 Section 0 of a multi-lingual Rubaiyat This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Rubaiyat of Omar Kayam. An introduction by Edward Fitzgerald. Read by Algi Pug. Omar Kayam. The Astronomer Poet of Persia. Omar Kayam was born at Naishapur in Khorasan in the latter half of our 11th and died within the first quarter of our 12th century. The slender story of his life is curiously twined about that of two other very considerable figures in their time and country. One of whom tells the story of all three. This was Nizam Ul Mulk, vizier to Alp Ashlan, the son and Malik Shah, the grandson of Toghru Beg the Tatar, who had rested Persia from the feeble successor of Mahmud the Great and founded that Seljukian dynasty which finally roused Europe into the Crusades. This Nizam Ul Mulk, in his wasayat or testament, which he wrote and left as a memorial for future statesmen, relates the following as quoted in a Calcutta review No. 59 from Mir Khan's History of the Assassins. One of the greatest of the wise men of Khorasan was the Imam Moafik of Naishapur, a man highly honoured and reverenced. May God rejoice his soul. His illustrious years exceeded eighty-five, and it was the universal belief that every boy who read the Khorasan, or studied the traditions in his presence, would assuredly attain to honour and happiness. For this cause did my father send me from Tuss to Naishapur with Abdus Samad, the Doctor of Law, that I might employ myself in study and learning under the guidance of that illustrious teacher. Towards me he ever turned an eye of favour and kindness, and, as his pupil, I felt for him extreme affection and devotion, so that I passed four years in his service. When I first came there, I found two other pupils of mine own age nearly arrived, Hakim Ormakayam, and the ill-fated Ben Sabar. Both were endowed with sharpness of wit and the highest natural powers, and we three formed a close friendship together. When the Imam rose from his lectures, they used to join me, and we repeated to each other the lessons we had heard. Now Oma was a native of Naishapur, while Hasan Ben Sabar's father was one Ali, a man of austere life and practice, but heretical in his creed and doctrine. One day Hasan said to me, and Kayam, it is a universal belief that the pupils of the Imam Moafik will attain to fortune. Now if we all do not attain there too, without doubt one of us will. What then shall be our mutual pledge and bond? We answered, be it what you please. Well, he said, let us make avow, that to whomsoever this fortune falls, he shall share it equally with the rest, and reserve no preeminence for himself. Be it so, we both replied, and on those terms we mutually pledged our words. Years rolled on, and I went from Khorasan to Transoxiana, and wandered to Ghasni and Kabul. And when I returned, I was invested with office, and rose to be administrator of affairs during the sultanate of Sultan Alp Arshlan. He goes on to state that years passed by, and both his old school friends found him out, and came and claimed to share in his good fortune, according to the school day Val. The vizier was generous and kept his word. Ghasan demanded a place in the government, which the sultan granted at the vizier's request. But, discontented with a gradual rise, he plunged into the maze of intrigue of an oriental court, and, failing in a base attempt to supply at his benefactor, he was disgraced and fell. After many mishaps and wanderings, Ghasan became the head of the Persian sect of the Ismailians, a party of fanatics who had long murmured in obscurity, but rose to an evil eminence under the guidance of his strong and evil will. In AD 1090 he seized the castle of Ulamut in the province of Rudbar, which lies in the mountainous tract south of the Caspian Sea. And it was from this mountain home he obtained that evil celebrity among the crusaders as the old man of the mountains, and spread terror through the Muhammadan world. And it is yet disputed whether the word assassin, which they have left in the language of modern Europe as their dark memorial, is derived from the Hushish, or opiate, of hemp leaves, the Indian Bung, with which they maddened themselves to the sullen pitch of oriental desperation, or from the name of the founder of the dynasty whom we have seen in his quiet collegiate days at Naishapur. One of the countless victims of the assassin's dagger was Nizam Ulbulk himself, the old schoolboy friend. Omar Kayam also came to the vizier to claim his share, but not to ask for title or office. The greatest boon you can confer on me, he said, is to let me live in a corner under the shadow of your fortune, to spread wide the advantages of science, and pray for your long life and prosperity. The vizier tells us that when he found Omar was really sincere in his refusal, he pressed him no further, but granted him a yearly pension of 1200 myth culls of gold from the treasury of Naishapur. At Naishapur, thus lived and died Omar Kayam. Vizied, adds the vizier, in winning knowledge of every kind, and especially in astronomy, were in he attained to a very high preeminence. Under the sultanate of Malik Shah, he came to Merv, and obtained great praise for his proficiency in science, and the sultan showered favours upon him. When the Malik Shah determined to reform the calendar, Omar was one of the eight learned men employed to do it. The result was the Jalal-e-era, so called from Jalal-ud-din, one of the king's names. A computation of time, says Gibbon, which surpasses the Julian, and approaches the accuracy of the Gregorian style. He is also the author of some astronomical tables, entitled Zidji Malik Shahi, and the French have lately republished and translated an Arabic treatise of his on Algebra. His taqalus, or poetical name, Kayam, signifies a tent-maker, and he is said to have at one time exercised that trade. Perhaps before Nizam Ul Munk's generosity raised him to independence. Many Persian poets similarly derive their names from their occupations. Thus we have Atar, a druggist, Asar, an oil-pressor, etc. Omar himself alludes to his name in the following whimsical lines. Kayam, who stitched the tents of science, has fallen in grief's furnace and been suddenly burned. The shears of fate have cut the tent-gropes of his life, and the broker of hope has sold him for nothing. We have only one more anecdote to give of his life, and that relates to the clothes. It is told in anonymous preface, which is sometimes prefixed to his poems. It has been printed in the Persian in appendix to Hades Viterum Persarum Religio, page 499, and Dhehel Bialol alludes to it in his bibliotheque under Qiyam. It is written in the chronicles of the ancients that this king of the wise, Omar Qiyam, died at Neshapur in the year of the Hegeera 517, A.D. 1123. In science he was unrivaled, the very paragon of his age. Guaraj Nizami of Samarkand, who was one of his pupils, relates the following story. I often used to hold conversations with my teacher, Omar Qiyam, in a garden, and one day he said to me, my tomb shall be in a spot where the north wind may scatter roses over it. I wondered at the words he spake, but I knew that his were no idle words. Years after, when no chance to revisit Neshapur, I went to his final resting place, and lo, he was just outside a garden, and trees, laden with fruit, stretched their boughs over the garden wall, and dropped their flowers upon his tomb, so that the stone was hidden under them. Thus far, without fear of trespass, from the Calcutta Review, the writer of it, on reading in India this story of Omar's grave, was reminded, he says, of Cicero's account of finding Archimedes' tomb at Syracuse, buried in grass and weeds. I think Thor Vuldeson desired to have roses grow over him, a wish religiously fulfilled for him to the present day, I believe. However, to return to Omar, though the Sultan showered favours upon him, Omar's epicurean audacity of thought and speech caused him to be regarded as scant in his own time and country. He is said to have been especially hated and dreaded by the Sufis. His practice, he ridiculed, and his faith amounts to little more than his own, when stripped of the mysticism and formal recognition of Islamism, under which Omar would not hide. Their poets, including Hafez, who are, with the exception of Firdalsi, the most considerable in Persia, borrowed largely, indeed, of Omar's material, but turning it to a mystical use more convenient to themselves and the people they addressed. A people quite as quick of doubt as of belief, as keen of bodily sense, as of intellectual, and delighting in a cloudy composition of both in which they could float luxuriously between heaven and earth, and this world and the next, on the wings of a poetical expression that might serve indifferently for either. Omar was too honest of heart as well as of head for this, having failed, however mistakenly, of finding any providence but destiny and any world but this, he set about making the most of it, preferring rather to soothe the soul through the senses into acquiescence with things as he saw them than to perplex it with vain disquietude after what they might be. It has been seen, however, that his worldly ambition was not exorbitant, and he very likely takes a humorous or perverse pleasure in exalting the gratification of sense above that of the intellect in which he must have taken great delight, although it failed to answer the questions in which he, in common with all men, was most vitally interested. For whatever reason, however, Omar, as before said, has never been popular in his own country and therefore has been but scantily transmitted abroad. The manuscripts of his poems, mutilated beyond the average casualties