, kindling my heart with its enchantment flows. Oh, Saki, bring the cup, for there appears gleaming within the garden through the night, a radiance fair, our feasting to illum. What is this glamour shining through the gloom? My heart's blood, glowing, yields the heavenly light. Oh, I have drunk my cup of cherished grief, and love the torment of my wounded heart. As the scars heal I tear their lips apart, and in my pain find rapturous relief. Why should I then permit the winds of care to ruffle thus my soul, as airs of spring through the beloved's tresses wantoning, for I have risen to fortune from despair. Oh, fear not, if within the house of prayer the feeble camphor candle fails and dies, from out the flaming furnace of my sighs will rise another light, more fierce, more fair. The perfumed winds that with the dawn arise, have they not, Mark thee, caught thy soul away and drenched it with delight, so all the day they're cling about thee, airs of paradise? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Gazal 23 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. For my love's madness all the world on me half heaped its scorn, so from its ways I flee to find a refuge from its cruelty. A hermitage, with peace my soul to bless, here in a corner of the wilderness, unseen by secular eyes shall I possess. Who is the man who boasts to be love's slave, and yet this petty life of his would save? Poor love, whose votaries are not more brave. When I was young I asked, and love gained said, what slips, what wanderings, on love's road I made, until I summoned wisdom to my aid. The mirror of my heart I burnish bright, until, reflected fair for my delight, the self's eternal beauty greets my sight. Like Yaku be blinded by his agony, no face in all the world is ought to me. What use have eyes, except to look on thee? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Gazal 24 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. O burning heart, canst thou keep hidden? See how flames outstart, and vapour from thy sighs will darken in the stars within the skies. Driven by my love I must wander like Majnun, where the desert dust falls on his weary head, eternally for Leila doomed to shed his unavailing tears. The soul by love enlightened never fears the unseeing world, that says he must be mad, who treads within love's ways, but joyful he and wise, for love has given new vision to his eyes. See, Makhvi, cruel love, how in his haughtiness he rides above the hearts of men, how red his sword with lover's blood that he has shed. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Gazal 25 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. When I behold the garden in the spring, rejoicing like a nightingale I sing, and if the cruel gardener with his guile try to ensnare me like a rose I smile, the morning breeze that from the garden flies can give no joy, no gladness to my eyes, for useless breeze, never to me he brings the fragrance of thy garments on his wings. But here before the garden door I wait, why should I deem myself unfortunate? For by thy holy threshold shall I stay, and with my lashes sweep its dust away. This bird, my heart, is taken in thy net and flutters unavailingly. But yet thy captive though it be, how canst thou keep prisoned the size that from my bosom leap? O rare and precious phoenix of the soul, vainly I sought for thee, beyond control my heart is yearned for thee, ever thy wings have hung above my soul's imaginings, thou enemy that holds me from my quest, if even in the sea thou enterest, when from my anger thou dost seek to flee, my burning soul will find and conquer thee. O bobble, glad within the garden sing, tis mark thee who has won for thee the spring that blossoms in thy heart. But in her own, the barren winds of lonely autumn moan. O love, tell me what is thy nature, that out of my kingdom of pride thou canst ravish my soul and canst hold it and keep it enslaved at thy side. Who knows of thy infinite wisdom, who knows what thy lovers have borne when madmen the world has proclaimed them and cast them derision and scorn. To drink of my blood I am thirsting, to shed it abroad like a sea, to sacrifice all am I seeking, to die as a victim for thee. My heart through the anguish of loving has swooned neath the load of its grief. Come thou with thy magic, O music, and give to my spirit relief. Like Iub I sit in the ashes or whelmed by the wrath of the skies, yet out of the night of my sorrow shall hope, like the morning arise. To the desolate mountains, like Fahad, by sorrow and longing possessed, I have wandered with pain and with yearning, with hope and despair in my breast. Yet, Markfee, unveiled is thy secret, abroad all thy passion is told. Who saw not the beauty of Yusuf when he in the market was sold? