Conversation with the Indian Poet Bartari-Hari

The houris in their palaces and pavilions my lament provoked to supreme ardour;

One here put forth her head from her tent, another there peeped out from her chamber and gazed;

To every heart in eternal Paradise I gave of the pain and sorrow of yon terrestrial globe.

A smile played on the lips of my holy guide and he said: ‘magician of Indian stock,

Behold now that Indian minstrel the grace of whose gaze converts the dew to pearls.

A broiderer of subtleties, his name is Bartari, his nature generous as the clouds of Azar;

From the meadow he plucks only the new-sprung buds. Your melody has drawn him towards us,

A king who, with a song sublime, even in poverty dwells in lofty exaltation;

With his delicate thought he designs images of beauty, a whole world of meaning hidden in two words.

He is intimate with the workshop of life; he is Jamshid, his poetry Jamshid’s Cup.’

We rose in reverence for his art and prepared suitably to engage with him.

You who have uttered heart-delighting subtleties, through whose discourse the East knows all mysteries,

Say, whence comes the fire into poetry? Does it come from the Self, or from God?

Bartari-Hari None knows where the poet is in this world; his melody springs from the high notes and the low.

That burning heart which he has in his breast finds not repose even before God.

Our soul’s delight is in questing; poetry’s fire is of the station of desire.

You who are drunk with wine pressed from the vine of words, if you should ever attain to this rank.

With two verses in this world of stone and brick one can ravish the hearts of the houris of Paradise.

I have seen the Indians twisting this way and that; it is time you told the secret of God unveiled.

Bartari-Hari These frail gods are but of stone and brick; there is One more lofty, far from temple and church

Prostration without the joy of action is dry and useless; life is all action, whether fair or foul.

I will tell you plainly a word not known to every one – happy is the man who has written it on his heart’s tablet.

This world you behold is not the handiwork of God, the wheel is yours, and the thread spun on your spindle.

Prostrate yourself before the Law of action’s reward, for from action are born Hell, Purgatory and Paradise.