of oriental transcription, are so rare in the East as scarce to have reached westward at all, in spite of all the acquisitions of arms and science. There is no copy of the India House, none of the Bibliotheque nationale of Paris. We know about a one in England, number 140 of the Ursula manuscript of the Bodleian, written at Shiraz, A.D. 1460. This contains about 158 rubyat. One in the Asiatic Society's library at Calcutta, of which we have a copy, contains, and yet is incomplete, 516, though swelled to that by all kinds of repetition and corruption. So von Hammer speaks of his copy, as containing about 200, while Dr. Sprenger, catalogues the Lucknow manuscript at double that number. The scribes, two of the Oxford and Calcutta manuscripts, seem to do their work under a sort of protest, each beginning with a tetrastick, whether genuine or not, taken out of its alphabetical order. The Oxford was one of apology. The Calcutta, with one of expostulation, supposed, says a notice, prefixed to the manuscript, to have arisen from a dream, in which Oma's mother asked about his future fate. It may be rendered thus, O thou, who burst in heart, for those who burn in hell, as far as thy self shall feed in turn, how long be crying, mercy on them God, why, who art thou to teach, and he to learn? The Bodleian quatrain pleads pantheism by way of justification. If I, myself, upon a looser creed, have loosely strung the jewel of good deed, let this one thing for my atonement plead, that one for two I never did misread. The reviewer, to whom I owe the particulars of Oma's life, concludes his review by comparing him with Lucretius, both as the natural temper and genius, and as acted upon by the circumstances in which he lived. Both, indeed, were men of subtle, strong, and cultivated intellect, fine imagination, and hearts, passionate for truth and justice, who justly revolted from their country's false religion, and false or foolish devotion to it, but who felt short of replacing what they subverted by such better hope as others, with no better revelation to guide them, had yet made a law to themselves. Lucretius, indeed, with such material as Epicurus furnished, satisfied himself with the theory of a vast machine fortuitously constructed, enacting by a law that implied no legislator, and so composing himself into a stoical, rather than Epicurian severity of attitude, sat down to contemplate the mechanical drama of the universe in which he was part actor. Himself, and all about him, as in his own sublime description of the Roman theatre, discoloured with the lurid reflex of the curtain suspended between the spectator and the sun. Omar, more desperate, or more careless, of any so complicated system, resulted in nothing but hopeless necessity, flung his own genius and learning, with a bitter or humorous jest, into the general ruin which their insufficient glimpses only served to reveal, and, pretending sensual pleasure, as the serious purpose of life, only diverted himself with speculative problems of deity, destiny, matter, and spirit, good and evil, and other such questions, easier to start than to run down, and the pursuit of which becomes a very weary sport at last. With regard to the present translation, the original rubiat, as missing an Arabic guttural, these tetra-sticks are more musically called, are independent stanzas, consisting each of four lines of equal, though varied prosody, sometimes all rhyming, but oftener, as here imitated, the third line are blank, somewhat as in the Greek alkake, where the penultimate line seems to lift and suspend the wave that falls over in the last. As usual, with such kind of oriental verse, the rubiat follow one another according to alphabetic rhyme, a strange succession of grave and gay. Those here selected are strung into something of an egg-log, with perhaps a less than equal proportion of the drink and make-merry, which, genuine or not, recurs overfrequently in the original. Either way, the result is sad enough, saddest perhaps, when most ostentatiously merry, more apt to move sorrow than anger toward the old tent-maker, who, after vainly endeavouring to unshackle his steps from destiny, and to catch some authentic glimpse of tomorrow, feel back upon today, which has outlasted so many tomorrows, as the only ground he has got to stand upon, however momentarily slipping from under his feet. From the third edition. While a second edition of this version of Omar was preparing, Monsieur Nicolas, French Consul at Rest, published a very careful and very good edition of the text from a lithograph copy at Tehran, comprising four hundred and sixty-four rubes out with translation and notes of his own. Monsieur Nicolas, whose edition has reminded me of several things, and instructed me in others, does not consider Omar to be the material Epicurean that I have literally taken him for, but a mystic, shadowing the deity under the figure of wine, wine-bearer, etc., as Haferes is supposed to do, in short, a Sufi poet like Haferes and the rest. I cannot see reason to alter my opinion, formed as it was more than a dozen years ago, when Omar was first shown me by one to whom I am indebted for all I know of Oriental, and very much of other literature. He admired Omar's genius so much that he would gladly have adopted any such interpretation of his meaning as Monsieur Nicolas, if he could. That he could not appears by his paper in a Calcutta review already so largely quoted, in which he argues from the poems themselves, as well as from what records remain of the poet's life. And if more were needed to disprove Monsieur Nicolas' theory, there is the biographical notice which he himself has drawn up in direct contradiction to the interpretation of the poems given in his notes. Indeed, I hardly knew poor Omar was so far gone till his apologist informed me. For here we see that, whatever were the wine that Haferes drank and sang, the veritable juice of the grape it was which Omar used, not only when carousing with his friends, but, says Monsieur Nicolas, in order to excite himself to that pitch of devotion which others reached by cries, and roulement. And yet, whenever wine, wine-bearer, etc., occur in the text, which is often enough, Monsieur Nicolas carefully annotates so carefully indeed that one is tempted to think that he was indoctrinated by the Sufi with whom he read the poems. A Persian would naturally wish to vindicate a distinguished countryman and a Sufi to enrol him in his own sect, which already comprises all the chief poets of Persia. What historical authority has Monsieur Nicolas to show that Omar gave himself up avec passion à l'étude de la philosophie des Sufis? The doctrines of Pantheism, Materialism, Necessity, etc., were not peculiar to the Sufi, nor to Lucretius before them, nor to Epicurus before him, probably the very original irreligion of thinking men from the first, and very likely to be the spontaneous growth of a philosopher living in an age of social and political barbarism, and a shadow of one of the two and seventy religions supposed to divide the world. Von Hammer, according to Springer's Oriental catalogue, speaks of Omar as a free thinker and a great opponent of Sufism, perhaps because, while holding much of their doctrine, he would not pretend to any inconsistent severity of morals. The W. Usli has written a note of something to the same effect on the flyer leaf of the Bodleian manuscript, and in two rubiates of Monsieur Nicolas' own edition, Suf and Sufi are both disparagingly named. No doubt many of these quatrains seem unaccountable unless mystically interpreted, but many more as unaccountable unless literally. Were the wine spiritual, for instance, how washed the body with it when dead? Why make cups of the dead clay to be filled with la divinité by some succeeding mystic? Monsieur Nicolas himself is puzzled by some bizarre and oriental illusions and images due sensualité quelquefois révoltante, indeed, which les convenances do not permit him to translate, but still which the reader cannot but refer to la divinité. No doubt also many of the quatrains in the Tehran, as in the Calcutta copies, are spurious, such rubiates being a common form of epigram in Persia, but this, at best, tells us as much one way as another. Nay, the Sufi, who may be considered the scholar and man of letters in Persia, would be far more likely than the careless epicure to interpolate what favours his own view of the poet. I observed that very few of the more mystical quatrains are in the Bodleian manuscript, which must be one of the oldest, as dated at Shiraz, a.h. 865, a.d. 1460. And this, I think, especially distinguishes Omar. I cannot help calling him by his, no, not Christian, familiar name, from all other Persian poets, that, whereas with them the poet is lost in his song, the man in allegory and abstraction, we seem to have the man, the bought Aum, Omar himself, with all his humours and passions, as frankly before us, as if we were really at table with him after the wine had gone round. I must say that I, for one, never wholly believed in the mysticism of Hafez. It does not appear there was any danger in holding and singing Sufi pantheism, so long as the poet made his salam to Muhammad at the beginning and end of his song. Under such conditions Jalal Udin, Jami, Atar, and others sang, using wine and beauty indeed as images to illustrate, not as a mask to hide the divinity they were celebrating. Perhaps some allegory, less liable to mistake or abuse, had been better among so inflammable a people. Much more so when, as some think with Hafez and Omar, the abstract is not only likened to, but identified with, the sensual image. Hazardous, if not to the devotee himself, yet to his