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ghazal 27 by Zabun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. I have no need for wine. To me the languorous and magic scent breathed by the flowers within the garden, lent intoxication that is more divine. Forgive me, then, I pray, that I know wine in the assembly coft, for I have drunk of a diviner draught, its fragrance ever haunts me night and day. My heart a bird doth seem, but never joyfully can soar and sing. For, shut within its cage of sorrowing, it sees the garden only in a dream. Shall I not then complain when every atom of my body cries against your tyranny, oh cruel skies, that yield me days so dark and full of pain? Grant me, oh fate, this boon, give me a little day of joy, of spring, when even in its cage my heart might sing glad as a bird. Death comes, thou knowest, soon. Although I seem so poor, pity me not for empty-handedness, my haughty eagle-soul I still possess, and I have had the courage to endure. How many, many years, within the prison walls of lonely grief, shall I remain, and never know relief, like Yakub, blinded by my useless tears? Though my proud soul, torn from its saddle, low into the dust, may be by cruel hands of fate down thrust, I know my feet will somehow reach the goal, as through life's desert fare loves pilgrims, mark thee, may it be thy pride unto love's realm, their caravan to guide, thy footsteps be the bell to lead it there. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazel 28 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, redfillavervox.org by Newgate Novelist. How uselessly and long I struggled hard with thee, mine enemy, nor from the fight ought have I won, my traitorous heart I guard, and turn away forever from thy sight. What wonder if the fire within me rise into a flame, out leaping fierce and swift, and that the heavy vapour of my sighs, unto the darkened eyes of heaven, should drift? Think not, though at the feast no more I sit that I have done with joy, there still remains the dream that once was mine. I cherish it, like wine its memory courses in my veins. What, though, within this valley of despair from sorrow, I can never find so cease, may I be given, in answer to my prayer, one day at least of rest, one night of peace, so sad my fate that, though I long and toil until my forces flag and faint and tire, I cannot burnish off the stains that soil, the rust that dims my mirror of desire. Though poor I am indeed, yet weak am I, and cannot dare with my irresolute will, the purse that holds my treasure to untie, its golden harvest in my lap to spill. And yet, oh mock thee, if with eyes made clear, freed from the world's illusion, thou shalt see low, the fakier's torn garments shall appear more regal than the robes of majesty. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Gazal 29 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Impatient were my hands, their haste never could they untie the knot of fate, so vain it is to wail my life-laid waste, my hours unfortunate. And strange it is that even in my heart the sweet tormenting flame of my desire is quenched, impatiently I pulled apart the brands and killed the fire, and never did the blossoms of success within my hope's enchanted garden bloom, and my fair beacon light of happiness is sunk in gloom, faithless, beloved, many friends are thine. So many love, and have been loved by thee, they give their hearts, what carest thou for mine? What need hast thou of me? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Gazal 30 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. O rival, snatch not from my lips away the cup that holds the wine of my delight. The mirror of my joy turns cold in grey, darkened before my sight. As through the gloom the radiant sun above comes brightening the world and shades depart, so do I burnish with the oil of love the rust from off my heart. I vainly stretch imploring hands that long to touch hope's gleaming garment as she flies, though my desire may fail, yet hope is strong and keen and never dies. When on the cup that held the drink divine of last night's feast the light of morning falls, the joy of night, the magic of the wine, the goblets sight recalls. Like thee, O far-hard, in my loneliness toiling upon the mountains I have been, but never drank the sherbet of success sweet as thy lips shireen, mortals we are, and fashioned thus of earth, vain mock fee is this world in which we trust. Dust is the rank of kings, the pride of birth, yea, thou thyself art dust. Down in the dust and sunken in disgrace my honour lies for all the world to see, but why should I bear shame upon my face? What is the honour of the world to me? Although the times on my unhappy head have heaped the burdens I can hardly bear, I have not wept, I smile in pride instead, upon my brow are graved no lines of care. For many years half sorrow dwelt with me, yet I repine not, and so fiercely wage my war against despair it turns to flee. I am the roostom of this later age. Thou callous fate upon me vengeance reek, O breezes blowing from the heavens above, bring unto me what I, like Yakub, seek. The perfume of the garments of my