weaker brethren, and worse for the profane in proportion as the devotion of the initiated grew warmer, and all for what? To be tantalised with images of sensual enjoyment which must be renounced if one would approximate a god, who, according to the doctrine, is sensual matter as well as spirit, and into whose universe one expects unconsciously to merge after death, without hope of any posthumous beatitude in another world to compensate for all one's self-denial in this. Lucretius's blind divinity certainly merited, and probably got, as much self-sacrifice as this of the Sufi, and the burden of Omar's song, if not let us eat assuredly, let us drink for tomorrow we die. And if Hafez meant quite otherwise, by a similar language, he surely miscalculated when he devoted his life in genius the so equivocal asamadhi as, from his day to this, has been said and sung by any rather than spiritual worshippers. However, as there is some traditional presumption, and certainly the opinion of some learned men, in favour of Omar's being a Sufi, and even something of a saint, those who, please, may so interpret his wine and cup bearer. On the other hand, as there is far more historical certainty of his being a philosopher, and scientific insight and ability far beyond that of the age and country he lived in, of such moderate worldly ambition as becomes a philosopher, and such moderate wants as really satisfy a debauchee, other readers may be content to believe, with me, that, while the wine Omar celebrates is simply the juice of the grape, he bragged more than he drank of it, in very defiance, perhaps, of that spiritual wine which left its voteries sank in hypocrisy or disgust. Edward J. Fitzgerald End of Section 0 Section 1 of a Multilingual Rubaiyat This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Rubaiyat of Omar Qayyam, translated by Edward Fitzgerald. First edition read by Aidan Vox. A wake, for morning in the bowl of night, has flung the stone that puts the stars to flight, and lo, the hunter of the east has caught, the sultan's turret in a noose of light. Dreaming when dawn's left hand was in the sky, a herd of voice within the tavern cry, awake my little ones and fill the cup, before life's liquor in its cup be dry. And as the cock crew, those who stood before the tavern shouted, open then the door, you know how little while we have to stay, and, once departed, may return no more. Now the new year reviving old desires, the thoughtful soul to solitude retires, where the white hand of Moses on the bow puts out, and Jesus from the ground suspires. Hiram indeed is gone with all its rows, and Shamshid's sevens ringed cup where no one knows. But still the vine her ancient ruby yields, and still the garden by the water blows. And David's lips are locked but in divine, high piping pelevy with wine, wine, wine, red wine, the nightingale cries to the rose, that yellow cheek of hers, to incarnadine, come, fill the cup, and in the fire of spring the winter garment of repentance fling. The bird of time has but a little way, to fly and low, the bird is on the wing. And look, a thousand blossoms with the day woke, and a thousand scattered into clay, and this first summer month that brings the rose shall take Shamshid and Kaikobad away. But come with old Kaiam and leave the lot, of Kaikobad and Kaikoshru forgot. Let Rustam lay about him as he will, or Hatem Ty cry supper, heed them not. With me along some strip of herbage strone, that just divides the desert from the sown, where name of slave and sultan scarces gnome, and pity sultan Mahmud on his throne. Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bow, a flask of wine, a book of verse and thou, beside me singing in the wilderness, and wilderness is paradise, ye now. How sweet is mortal sovereignty, thinks some. Others, how bless the paradise to come. Ah, take the cash in hand, and wave the rest. Oh, the brave music of a distant drum. Look to the rose that blows about as low, laughing, she says, into the world I blow. At once the silken tassel of my purse tear, and its treasure on the garden throw. The worldly hope men set their hearts upon, turns ashes, or it prospers and anon. Like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two is gone. And those who husbanded the golden grain, and those who flung it to the winds like rain, alike to know such aureate earth are turned. As buried once, men want dug up again. Think, in this battered caravanserai, whose doorways are alternate night and day, how sultan after sultan with his pomp abode his hour or two, and went his way. They say the lion and the lizard keep, the quartz where jam should gloried and drank deep, and bar'em, that great hunter the wild ass stamps o'er his head, and he lies fast asleep. I sometimes think that never blows so red, the rose as where some buried sees her bled, that every hyacinth the garden wears, dropped in its lap from some once lovely head, and this delightful herb whose tender green, fledges the river's lip on which we lean. Ah, lean upon it lightly, for who knows, from what once lovely lip it springs unseen. Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears, today of past regrets and future fears, tomorrow why, tomorrow I may be myself with yesterday's seven thousand years. Lo, some we loved the loveliest and the best, that time and fate of all their vintage pressed, have drunk their cup around or to before, and one by one crept silently to rest, and we that now make merry in the room, they left, and summer dresses in new bloom, ourselves must we beneath the couch of earth descend, ourselves to make a couch for whom. Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, before we too into the dust descend, dust into dust and underdust to lie, sans wine, sans song, sans singer and sans end. A like for those who for to-day prepare, and those that after a tomorrow stare, amusing from the tar of darkness cries, fools, your award is neither here nor there. Why all the saints and sages who disgust, of the two worlds so learnedly of thrust, like foolish prophets forth, their words to scorn, are scattered, and their mouths are stopped with dust. Oh, come with all I am and leave the wise, to talk one thing is certain that life flies, one thing is certain and the rest is lies, the flower that once has blown forever dies. Myself when young did eagerly frequent, doctor and saint, and heard great argument, about it and about but evermore, came out by the same door, as in I went. With them the seed of wisdom did I sow, and with my own hand laboured it to grow, and this was all the harvest that I reaped. I came like water, and like wind I go, into this universe and why not knowing, nor whence like water willy-nilly flowing, and out of it as wind along the waist I know not whither willy-nilly blowing. What without asking hither hurried whence, and without asking whither hurried hence, another and another cup to drown, the memory of this impertinence. Up from earth's centre through the seventh gate, I rose and on the throne of Saturn's date, and many knots unraveled by the road, but not the knot of human death and fate. There was a door to which I found no key, there was a veil past which I could not see, some little talk a while of me and thee, her seemed, and then no more of thee and me. Then to the rolling heaven itself I cried, asking what lamp had destiny to guide her little children stumbling in the dark, and a blind understanding, heaven replied. Then to this earthen bowl did I adjourn my lip the secret well of life to learn, and lip to lip it murmured, while you live, drink, for once dead you never shall return. I think the vessel that would fugitive, articulation answered, once did live, and merry make, and the cold lip I kissed, how many kisses might it take and give? For in the marketplace one dusk of day I watched the potter thumping his wet clay, and with its all obliterated tongue it murmured, gently, brother, gently, pray. Ah, fill the cup, what boots it to repeat, how time is slipping underneath our feet, unborn tomorrow and dead yesterday, why fret about them if today be sweet? One moment in annihilation's waste, one moment of the well of life to taste, the stars are setting and the caravan starts for the dawn of nothing, oh, make haste. How long, how long an infinite pursuit of this and that endeavor and dispute, better be merry with the fruitful grape than sudden after none, or better, fruit. You know, my friends, how long since in my house, for a new marriage I did make carouse, divorced all barren reason from my bed, and took the daughter of the vine to spouse. For is and is not, though, with rule and line, and up and down without I could define, I yet and all I only cared to know was never deep in anything but wine. And lately, by the tavern door agape, came stealing through the dusk an angel shape, bearing a vessel on his shoulder, and he bid me taste of it, and was the grape. The grape that can with logic absolute, the two and seventy jarring sects confute, the subtle alchemist that inner trice, life's leaden metal into gold transmute. The mighty Mahmud, the victorious lord, that all the misbelieving and black horde of fears and sorrows that infest the soul, scatters and slays with his enchanted sword. But leave the wise to wrangle, and with me the quarrel of the universe let be, and in some corner of the hubbub couched, make game of that which makes as much of thee. For in and out, above, about below, tis nothing but a magic shadow show, played in a box whose candle is the sun, round which we phantom figures come and go. And if the wine you drink, the lip you press, end in a nothing all things end in yes. Then fancy while thou art, thou art but what thou shalt be, nothing thou shalt not be less. While the rose blows along the river brink, with all kiam the ruby vintage drink, and when the angel with his darker draught draws up to thee, take that, and do not shrink. Tis all a checkerboard of nights and days, where destiny with men for pieces plays. Hither and tether moves, and mates and slays, and one by one back in the closet lays. The ball no question makes of eyes and nose, but right or left as strikes the player goes, and he that tossed thee down into the field, he knows about it all, he knows, he knows. The moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on, nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it. And that inverted bowl we call the sky, where under crawling cooped we live and die, lift not thy hands to it for help, for it rolls impotently on as thou are I. With earth's first clay, they did the last man's need, and then of the last harvest sowed the seed, yea, the first morning of creation wrote, what the last dawn of reckoning shall read. I tell thee this when starting from the goal, over the shoulders of the flaming foal, of heaven parwin and mustari, they flung, in my predestined plot of dust and soul. The vine had struck a fiber which about it clings my being, let the sufi flout of my base metal may be filed a key that shall unlock the door he howls without. And this I know whether the one true light kindled to love or wrath consume me quite, one glimpse of it within the tavern court, better than in the temple lost outright. O thou who didst with pitfall and with gin beset the road I was to wander in, thou wilt not with predestination round enmesh me and impute my fault to sin. O thou who man of baser earth didst make, and who with Eden didst devise the snake, for all the sin for with the face of man is blackened, man's forgiveness give and take. Kuzanama, book of pots. Listen again, one evening at the close of Ramazan, here the better moon arose, in that old potter's shop I stood alone, with the clay population round enrose. And strange to tell among that earthen lot some could articulate while others not, and suddenly one more impatient cried, who is the potter, pray, and who the pot? Then said another, surely not in vain. My substance from the common earth was tain, that he who subtly wrought me into shape, should stamp me back to common earth again. Another said, why nare a peevish boy would break the bowl from which he drank in joy, shall he that may the vessel in pure love and fancy in an after-age destroy? None answered this, but after silence spake a vessel of a more ungainly make. The sneer at me for leaning all awry, what did the hand then of the potter shake? Said one, folks of a surly tapster tell, and daub his visage with the smoke of hell, the talk of some strict testing of us pitch. He's a good fellow, and will all be well. Then said another with a long-drawn sigh, my clay with long oblivion is gone dry, but fill me with the old familiar juice, me thinks I might recover by and by. So while the vessels one by one were speaking, one spied the little crescent all were seeking, and then they jogged each other, brother, brother, hark to the porter's shoulder not a creaking. Ah, with the grape my fading life provide, and wash my body whence the life has died, and in a winding sheet of vine leaf wrapped, so bury me by some sweet garden-side. That in my buried ashes such a snare, of perfume shall thing up into the air, as not a true believer passing by, but shall be overtaken, unaware. Indeed, the idols I have loved so long, have done my credit in men's eye much wrong, have drowned my honour in a shallow cup, and sold my reputation for a song. Indeed, indeed, repentance off to before, I swore, but was I sober when I swore, and then and then came spring and rose in hand, my threadbare penitence, a piece's tore. And much as wine has played the infidel, and robbed me of my robe of honour well, I often wonder what the vinteners buy, one half so precious as the goods they sell. A lass that spring should vanish with the rose, that youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close. The nightingale that in the branches sang, ah, whence an wither-flown gang who knows. Ah, love, could thou and I with fate conspire, to grasp this sorry scheme of things entire, would not we shatter it to bits, and then remould it nearer to the heart's desire. Ah, moon of my delight, who knows to no wane, the moon of heaven is rising once again. How oft hereafter rising shall she look, through this same garden after me in vain. And when thyself with shining foot shall pass, among the guests star-scattered on the grass, and in thy joyous errand reach the spot, where I made one, turned down an empty glass, tamam should end of section one. Section two of a multi-lingual roubaillette, this Librivox recording is in the public domain. The roubaillette of Armour Cayenne translated into French by Charles Grollo, read by Frédéric Siorger. Les roubaillettes d'Omar Cayenne. Un, debout, car le matin dans la coupe de la nuit a jeté la pierre qui fait s'envoler les étoiles, et voie, le chasseur de l'Orient a pris le minaret du sultan dans un lasso de lumière. Deux, on songe quand l'horror levait sa main gauche dans le ciel, j'entendis une voix criée de la taverne. Éveillez-vous, mes petits, et remplissez la coupe avant que, dans sa coupe, la liqueur de vie notarise. Trois, et quand le coq chanta, ce qui se tenait devant la taverne crier, Ouvrez donc la porte, vous savez combien peu de temps nous avons arrêté, et qu'une fois partie nous ne reviendrons plus. Quatre, maintenant le nouvel an ravive les anciens désirs, l'impensif se retire dans la solitude, où la main blanche de Moïse sous les branches fleuries, où la laine de Jésus s'exale de la terre. Cinq, vraiment, Ira m'est partie avec toutes ses roses, et la coupe aux sept anneaux de Genshid est nue et ne sais où. Mais la vigne offre encore plus ses anciens rubis, et un jardin au bord de l'eau embeaume encore. Six, et les lèvres de David sont clauses, mais dans son divin pelle-vie sonore, Du vin, du vin, du vin, du vin rouge, qu'il le resigne à la rose pour que sa joue jauneure devienne incarnat. Sept, viens, remplis la coupe et dans le feu du printemps jette le manteau d'hiver du repentir. L'oiseau du temps n'a qu'un faible espace pour son vol, et voix, déjà l'oiseau ouvre ses ailes. Huit, et regarde, des milliers de fleurs avec le jour s'éveille, et des milliers ses feuilles dans l'argile, et ce premier mois d'été qui apporte la rose emportera Jameshid et Kaekobad. Neuf, mais viens avec le vieux Kayam et laisse le sort de Kaekobad et de Kaekosru dans l'oubli, que Rustem abattent autour de lui ses ennemis à son gré, ou que Atin Tai appel à son banquet ne les écoute pas. Dix, avec moi sur cette frange brodée d'herbes qui sépare le désert des champs cultivés, ou le nom d'esclaves et de sultans est connu à peine, ou le sultan mamoud sur son trou de fait pitié. Once, ici, avec un morceau de pain sous les branches, un flacon de vin, un livre de verre, et toi devant moi chantant dans le désert, et le désert sera mon paradis. Douze, certains pensent qu'il est tout de ringer ici-bas, d'autres, qu'elle bien-titue le paradis à venir. Ah, prends l'argent content et renonce au reste. Oh, la brave musique n'attend bout au loin. Thirteen, regarde la rose qui fleurit près de nous. Voici, dit-elle, avec un sourire je m'épanouis en ce monde, et déjà les cordons de soie de ma bourse se déchirent, et je jette sur le jardin mon trésor. Quatorze, l'espérance de ce monde où les hommes mettent leur coeur, se changent en cendres ou triomphés, bien vite, comme la neige sur la face poudreuse du désert, brillant une petite heure ou deux, s'en va. Quinze, et ceux qui ont ménagé le grain d'or, et ceux qui l'ont jeté au vent comme la pluie, ni les uns ni les autres ne sont changés en une terre si dorée qu'une fois enterrées, les hommes voient les reprendre. Seize, songe que dans ce caravan s'éraille en ruine, dont les portes sont l'une après l'autre et la nuit et le jour, sultans après sultans après pompes, ont habité une heure ou deux et sont partis. Dix-sept, on dit que le lion et le lézard tiennent leur cours, Jamesheed eut sa gloire et bu longuement, et Barham, ce grand chasseur, l'âne sauvage pietine au-dessus de sa tête, et lui dort son profond sommeil. Dix-huit, je pense quelquefois que ne s'épanouis jamais si rouge la rose que la Ousseigna quelque sésar enterrée, que chaque jassinte que porte le jardin tomba dans son giron de quelque belle d'autrefois. Dix-neuf, et cette herbe délicieuse dont le vert tendre garnit le bord de la rivière sur lequel nous sommes couchés, ah, appuie sur elle légèrement, car qui sait de quelle lève jadis aimable elle pousse invisible. Vingt, ah, m'a bien aimé, remplis la coupe qui purifie aujourd'hui des regrets du passé et des craintes de l'avenir. Demain, quoi, demain je puis être moi-même avec les sept mille ans d'hier. Vingt-et-un, voie, de ceux que nous avons aimé, les plus aimables et les meilleurs, de ceux que le temps et le sort pressèrent pour leurs vendanges, on d'abord but leur coupe un tour ou deux et un par un en silence, rampé vers le repos. Vingt-deux, et nous, maintenant joyeux à la place qu'ils ont laissé, comme l'été se vaient de fleurs nouvelles, devons-nous sous la couche de terre descendre, nous-mêmes faire une couche pour qui? Vingt-trois, ah, jouissons au mieux de ce que nous pouvons dépenser encore, avant que nous aussi nous descendions dans la poussière, poussière dans la poussière et sous la poussière, gisant sans vin, sans chanson, sans chanteur et sans fin. Vingt-quatre, à ceux qui travaillent pour aujourd'hui, comme à ceux qui fixent leur regard sur un