love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 32 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Hey, son, oh, Saki, bring the wine that it may grant its quickening to my dead heart, and to the withered flowers come like the showers that give the resurrection of this spring. What weary days are these that never in the perfumed ways the bulbul sings among the cypress trees. Only the morning breeze finds entrance there, and with the roses plays. Marcia, thou canst heal, thou wise physician, hear our hearts appeal, give us the bitter draft to cure our grief, let relief, blame not the shrinking from thy cup we feel. Glimmer not, pearly dawn, let not the veil of night be yet withdrawn, I long to send with arrows of my sighs unto the skies my eager prayers before the night be gone. I craved release from griefs that burn and pains that never cease, but all my Christ to heaven were empty breath, not even death coming at last could give my spirit peace. If on the judgment day, grieving for my transgressions, I shall pray for mercy for the evil I have done, oh self-existent one, grant that my tears shall wash the sin away. O Mark thee, for thy fate, be not thou fearful nor disconsolate. Hire upon the day of reckoning, fakier than king, there shall be then none lowly, and none great. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 33 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Cast not, beloved, on me such angry looks from thy narcissus eyes, already conquered by their sorcery, before thy feet, my heart, a captive lies. Knotted within my heart the very cords that answered to thy touch, my heart strings at thy presence, thrill and stot, for I have sighed and have lamented much. O ye who sleep in peace, you know not of the troubles love can send, the days whose tribulations never cease, the weary nights that drag without an end, there then does Mecca lie. Here is the kibla where I make my prayer. Tell me the physic for my malady. The anodyne for grief is everywhere. O love, where dost thou lead, upon what travel fares our caravan? By Hitch as desert shall thy footsteps speed, the longest journey since the world began. So poor indeed my fate, never to me did love his secrets tell to those others, high and fortunate, who near his inmost shrine forever dwell. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 34 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Why should we but in the assembly pray, only when friends are gathered call for wine? Lo, I have done with this hypocrisy, and ever pray and drink the cup divine. The fountain of my spirit has run dry, so that in tears no more my sorrow flows, mute is the heart that wailed continually, silent the bull-bull in the garden clothes. Here as we tread the pilgrim's way, we find the torch of inspiration like a fire. Men see it not, so dull they are and blind, they yearn not for the garments of desire. To each was given on the creation day his fitting portion, his appointed share. Why shouldst thou then demand from destiny more joy than others have, less pain to bear? O mock thee, for thy counsel all have come. Their secrets thou hast kept concealed apart. But why shouldst thou, who for their sakes art dumb, tell shamelessly the secrets of thy heart? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 35 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. How long upon this soul that dwells in pain thy vengeance, O tormenter, shalt thou pour? Could I, the land of love in peace attain, thy poisoned sting, should torture me no more? No unguent salves, these wounds upon my heart, the diamond lance its healing pang I crave, so keen my pain I tear my scars apart, come with thy kindly cruelty, and save. From out my keeping has my heart been ref'd. Why, let it go then, wherefore should I weep? Over the empty hut of Fakir left, no watchman comes, his careful guard to keep. Harken! The time of parting sounds for thee. How long, O mock-fee, wavering like the fire, a kafir shall thy restless spirit be, blown like a flame, tormented by desire. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 36 by Zebun Nissa, translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. How hard to read, O soul, the riddle of life here and life beyond, as hard as in the pearl to pierce a hole, without the needle-point of diamond. Chide not that amongst the flowers the bull-bull doff ecstatically sing, his passion, yay and his delight, our ours, along the garden paths meandering. We, by our pain made brave, seek not despair nor hope, neither outlast their little day. We take but what fate gave, not a Zulika, brooding all the past. O careless ones, in vain the treasure of your life has passed away, heedless that nothing of your years remain. You talk like children of another day. How vain the tears you weep, your sorrow fruitless, your remorse too light. The threshold with your lashes wherefore sweep, when, mock thee, see, the shrine is desolate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 37 by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. When thou unveilst thy shining countenance burnt are my lashes by thy lightning glance and all the night I passionately weep while o'er my heart tempests of longing sweep and if I see it not desiring it my heart is darkened like a lamp unlit. I have no hope, no comfort anywhere caught by the fluttering trusses of thy hair. No flower can open in my garden bed until my heart's blood dies its petals red. Sing softly of thy love or silent be, oh mock thee, lest the hunter secretly shall come and hear thy voice and capture thee. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 38 by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. The love of thee, the bobble sings the moth that burns its silken wings thy love has drawn into the fire and see the wine of thy desire on every goblet's lip it clings. No ease, no respite anywhere is now for me for in thy snare blindly or willingly I fall. No liberty have I at all bound by the fetters of thy hair. So many tears my eyes have shed such streams of blood my heart has bled that now my eyes can weep no more nor can the failing fountains pour for dry the source from which they fed. Thou mock thee in the burning fire of love and unassuaged desire tossing in wild remorse shalt dwell. Love's secrets weakly didst thou tell so thou shalt pay with penance dire. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gazal 39 by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Not fierce enough, oh moth the flame to burn those yearning wings of thine not bright enough the torch of love within our palace halls to shine. My eyes have scattered pearls of tears no consolation did they gain the matchless jewel of my soul is given away and all in vain long is my bitter tale of grief of separation from my friend unfinished is it even yet although my life has reached its end oh useless, oh socky is thy cup no wine of comfort flows from me who drink alone the wine of blood two others give thy remedy tale after tale of love is told linked altogether like a chain the fetters hold my heavy heart of liberty I dream in vain under the angry storms of death my boat of life has foundered deep my house is fallen round its dust winds of annihilation sweep yet mock thee if within my heart the flame of heavenly love arise thy lonely desert shall be fair as garden groves of paradise End of poem this recording is in the public domain Gazol Forti by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist if from the spot upon my heart the veil should fall and all the world should know my tale how would the roses burn with envious light knowing themselves less bright though all the day the leaping fire of sighs may from my fast-consuming heart arise winds of chance so blow and scatter it my torch is not yet lit I leave the world and to the woods I fly but in the forest hunted still am I I seek the silence of the lake and hill but love pursues me still the malady of love has turned my brain for all my life I have abode with pain then why should I from sorrow seek to flee sorrow is kin to me here in the dwelling of unhappiness my silent, desolate sorrow I possess for how can shining love with me remain within this house of pain behold the pages of my book of life blotted its record black with sin and strife as if the woe of all the world should be ever pursuing me oh Mark V from this goblet thou shalt gain no exaltation no socease from pain for tears of blood that flow from eyes grown dim fill it unto the brim end of poem this recording is in the public domain Gazol 41 by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist thou bringest never long lost happiness to still my heart's distress the remedy I crave why to the crowd should I thus voice a loud my sadness drawing scorn upon my name telling the world my shame if in the close hung darkness of the night there shine no thread of light what matter though no torches flame for me my sorrowing heart can see illumined by the fire of grief it bears why tangled in the cares of worldly hopes a heart unsatisfied restless wilt thou abide seeking those things that thou shalt never gain help askest thou in vain from useless friends and far into the skies peace like the phoenix flies behold, no herb of sweet content has grown for we have only sown in far-off springs the seeds of our disgrace how could we bear to face the direful judgment day did we not bring our idol witnessing that by this kafir worship which we give we true believers live upon the sea of bliss our boat is set but comfort comes not yet over the soul waves of the tempest rise menacing to the skies so weary, Markv, are thine eyes with tears darkened the world appears nor can they tell by grief and watching warn the rosebud from the thorn end of poem this recording is in the public domain Gazal 42 by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist O self-existent give unto thy faithful ones their heart's desire and visit