lendemain, un muésine de la tour de ténèbres crie, fou, votre récompense n'est ni ici ni là. Vingt-cinq, mais tous les saints, tous les sages qui ont discuté si savamment sur les deux mondes sont jetés dehors comme des prophètes fous, leurs paroles avec mépris sont dispersées et leurs bouches scellées avec de la poussière. Vingt-six, oh, viens avec le vieux Cayame et laisse le sage parler. Une chose est certaine, cette vie s'envole. Une chose est certaine et le reste éman songe. La fleur qui a fleuri une fois meurt pour jamais. Vingt-sept, moi-même, quand j'étais jeune, j'ai fréquenté avidement le docteur et le saint, et j'ai entendu de grands disputes sur ceci et sur cela, mais toujours je suis sorti par la même porte qui m'avait vu entrer. Vingt-huit, avec eux j'ai semé la semence de la sagesse, et de ma propre main j'ai travaillé pour la faire croître. Et voici toute la moisson que j'ai moissonnée. Je suis venu comme l'eau, et je m'en vais comme le vent. Vingt-neuf, venu dans cet univers, ne sachant pourquoi, ni d'où je vin, comme l'eau qui coule malgré elle, et chassée comme le vent à travers le désert, je ne sais où, quand il souffle malgré lui. Trente, quoi, sans le demander, je t'ai ici de quel inconnu, et sans le demander, rejeté dans un autre? Ah, buvons une coupe et encore une autre coupe pour noyer le souvenir d'une telle insolence. Trente-un, du centre de la terre par la septième porte, je me suis élevé, je me suis assis sur le trône de Saturne, et j'ai dénoué sur ma route bien des nœuds, mais non le nœud de la mort et de la destinée humaine. Trente-deux, il y avait une porte à laquelle je n'ai pas trouvé de clé, il y avait un voile à travers lequel je n'ai pu voir, on y fut chôté un instant sur moi et sur toi, il m'a semblé, et puis plus rien, ni de toi, ni de moi. Trente-trois, alors au ciel même qui roule j'ai crié, demandant quelle lampe à le destin pour guider ces petits enfants trebuchants dans le noir, et le ciel a répondu, une intelligence aveugle. Trente-quatre, alors à cette coupe de terre j'ai mis ma lèvre pour connaître la secrète source de la vie. Il a lèvre à la lèvre à murmurer, tandis que vous vivez et buvez, car une fois mort vous ne reviendrez jamais. Trente-cinq, je pense que ce vase qui avec un fugitif murmure répondit, fut vivant autrefois et joyeux, et la froid de lèvre que j'ai baisé, combien de baisé a-t-elle pu prendre et donner. Trente-six, car au marché, au crépuscule, je regardais le potier travaillant son argile mine, et celle-ci, avec sa langue tout embarassée, murmura, doucement, frère, doucement, je t'en prie. Trente-sept, ah, remplis la coupe, que sert de répéter que le tanglise sous nos pieds, demain n'est pas né, hier est mort, pourquoi se tourmenter à leur sujet si l'aujourd'hui est doux? Trente-huit, un moment dans le désert de l'année Antissement, un moment à goûter du puits de la vie, les étoiles se lèvent et la caravane s'ébranle pour l'aube du néant. Oh, fait hâte! Trente-neuf, combien de temps, combien de temps dans la poursuite infinie de ceci et de cela, connaître l'effort et les disputes? Mieux vaut se réjouir avec le raisin fécond que de s'attrister d'un fruit absent ou amer. Quarante, vous savez, mes amis, combien il y a de temps que dans ma maison pour un nouveau mariage j'ai fait la noce, chassé de mon lit la vieille raison stéril et pris pour épouse la fille de la vie. Quarante, bien que l'être et le non-être avec règles et mesures, et sans elle, le haut et le bas puissent être définis par moi, dans tout ce que je me suis soucié de connaître, je n'ai jamais été profond que dans le vin. Quarante, et récemment, par la porte grande ouverte de la taverne, vinglissante à travers l'ombre, une forme d'ange, portant un vase sur son épaule et il me commanda à digouter, et c'était le raisin. Quarante, trois, le raisin qui peut avec une absolue logique confondre les soixante, douce, sept discordantes, le subtile alchyniste qui en inclin d'œil transmut en or le lourd métal de la vie. Quarante, quatre, le puissant mamoud, le victérieux seigneur par qui toute la mécréante et noire horde de crainte et de tristesse qui infeste l'âme et dispersée et tuée grâce à son glaive enchanté. Quarante, cinq, mais laisse le sage discuter, et avec moi oublie la querelle de l'univers, et dans un coin du hubume couché, fait un jeu de ce qui se joue tant de toi. Quarante, six, car dedans et dehors, au-dessus, à l'entour, en dessous, il n'y a rien qu'une lanterne magique dans une boîte dont la chandelle et le soleil, autour duquel fantôme, nous tournons. Quarante, sept, et si le vin que tu bois, la lèvre que tu presse, finissent dans le rien où toute chose finissent, oui, à l'heure tandis que tu es, imagine que tu n'es que ce que tu seras, rien, tu n'en seras pas moi. Quarante, huit, tandis que la rose fleurie sur le bord du fleur, avec le vieux cahiam bois la vendange de rubis, et quand l'ange de sa boisson plus sombre viendra te donner à bois, prends et bois à s'enfrémir. Quarante, neuf, tout n'est qu'un échiquier de nuit et de jour, où le destin joue avec les hommes pour pièce, ça et là, il les fait bouger, et les écrase, et les égorge, et un par un les remet dans la boîte. Cinquante, la balle ne questionne pas sur les oui et les non, mais à droite ou à gauche va comme frappe le joueur, et celui qui t'a jeté dans le champ, c'est tout à ce sujet, il sait, il sait. Cinquante et un, le doigt mouvant écrit et ayant écrit passe, ni toute tapiettée ni toute une esprit ne saurait le tenter de revenir, effacer la moitié d'une ligne, ni toute telle larme n'en effacerait pas un mot. Cinquante deux, et ce bol renversé que nous nommons le ciel sous lequel, rampant à l'étroit nous vivons et mourons, ne lève pas tes mains vers lui, car il roule impuissant, comme toi ou moi. Cinquante trois, avec la première argile de la terre, on appétrit celle du dernier homme et se met la semence de la dernière moisson. Oui, le premier jour de la création a écrit ce que lira l'aube du dernier jugement. Cinquante quatre, je te dis ceci, quand du but infini par-dessus les épaules du flamboyant cheval céleste, on a jeté parouïne et mouchtari, dans ma trame prédestinée de poussière et d'âme. Cinquante cinq, la vigne a poussé une tige, si autour d'elle s'enlasse mon être, le soufi peut rayer, de mon ville métal pourra être faite une clé qui ouvrira la porte devant laquelle il crie. Cinquante six, et je sais ceci, soit que l'unique vraie lumière m'enflamme d'amour ou me consume de colère, un seul reflet saisi dans la taverne, me vaut mieux que sa perte totale dans le temple. Cinquante sept, oh toi qui de piège et de trape asseme la route où je devais zérer, tu ne feras pas que la prédestination m'entoure pour que je sois pris au filet et pour imputer ma chute au péché. Cinquante huit, oh toi qui filme de la terre la plus ville et qui avec les dents a s'imaginer le serpent, pour tout le péché dans la face de l'homme et noirci, donne le pardon à l'homme et reçoit le sien. Cinquante neuf, Ecoute encore, un soir à la clôture du ramazon, avant que la meilleure lune se lève, je me tenais seul dans cette vieille boutique du potier, avec le peuple d'argis autour de moi rangé. Soixante, et, chose étrange à dire, parmi ce troupeau fait de glèbes, certains pouvaient parler, d'autres restaient muets, et, tout à coup, un plus à patient cria, qui est le potier, je vous prie, et qui le peau? Soixante et un. Alors, un autre dit, certainement ce ne fut pas en vain que ma substance fut tirée d'une terre vulgaire, pour que celui qui subtilement me donna une forme me fasse revenir en me piétinant à la terre commune. Soixante deux, un autre dit, quoi, jamais un enfant arnieu ne briserait le bol dans lequel il bute avec joie, celui qui fit le vase par amour pur et fantaisie le détruirait-il ensuite avec rage. Soixante trois, personne ne répondit, mais après un silence par là à un vase d'une forme plus gauche, on se moque de moi parce que je me tiens toujours de travers. Quoi, la main du potier tremblait donc? Soixante quatre, lundi, des gens parlent de cabaretier morose et barbouille son visage de la fumée de l'enfer, ils parlent d'un jugement sévère, peu, c'est un bon compagnon et tout ira bien. Soixante cinq, alors un autre dit avec un long soupir, en argis par un long oubli devenu sèche, mais remplissez-moi du vieux jus familier, il me semble que je me sentirai bientôt mieux. Soixante six, ainsi tandis que les vases l'un après l'autre parlaient, l'un d'eux épiait le petit croissant de lune que tout se cherchait, et alors ils s'entrechoquèrent l'un l'autre, disant, frère, frère, écoute craquer la courroie des pôles du porteur. Soixante sept, ah, avec le raisin ranimé ma vie chancelante, et lavé mon corps où la vie est morte, et enveloppé dans un suère de feuilles de vigne, enterrez-moi au bord d'un aimable jardin. Soixante huit, pour qu'eux, même enterrés, mes sans-drixales, aient-elles pièges de parfums dans l'air, qu'il n'y ait pas un vrai croyant qui, passant auprès d'elle, ne soit enivré par surprise. Soixante neuf, vraiment, les idoles que j'ai si longtemps aimé ont fait beaucoup de tort à mon crédit aux yeux des hommes, elles ont noyé mon honneur dans une coupe peu profonde et vendu ma renommée pour une chanson. Soixante dix, vraiment, vraiment bien des fois, du repentir j'ai fait serment, mais était-je sobre quand j'ai juré, et puis est venu au printemps et la rose en ses mains a déchiré le manteau usé de mon repentir. Soixante et onze, et quoique le vin est joué l'infidèle et m'est dépouillé de ma robe d'honneur, eh bien je me demande souvent ce que les vignerons achètent qui puissent être de moitié aussi précieux que ce qu'ils vendent. Soixante douze, hélas, ce printemps s'évanouirait avec la rose, ce manuscrit en beaumé de la jeunesse se fermerait, le rossignol qui chantait sur les branches, ah, d'où venait-il, où s'est-il envolé, qui le sait? Soixante treize, ah, mon amour, si nous pouvions toi et moi conspirer avec le sort pour saisir tout entier ce triste schéma des choses, ne le mettrions-nous pas en pièce pour le refaire plus proche du désir de nos coeurs. Soixante quatorze, ah, lune de mon délice qui ne connaît pas de déclin, la lune du ciel se lève une fois encore, combien souvent ensuite se levant cherchera-t-elle à travers ce même jardin après moi, en vin? Soixante quinze, et quand toi-même avec tes pieds lumineux tu passeras, parmi les invités par sur l'herbe comme des étoiles, et dans ta course errant t'atteindras à la place où je me tinge à dix, renvers en verre vide, d'amal me chude. End of section two, read by Frédéric Surgé. Section three of a multi-lingual rubayah. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The rubayah of Omar Kayam translated into Italian by Fulvia Farufini. Uno, svegliati che l'alba nella coppa della notte agittato la pietra che vogge le stella in fuga. Eh, guarda, il cacciatore dell'est già vinto del suo laccio di luce la torre del sultano. Due. Mentre io sognavo e la mano sinistra dell'alba era nel cielo, udì una voce dalla taverna gridare. Svegliatevi, figliuoli miei, e riempite il bicchiere avanti che li corde la vita nella sua coppa stagni. Tre. E appena udito il gallo, quelli innanzi alla taverna levarono la voce. Aprite dunque la porta, voi sapete che breve è il tempo della nostra sosta, e che una volta partiti non potremmo tornarvi più mai. Quattro. Ora, che il nuovo anno, gli antichi desi nere in novella, l'animo pensoso in solitudine s'apparta o vera bianca mano di Mosè sui ramis boccia e Gesù dal suolo sospira. Cinque. In vero, l'Iram è andato con tutte le sue rose, e la coppa di Jamshid dai sette cerchi, o venessuno sa. Pure, ancora offre la vita agli antichi suoi rubini, e ancora un giardino presso al fiume s'infiora. Sei, e le labbra di Davide sono serrate, ma indivini acuti e modulati pelevi con... Vino! Vino! Vino! Vino rosso! L'usignolo implora la rosa, sì che tutta si imporpori quella sua guancia gialla. Sette. Vieni, riempi il bicchiere, e nel fuoco di primavera gitta gli invernali abbigliamenti di penitenza. L'augello del tempo non ha che breve via da trascorrere a volo, e, guarda, già su l'ali si libra. Otto. Mira mille mille fiori col giorno si destarno, e mille mille caddero in polvere mutati. E questo primo estivo mese che reca le rose, i Jamshid dei Kaikobad con sé porterà via. Nove. Ma vieni col tuo vecchio Kayam, ed abbandona tutti Kaikobad e Kaikorsru all'oblio, e Rustum meni pur come lui piace, e a Tim Tye chiede la cena. Tu dessi non ti curare. Dieci. Vientene con me per qualche sentiero derbe cosparso, che appunto separi il colto dall'inculto, ove il nome di schiavo o di sultano non è quasi saputo, e commisera il sultano Mahmud sul suo trono. Undici. Qui sotto le fronde con un pezzo di pane, una boccia di vino, un libro diversi, e tu che accanto a me nella foresta canti, e la foresta a me è paradiso. Dodici. Come dolce rassurranità in questa vita pensa alcuno, ed altri, come beato sarà il paradiso futuro, a, stringi fra le mani il tesoro d'oggi, e trascura pure il resto, e pur bravo la musica d'un lontano tamburo. Tredici. Guarda la rosa che sboccia qui intorno, ecco, ridendo e sadice, al mondo Iomapro, presto i serici laci della mia borsa strappa, e versa sul giardino il suo tesoro. Quattordici. La mondana speranza, a cui gli uomini pungono il cuore incendere si tramuta, o prospera, e poi, come neve che la sabbiosa faccia del deserto rischiara una brevora o due, dilego a via. Quindici. Ecco loro che accumularne un grano d'oro, ecco loro che lo gittarno al vento come pioggia, equalmente non si muteranno in terra si preziosa, che dopo sepolta gli uomini vorranno i sotterrare di nuovo. Sedici. Pensa. In questo travaglioso caravan serrai, a cui son varchi gli avvicendati giorni e le noti, come un sultano, dopo l'altro, con tutta la sua pompa, vi dimorò la sua oro due, e se ne andò per la sua via. Diciasette. Dicono che leone, la rucerto, la tengono loro corti là, ove i jamsid esultò di sua gloria e beve tanto, e baram, quel gran cacciatore, l'asino selvatico scalpe ta ora sul suo capo, e dei dorme profondo sonno. Diciotto. Talvolta io penso che in nessun luogo si rossa sapre la rosa, come l'a, ove qualche sepolto cesare versò il suo sangue, e che ogni giacinto, di cui il giardino adorna si, cadde nel suo grembo da qualche testa che fu bella. Diciotto. E questa deliziosa erbetta, la cui tenera versura adorna come piume, l'abbro del fiume sul quale poggiamo? Ah, poggiati lievemente. Perché chissà, da quale labbro che bebellezza undi, essa invisibile spunta? Venti. Oh, amor mio, riempi la coppa che sgombra l'oggi dei passati rimpianti e dalle teme future. Domani? Ebbene, domani io potrei essere un solo con settemila anni di ieri. Ventuno. Guarda, quelli che noi amammo, i più belli, i migliori che il tempo ed il fatto da tutto la loro vendemia trassero, la loro coppa, un giro due in ansia noi hanno votata, e ad uno ad uno se ne sono andati silenti al riposo. Ventidue. E noi, che ora ce la godiamo nella dimora che si abbandonaron e che state veste di nuova fioritura, noi, noi stessi dovremo sotto questa terra, che or nostro letto di scendere, e noi stessi divenire letto. Per chi? Ventitre. Ah, cogliamo un miglior frutto da quello che ancora ci resta, prima di scendere anche noi nella polvere, polvere nella polvere, e sotto la polvere, già c'è, senza vino, senza canzone, senza chi a noi canti, e senza fine. Venticuattro. Così, per quelli che per oggi preparano, e così per quelli che mi erano al domani, un Muezim dalla torre delle tenebre grida, stolti, la vostra ricompensa non è ne la, ne qui. Venticinque. E tutti i santi e di Savi che discussero dei due mondi con tanto sapere, sono scacciati come stolti profeti. Le loro parole, a loro scherno, sono gittate in preda e la loro bocca chiusa con la polvere. Ventisei. O, vieni col tuo vecchio Cayam, e abbandone i Savi ai loro ragionari, una solcosa certa, che la vita fugge, una solcosa certa, e tutto il resto è menzogna, il fiore, che una volta sbocciato, muore per sempre. Ventisette. Nella mia giovinezza, io ansioso frequenta ai santi adottori, e odii grandi argomenti intorno e intorno a tutto ciò, ma sempre menuci dalla stessa porta da cui io entrai. Ventotto. Con essi seminai semi della sapienza, e con la stessa mia mano li curai che crescessero. Ed ecco, tutta la messe che io ne colsi. Venni come l'acqua, e come il vento me invado. Ventinove. Entro a questo universo e senza sapere il perché, nel donde, come l'acqua che volente o no lente scorre, e fuor di esso, come il vento che per tutto il deserto, io non so dove, volente o no lente, soffia. Trenta. E tutto, senza ne pur chiedere, donde precipitato qui, e senza ne pur chiedere, da qui precipitato dove, o un altro e un altro bicchiere per annegar la memoria di questa impertinenza. Trentuno. Sud al centro della terra, passando la settima porta io ascesi, e sul trono di Saturno Massisi, e i molti nodi io sciolsi per la via, ma non in nodo dell'uman fato e della morte. Trenta due. Vera una porta a cui non seppi trovar la chiave. Vera un velo, traverso il quale io non potei vedere. Un breve ragionare di me e di te. Parve me che vi fosse. E poi non altro né di te, né di me. Trenta tre. Allora ai rotanti cieli stessi io gridai chiedendo. Qual face bel destino per guidare i figlioletti suoi inciampicanti nel buio? E una cieca intelligenza rispose il cielo. Trenta quattro. Alla coppa d'argilla allora rimandai il mio labro per apprendere la secreta fonte della vita. E l'abbro all'abbro mommorò. Mentre tu vivi bevi, che una volta morto non tornerai mai più. Trenta cinque. Io credo che il vaso che con la fugitiva articolazione rispose e bevita una volta e la trascorse allegramente e il freddo labro che obaciai, quanti baci potei ricevere e dispensare? Trenta sei. Che nella piazza del mercato un giorno al imbrunire io osservavo il vasayo che modellava la sua docil creta edessa. Una sua lingua del tutto sopressa sussurrò con garbo fratello, con garbo ti prego. Trenta sette. Ah, riempi la coppa che giova a ripetre come senza posa sfuga il tempo sotto a nostre piedi. Il nonnato domani, il già morto ieri, perché colucciarti per essi se dolce il dia oggi. Trentotto. Un istante, nella desolazione dell'agnentamento, un istante per gustare la fonte della vita. Le stelle di kinano nel cielo e la carovana parte per l'alba del nulla o su l'esti. Trenta nove. Quanto tempo e quanto per fissato conseguire di una cosa o di un'altra ci sia fatica e si disputa. Meglio allegrarsi con la fruttifera vite che attristarsi per ottenere amari frutti o nulla. Quaranta. Ricordate, o amici, da quanto tempo nella mia casa per novelle nozze io teni simposio e ripudiai la vecchia arida regione dal mio letto e presi per mia sposa la figlia della vita. Quarantuno. Che, benché l'essere e il non essere con riga piombino e il cui e la senza di loro io potessi definire, pure in tutto ciocchio ci teni a sapere, non fu mai profondo in altro che nel vino. Quaranta due. Edor non è molto, dall'uscio della taverna spalancato, di tra l'ombra venne di soppiato una figura d'angelo recante sulla spalla una coppa e da me disse da assaggiarne ed era uva. Quaranta tre. L'uva, che può con logica assoluta le settantadue contenziose sette confutare e l'astuto al chimista che in un attimo plumbe o metallo della vita in oro converte. Quaranta quattro. E' il potente mamud, il signore vittorioso, che tutti i miscredenti e la nera orda di timori e dolori che infestano l'anima di sperde e trafigge con la sua spada