not with thy consuming fire or burdened souls too sorrowful to live no longer can I bear the separation and the bitter grief afflicted am I grant my soul relief weary and broken look on my despair O thou whose praise we tell sever the tyrant bonds give to the slave his freedom save him, Lord as thou didst save Yusuf the moon of Canaan from the well my tears fail for they must this spring that fed their fountains has run dry give me thy peace, O Lord for what am I only a handful of afflicted dust but flowers of hope return to bloom within my garden of desire for God can call even from flames of fire tulips like torches to arise and burn end of poem this recording is in the public domain Gazal 43 by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist on my tormented heart appears another deep and glowing stain again there dawns my day of tears of misery, of weary pain so much of my own blood I shed so long the journeys I have done so difficult the path I tread to catch the garment of the sun new balm within my heart is born new lightnings from my glance arise why then your anger and the scorn flashing from your Norcissa sighs out of my heart you reft away the life my heart from out its place you ravished and I can but pray oh lift the veil that hides your face end of poem this recording is in the public domain Gazal 44 by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist long, long am I denied the vision of life face for o'er it flows the musky darkness of thy waving hair as though a temple curtain should enclose the car bar and our hearts unsatisfied could never see it there oh reason that can speed a runner in the valley of desire we need not strength like vine for we possess a remedy to cure us when we tire the thorns and brambles are the salves we need for pain and weariness night after endless night I sat in lonely grief remembering thee tears fell into my heart disconsolate how long have I in striving to be free broken my bleeding nails but never quite untied the knot of fate lo where the feast was spread what better could I offer to my guest than wine and music when we reveled long of all the wines the wine of tears was best one song of sorrow to another lead making continual song thou shalt attain success oh happy lover walking on the height thy shadow greater shall be ever more than king jamships and plumes and pinions bright as half the phoenix shall thy soul possess harrogantly to soul by sorrow crucified a true believer lost his life for thee and yet did not attain what I attain this new delight which is bestowed on me even the friends who travelled by my side could never know nor gain red with its fount of tears thy rosy face doth like a tulip show to tell what dreams within thy heart arise my tears have washed with their unceasing flow the magic cup wherein the world appears displayed before mine eyes stronger my love shall grow bearing the bonds of sorrow for thy sake more patient and more proud my heart shall be like the imprisoned bird who tries to make his cage a garden though his wild heart know he never shall be free behold love's path it seems so long home mock thee but be strong to tread its toilsome way and come nor look behind the temple where thou canst bow down thy head the idle fairer than thy fairest dreams thou shalt desire and find End of poem this recording is in the public domain Gazal 45 by Zebun Nisse translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist No way of joy and ease is mine to tread the road of shame and madness joyfully I choose instead and from my heart such streams of blood shall pour upon the day of judgment that the desert crimson door shall all the rosy hues of heaven outvi and paradise be darkened envious of its flaming die if penitent I shed one tear of shame then shall be cleansed the follies and the sins that stained my name for God shall show compassion in that day my record of transgressions shall be wholly swept away the tree of world's desire has set its roots deep planted in the darkness sin and shame its bitter fruits then but are not the wealth contentment brings for all the wide dominions of a thousand mighty kings if from my heart I loose my heavy sighs black whirling from the desert shall the blinding duster eyes though mock thee God shall pardon at the last the skirt of intercession hold within thy fingers fast end of poem this recording is in the public domain Gazal 46 by Zebun Nisse translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate novelist oh give me friends your care lest in my madness loudly I proclaim the secrets of the Lord that all may know like wax I melt within love's eager flame but in my breast a heart of stone I bear mocking its glow down unto death I went the heavens upon me showered their cruel blows pity me oh ye chosen ones of God oh enemy when shall I gain repose how long shall I groan under chastisement wince neath the rod how darkened is my fame extravagantly have I spent my store and empty-handed in the market