incantata. Quaranta cinque. Ma lascia che i savi contendano e con me le questioni dell'universo abbandona. Esdraiato in un angolo di questo tumulto, prendi gioco di ciò che fa altrettanto di te. Quaranta sei. Che dentro e fuori e sopra intorno e sotto non è che nell'interna magica di ombre svolgendese su un cilindro la cui candela e il sole intorno a cui noi fantasmi veniamo ed andiamo. Quaranta sette. E sei il vino che bevi, il labbro che premi finiscono e nulla in cui tutto a fine, ed è così? Allora, mentre tu sei, immagina che sei sol quello che diverrai, nulla, ed a meno tu non sarai. Quarantotto. Mentre la rosa fiorisce lungo il margine del fiume col tuo vecchio caillam la vendemmia verviglia bevi, e quando l'angelo, con suo più cupo bevaraggio attesa a costa, prendilo e non ti scansare. Quaranta nove. E' tutto una scacchiera di giorni e notti, ove il destino giuoca e per figura gli uomini, e qui e l'ali move, e dagli scacchi matti e uccide, e un dopo l'altro nel suo scrigno ancora li pone a gecere. Cinquanta. La palla non fa questioni sui si e i no. Ma, secondo il votatore la manda, adritta o a manca va, e colui che balestrò te giù in questo campo, e gli sa tutto, e gli sa, e gli sa. Cinquantuno. Il dito in moto scrive, e dopo scritto passa oltre. Ne tutte la devozione tua, ne tutto il tuo spirito potrían allettarlo a tornare, per cancellarne un mezzo rigo, ne tutte le tue lacrime lavarne una parola via. Cinquanta due. E l'invertita cratera che noi chiamiamo cielo, sotto la quale striscianti tutti i stiati noi viviamo e moriamo, non levare ad essere a tua mano per aiuto, che essa impotente come te o come me continua a rotare. Cinquanta tre. Della prima creta terrestre fece l'impasto per l'ultimo uomo, e poi seminarono il grano per l'ultima messe, sì, il primo mattino della creazione scrisse ciò che l'ultima alba dei rendiconti dovrà leggere. Cinquanta quattro. Ed io ti dico, quando staccati del firmamento sulla groppa del fiammeggiante corsiero del cielo, parvi in nemustara, e si lanciarono in la mia predestinata zolla di polvere d'anima, cinquanta cinque, già avea la vite fitto una radice, e se adesso al mio essere sabbinga lascia che il sufi sbuffeggi, col mio vile metallo si può fabbricare una chiave che aprirà la porta fuori la quale gli urla. Cinquanta sei. E questo io so, sia che la vera luce m'accenda d'amore, o che l'ira tutto mi consumi, un raggio di luce dentro la taverna mi va il meglio che lo stare in un tempio d'ogni luce muto. Cinquanta sette. O tu, che di insiglie di trappole cospargesti la via in cui io dovea vagare, tu, con la predestinazione intorno, vorrai retirmi, e il peccato imputare della mia caduta. Cinquanta otto. O tu, che l'uomo di Vilcretta formasti, e che con Ledin sapesti creare il serpente per tutti i peccati con cui la faccia dell'uomo è nera, dal perdono all'uomo, e prendilo. Cusa nama. Cinquanta nove. Ascolta ancora. Una sera, al finire del ramadam, avanti che la miglior luna si levasse nella bottega di quel vecchio vasayo, io stavo solo con quella popolazione d'argilla intorno a file. Sessanta. Estrano dirsi, fra quella cretace a folla, alcuni potevano parlare, mentre altri non sapeano, ed un tratto, uno più impaziente, gridò, chi è dunque il vasayo, scusate, e chi il vaso? Sessantuno. Poi, disse un altro, certo, non invano, la mia materia della comuna terra futratta, sì che colui che delicatamente mi lavorò in una forma, possa nella comuna terra di nuovo ricacciarmi. Sessanta due. E un altro. E che, neppure un fanciullo viziato romperebbe la coppa in cui beve con piacere, vorrà colui che fece il vaso per puro amore e fantasia in un subseguente ira distruggerlo? Sessanta tre. Nessuno rispose. Ma dopo il silenzio, parlò una coppa di deforme fattura. E se mi deridono, perché tutta in chino su un lato, e che la mano dunque del vasayo tremò? Sessanta quattro. Un disse, la gente parla d'un burbero cantiniere, e imbratta il suo viso col fumo dell'inferno, e dice che di noi farà giudizio severo. Pa. Egli è un buon compagnone, e tutto andrà bene. Sessanta cinque. Poi un altro con un lungo sospiro. La mia argilla per lunga dimenticanza è inarridita, ma è del vecchio succo familiare riempimi, e ben credo che poco a poco io rinverrò. Sessanta sei. Così, mentre i vasi, un dopo l'altro parlavano, un dessi, la falce della luna, tanto aspettata scorse, e tutti allora si dette lo cenno, e fratello, fratello, ascolta, è la spallina del facchino, che so descricchiolare. Sessanta sette. Ah, la mia vita, che declina divino provvedi, lava in esso il mio corpo, quando la vita sarà fuggita, e in un drappo avvolgilo di pampini tessuto, e presso un odoroso giardino dammi sepoltura. Sessantotto. Sì, che pur le mie sepolti ceneri, tale un laccio di profumo lanciano nell'aria, che non un solo vero fedele che vi passi accanto, senza che i sapegga non ne sia allacciato. Sessanta nove. In vero, gli idoli da me sia lungo amati, presso gli uomini molto andetratto la mia stima. In una semplice coppa, il mio onore hanno annegato, e venduto la mia riputazione per una canzone. Sessanta. In vero, in vero, pentimento spesso prima io giurai, ma fui o sovrio quando giurai, e poi, e poi venne primavera con le sue rose in mano, e la mia regnata penitenza lacerò tutta a brani. Sessantuno. E ben che il vino me l'abbia fatta da infedele, e m'abbia derubato del manto dell'onore, ebbene, io sovende mi chiedo se i vinai comperano mai merce che abbia mezzo il valore di quella che si vendono. Sessantadue. Ai me, che la primavera debba svanire con le rose, e l'odorato manoscritto della giovinezza debba chiudersi. L'usignolo che fra i rami cantò, ha d'onde venuto, e dove fuggito di nuovo, chissà. Settantatré. Amore, potessimo tu e dio col fatto cospirare per intero afferrare questo triste schema delle cose, o non vorremmo noi gitane infrantumi e poi modellarlo più vicino al desio del nostro cuore? Settantacuattro. Ha l'una del mio godimento, che non sai le decrescenti fasi. La luna del cielo si leva di nuovo, quante volte essa in avenire sorgendo guarderà in questo stesso giardino per cercarmi in vano. Settantacinque. E allora tu, con tuoi piedi lucenti passerai fra gli ospiti disseminati come le stelle su l'erba, e nel tuo gioioso viaggio raggiungerà il luogo dove anch'io ero uno. Capovolgi, la mia coppa vuota. Damam shud. End of section 3. Recording by Pierre. Section 4 of a multilingual Rubaiyat. This debrief of recording is in the public domain. The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, translated into German by Walter Frenzel. Read by Sonja. Die Rubaiyat. Auf den der Tag warf in den dunklen Ring der Nacht den Stein, das jeder Stern verging. Seht, wie der Jäger aus dem Ostensich des Sultansturm in Goldner Schlinge fing. Der Morgen war vom ersten Frühlicht rot. Da hörte ich in der Schenke ein Gebot. Ich träumte noch. Auf Kinder trinkt, eh euch der Saft des Lebens zu versiegen droht. Und als der Hahn rief, standen sie zu Hauf vor der Taverne. Macht das Turn nun auf. Kurz ist, ihr wisst, der uns vergönte Tag und nie zurückführt unser Lebenslauf. Neu Jahr erneut nur alte Traurigkeit. Drum sucht das müde Herz die Einsamkeit. Vor Blüten schimmern, weiß wie Moses Hand, und Baum und Strauch von Jesu Hauch gedeiht. Die Rosenehrungs hat der Wind verdorrt, das sieben Ringeglas Jemchitz ist fort, doch aus den Trauben fließt der alte Wein, und Gärten blühen und duften fort und fort. Auch Davids Mund ist zu, im Tempelheim an Priesterstadt im Ton Pelevi wein. Ganz roten wein, ruft eine Nachtigall. Rot muss der Mund der gelben Rosen sein. Füllt euer Glas und werft das Bus gewandt, vom Winter in den jungen Frühlingsbrand, der Vogelzeit hat einen kurzen Weg, und seht, schon fliegt der Vogel über Land. Wo einer lebt, gleich viel in welcher Stadt, ob er im Glase Herben süßen hat, sein Lebenswein rinnt wie die Stundenuhr. Vom Baum des Lebens fallen Blatt auf Blatt. Sind tausend Blumen morgens aufgewacht, sind tausend andere schon zu Staub gemacht. Der Sommer, der uns Rosen schenkte, hat uns um Jamchit und Kai Karat gebracht. Komm zu Kai am dem Alten, kümre du dich nicht um Jamchit, nicht um Kai Rosru, viel Rustem mit dir raufen, weich ihm aus, ruft hat ihm dich zum Feste, höh nicht zu. Komm, wo die Feldmaus in dem Boden wühlt, dort, wo die Wüste an die Saaten spült, wo man nicht weiß, was Herr und Sklave ist, und tiefes Mitleid mit dem Sultan fühlt. Hier unterm Baum mit etwas Brot, dazu ein Krugvoll Wein, ein Liederbuch, und du, in dieser Wildnis singend mir zur Seid, und Wildnis wird zum Paradies im Nu. Vor uns die Rose blüht, als spreche sie, lachend voll Lust in alle Welt ich blühe, reist über Nacht mein Silberband, dann liegt mein ganzes Gold im Grase morgen früh. Die Welt lausch des Propheten hochgetönt, von Paradieses Auen und Himmelshöhen, doch bares Geld ist besser als Kredit, glaub mir, von fern klingt seine Trommel schön. Die Hoffnung, die sich diese Welt verschreibt, bringt keine Furcht, und wenn sie Blüten treibt, die sind die weißer Schnee, der auf den Staub der Wüste fiel, und auch nicht liegen bleibt. Ob sie ihr Gold auch in den Sand gegraben, ob sie es den Winden preisgegeben haben, sie sind im Tode nicht die Mühe wert, das einer käme, sie wieder auszugraben. Sie, wie es Tag und Nacht, zwei Tore gibt, durch die sich diese Karawane schiebt, mit großem Tross sultan auf sultan naht, sein Stündchen bleibt und sich hinweg begibt. Wo jetzt der Löwe herrscht, dort, sagt die Meer, sass Jamchit, und trank manchen Becher leer. Der wilde Esel stampft den Sand, in dem der Jäger liegt, allein den stürzt nicht mehr. So denke ich oft, die Rosen blühen wie Blut, wo unterm Gras ein toter Käfer ruht, und jede Hyacinthe holt den Duft aus einem Herzen, lieb und fromm und gut. Die Wiese, wo wir lehnen, Wald