stand a dervish am I and can give no more no emperor with glory round my name and lavish hand foundered my boat of life vainly upon the ocean of despair I ventured out seeking the tranquil shawl and the beloved no father can I dare I bow to fate I turn me from the strife I scheme no more the time of spring is past the rose leaves in the garden drift apart among the trees the bubble sings no more how long oh madness shalt thou hold my heart how long oh exaltation shalt thou last now spring is all how uselessly is spent and cast away the treasure of my life in bitter separation from my friend surely oh cruel heavens might now my strife, my grief, my pain my weary discontent attain the end oh king, oh teacher, see in the tale of Alexander's fate most fortunate of mortals thou canst read of Dara broken and disconsolate yay sorrowful his shadowed history appears indeed upon the feasting day friends joyfully in the assembly meet but Markfee in the lane of sorrow goes slowly and aloof with melancholy feet no rest, no ease, no peace upon the way the fakier knows End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Gazel 47 by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Unto the garden floats the wandering air to tell the roses that are waiting there the tidings of thy coming soft and sweet their petals open as they kiss thy feet if from thy moon-like face the veil arise no more will Yusuf turn regretful eyes homeward to Canaan he will only see thy face and offer all his love to thee no remedy can heal the hearts to stress except the vision of thy loveliness hear, suffering souls, the solace that you need tear not your wounds no longer make them bleed how difficult the hunted deer to find although his scent be left upon the wind how hard to reach thee though thine every tress breathes musk of Kotan through the wilderness Happy Muckfee, fortunate thy day for thou at the beloved's feet may lay thy song in homage happier still if thou sing rapturously evermore as now End of poem this recording is in the public domain Gazel 48 by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist so tyrannous thine eyes even the morning breeze is hot with wrath no soft assuagement in its breath it hath it only faints and dies like Kezia, strong and fair whose soul is steeped in the immortal spring the well of life thou shalt be worshiping with holy words of prayer born to the Caliph's place none other aired such high a state as thine thou hast the beauty that is all divine fairer than Piri's grace from hope I turned in hate no further now false hope can cousin me I know the cruel heavens conspired with thee to darken thus my fate mark thee, thy life flows fast the days from out thy hand drop evermore oh turn no weary traveller from thy door give him what cheer thou hast End of poem this recording is in the public domain Gazel 49 by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Noveless let not thy curl whose loveliness maddens the world bring new distress upon my lovers floating free, tossed by the wind that all may see and fall beneath thy sorcery let not the valley of thy love a place of bitter torment prove for dolerous souls already worn by all the penance they have borne betrayed by love and left forlorn no flower no nightingale am I so from the garden mournfully I go oh breezes free to stray back to her garden find your way and greeting to my love convey exiled and driven from thee I pass upon my journey like the grass and patient reeds I bend and shake as my despairing road I take leaving the body for thy sake before the soul who understands be silent in the desert sands he learnt his law break not the rest of the afflicted and oppressed with poisoned arrows in his breast End of poem this recording is in the public domain Gazal 50 by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Noveless oh might I have a surma for mine eyes for dust that on her happy threshold lies and there might waiting kneel to kiss at last her feet like those of angels fluttering past my soul has got around it suffering and wears it as the garment that a king gives to his servant decking him with pride oh enemy that waitest by my side how long shall I be bent beneath thy rod and walk the path of pain my friends have trod the storm sweeps round my house its ramparts fail its deep foundations sway before the gale I am a bird who flying home to rest finds that the waters have overwhelmed his nest sell not the jewel of thy soul so cheap no friends can help thy heart its wealth to keep oh king of all the roses be thou kind unto the bull bull whose unquiet mind makes him a mad fakier in loving thee for even kings who ride in majesty will stop their chariots air a fakier stir blessed is Mokfi God has given to her the pearl of words jewel of song divine fairer than spoils of ocean or of mine end of poem this recording is in the public domain and end of The Dewan of Zebun Nissa by Zebun Nissa translated by Jesse Duncan Westbrook thank you for listening