umsäumt, am Rand des Stroms, der uns zu Füßen schäumt, liegt leicht auf ihr du, denn sie sprießt vielleicht aus schönern Lippen, als dir je geträumt. Kind, reich mir wein, so wird das Herz befreit von aller Sorge, allem Herze leid, denn leicht gehör auch ich schon morgen zu den sieben tausend Jahren Vergangenheit. Wir haben manchem freundlich zugelacht, den reif wie wein die Zeit hervorgebracht, ein jeder trank sein Glas, und einer nach dem anderen ging, und sagte gute Nacht. Und wir, die festig auf dem Teppich stehen, den die gewirkt, die keinen Lenz mehr sehen, wir müssen auch einmal ins Kühle grab. Dann selber grab für nach uns irgend wehn. Nutz, was du hast, das bisschen Überfluss, eh unser einer auch dran glauben muss, Staub unter Staub und unterm Staube ist kein Wein, kein Lied, kein Sänger und kein Schluss. Damals sich der ein farberes Zukunftsbild, der sorgt fürs Jenseits, aber beiden gilt des wechtes Rufs vom Turm der Finsternis. Naan, was ihr sucht und wünscht, bleibt unerfüllt. Den Frommen und den Weisen, die geschickt, gedisputiert, ist es nicht geglückt. Sie waren Gaukler, also ist ihr Wort vergessen, und ihr Mund mit Staub erstickt. Komm mit, Rayam, und hör nicht auf das Lied der neunmal klugen. Ja, das Leben flieht, der Satz ist gut, doch eins verschwiegen sie, die Blume, die geblüht hat, hat geblüht. Auch ich lief, als ich jung war, lobesam zu Doktor und Dich Hand, ja, ich vernahm manch Driftgensatz, und ging doch jedes Mal zur selben Tür hinaus, durch die ich kam. Am Erntetag, so sprachen sie, gewinnt wer fleißig säht, ein Glück, das nie zerrinnt. Doch alles, was ich ernten konnte war, ich kam wie Wasser, und ich geh wie Wind. Ich kam zur Welt, zweck und verständnislos, weiß nicht woher, wie Wasser fleißig bloß, dann wieder fort, wie Wind streift übers Feld, weiß nicht wohin, ich treibe, willenlos. Hierher getrieben, woher, ungefragt, von hier wohin, dann wieder weggejagt, Glas her und trinkt, auf das mir keiner mehr an diesen Narrenstreich zu denken wagt. Durch siebte Tor zum Thron Satons begab, ich staub geborener mich am Pilgerstab, und manchen Knoten löst ich auf dem Weg, den Knoten nicht von Leben, tot und grab. Da war ein Tor, in dem kein Schlüssel stark, ein Schleier, der vor meinen Augen lag, mir war, als sprach man da von mir und dir, nichts mehr von mir und dir am andern Tag. Aufwärts zum Himmel hob ich meinen Blick, wie heißt das Licht, mit dem das Weltgeschick uns Armen leuchtet, wenn wir irre gehen? Fragt nicht und fügt euch, gab er mir zurück. Ich hob den Krug zum Munde, voll begehrt, dass ich erföre, was das Leben wär, und Mund an Mund klangs, trink, weil du lebst, denn von den Toten kehrst du nimmer mehr. Ich weiß, der Krug, auf den ich da gelauscht, in dessen Adern hat einst Blut gerauscht, und den ich küsste, dieser kalte Mund, oh, wie viel küsse, hat er einst getauscht. Denn auf dem Magde, ich erinner mich, saß einst ein Töpfer, und er plagte sich mit seinem Ton, da war's, als hat's im Ton geröchelt leis. Ach, Bruder, schone mich. Schenk ein, schenk ein, glückselig wer vergisst, wie jeder Tag nur eine Welle ist. Zwei Tage habe nie mein Herz beschwert, der Tag der war, und der der morgen ist. Auf, trink und küsse, ob auch kuss und wein vorübergehen, denk, es muß so sein. Vorüber gehst auch du, so sei doch froh, daß du noch bist, und lass das Krübeln sein. Solang noch Rosenstehen im Uferlicht, trink mit Rayam, was aus der Rebe bricht, und kommt der Engel mit dem schwarzen Trank, einst auf dich zu, nimm ihn, und schaudre nicht. Am Lebensbrunnen ist nur ein Moment der Karawane ru und rastgegönnt, die Sterne sinken, wieder geht's ins Nichts, aus dem wir kamen. Trinkt, so schnell ihr könnt. Dies unfruchtbare Reden fort und fort, um Thesen hier, um Theorien dort, ihr säßet besser hinter süßem Wein, eh, daß euch Kehle und Gehirn verdort. Wie lang mag's her sein, Freunde, helft mir aus, daß ich euch lud zum letzten Hochzeitsschmaus, vernunft, der unfruchtbaren mein Bett verbot, und nahm des Weinstocks Töchterlein ins Haus. Mit Lot und Leine war ich recht geschickt, ich hab die Welt in Formeln ausgedrückt, und habe doch in diesen Dingen nie, so wie im Wein, bis auf den Grund geblickt. Und jüngst durch Schenkentor im Dämmerschein auf leisen Sohlen trat ein Engel ein, von seiner Schulter hob er einen Krug und bot ihn mir, und seht, da war es Wein. Wein, der mit strikter Logik unentwegt, die 72 Sekten widerlegt, ein Alchemist, der euch im Hand umdrehen Gold aus dem Blei des Menschenlebens schlägt. Ein zweiter Machmut, groß und wunderbar, von dessen Zauber schwer die schwarze Schahr all jener Sorgen, die die Seele quälen, das Weite sucht, besiegt auf immer da. So lass die Weisen hadern, komm zu mir, und sprich nicht mehr vom Universum hier, schmieck dich mit mir in einen Winkel und frag nicht nach ihm, es fragt auch nicht nach dir. Das oben, unten, rings und drin und raus ist alles nur ein magisch Schattenhaus, die Sonne ist die Lampe, rings um sie, gehen wir Gespenster spukhaft ein und aus. Welt ist ein Schachbrett, Tag und Nacht geschrägt, wo Schicksal Menschen hin und her bewegt, sie durcheinander schiebt, Schach bietet, schlägt und nacheinander in die Schachtel legt. Links oder rechts, der Ball folgt letzten Ends dem Spieler und nicht eigener Tendenz, und er, der dich ins Feld geworfen hat, er kennt ja wohl dein Ziel, er kennt's, er kennt's. Sein Finger schreibt und läuft von Wort zu Wort, kein Glaube hilft, kein Witz, kein Zauberwort, er kehrt nicht um, streicht keine Zeile aus und keine Träne löscht ein einstges Wort. Und was man dir zu häupten Himmel heißt, darunter du, bis dich der Tod entreist, dich schiebt's und drängt's, von ihm verspricht dir nichts, der so wie du, ohnmächtig, weiterkreist. Gott schuf den Letzten, der auf Erden geht, da er der Ersten ernte Saat gesäht, und jeder Urteilsspruch am jüngsten Tag vom Tag der Schöpfung hergeschrieben steht. Eh noch das Himmelsfüllen stach genug, daß es die Sterne auf den Schultern trug, als es noch keinen Mund am Himmel gab, war's, daß in mir der Weinstock Wurzeln schlug. In mir pre-definierter Kreatur aus Staub und Geist, der Sufi zetre nur, was nutzt sein Beten ihm? Mein Schlüssel schließt die Türen auf ins Innere der Natur. Der Wahrheit licht, ob mich sein Zorn verzehrt, ob es mich liebt, ich hab es heiß begehrt, mir aber ist am Schenkentisch ein Strahl, weit mehr als nichts in eurem Tempel wert. Der du mitfallen, wie es dir gefällt, den Weg, auf dem ich wandern soll, verstellt, du hast's gewollt, du hast's vorher bestimmt, und du bist schuld, wenn unser einer fällt. Der du uns schufst, so wie es dir beliebt, und hast's gewollt, daß es die Schlange gibt, für alle Sünde, die er auf sich lud, vergibt dem Menschen, wie er dir vergibt. Still, eines Tags, der Abend nahte schon, und endlich schlicht der Fastenmond davon, stand ich allein in meines Töpfers Haus, um mich der Krüge schwere Scha aus Ton. In allen Größen, viel mehr Krüge als ich sonst bei ihm sah, hundert allenfalls, die einen waren gesprächig, andere nun die hörten zu, sie schwiegen jedenfalls. Fing eine an, daß ich so schön und rund, daß hat doch sicher seinen guten Grund, er, der mit mir sich so viel Mühe gab, nein, seltsam wär's, ging ich durch ihn zu Grund. Ein anderer drauf, kein Kind ist so betört, daß es das Glas zerbricht, daß ihm gehört, es kann nicht sein, daß er den Krug, den er, aus Liebe schuf, in blinder Wut zerstört. Traufwurz still, als wieder einer muckt, ein Buckeliger, der in der Ecke huckt, man lacht mich aus, daß ich so windschief bin, hat denn bei mir des Töpfers Hand geschuckt? Und jetzt truft einer mit verdrehtem Kopf, ein Sufi knirps, ein sonderbarer Tropf, hier sprecht er stets von Topf und Töpfer, ach, wer ist denn hier der Töpfer und der Topf? Das weiß er nicht, doch wenn ich's recht beschau, ihr allem malt ihn viel zu grau in grau, ins Fegefeuer die missraten, nein, er meint es gut und nimmt's nicht so genau. Da sagte einer, und er säuft so schwer, ich denke mir, wir stehen zu lange leer, gebt mir nur wieder den gewohnten Saft, und ihr sollt sehen, ich stell mich wieder her. Also die Töpfe sprachen in der Runde, da ging der Mond auf zur gesetzten Stunde, und einer stieß den anderen, Bruder, Bruder, jetzt kommt der Weinschenk mit dem Schlüsselbunde. Oh, gebt mir Wein, wenn einst mein Geist verglüht, und wascht mit Wein den Leib aus dem Erfliet, und in ein Weinlaub leichen Tuch gehüllt, begrabt mich, vor ein schöner Gartenblüht. Dann hebt sich noch aus meiner Totengruft ein süßer Odem in die Gartenluft, und jeder Gläubge ins Gebet versenkt, wird überwältigt von dem starken Duft. Oh ja, die Götzen, die ich Tag und Nacht so heiß geliebt, haben mich schlecht gemacht. Der Wein nahm mir die Ehre, und das Lied hat mich um meinen guten Ruf gebracht. Und freilich schwur ich reue oft zuvor, ich war ja doch nicht nüchtern, wenn ich schwur, dann kam der Frühling, Rosen in der Hand, und mein Gelübde brach, wie schwaches Rohr. Doch ob der Wein mich auch zum Narren hält, und mich um meinen Ehrenmantel prält, der Winzer ist doch wohl der größere nah, der da den Wein geringer schätzt als Geld. Oh weh, die Rose wälgt, ja, es ist spät, und blatt für blatt mein Buch zu Ende geht. Das Vöglein freude, das so lustig sang, ist fortgeflogen, ist wie weggeweht. Geb uns mein Lieb, das Schicksal freie Bahn, zu ändern den verfehlten Weltenplan, wir wollten ihn in Stücke reißen, und ihn neu entwerfen, mehr nach Wunsch getan. Mond meiner Liebe, ewig Licht und Heer, nun kommt der Mond am Himmel wieder her, wie oft noch geht er überm Garten auf, und sucht mich hier, und findet mich nicht mehr. Du gehe hin, worings im kühlen Gras so oft die Schabe grenzter Freunde saß, und wenn die anderen ihre Gläser füllen, nimm meines, und zerbricht's, das leere Glas. End of section 4