غزل شمارهٔ 1794

O gardener, gardener, autumn has come, autumn has come; see on branch and leaf the mark, see the mark of heart-anguish.

O gardener, attend, give ear, hearken to the lament of the trees; on every side a hundred tongueless ones, a hundred tongueless ones bewailing.

Never without cause are eyes weeping and lips parched; no one without heart-anguish is pale of cheek, pale of cheek.

In short, the raven of grief has entered the garden and is stamping his feet, demanding in mockery and oppression, “Where is the rose bower, where is the rose bower?

“Where is lily and eglantine? Where cypress and tulip and jasmine? Where the green-garmented ones of the meadow? Where the Judas tree, where the Judas tree?

“Where are the nurses of the fruits? Where the gratis honey and sugar? Every breast, every breast is dry of this flowing milk.

“Where is my sweet-voiced nightingale? Where is my cooing ringdove? Where is the peacock fair as an idol? Where are the parrots, where are the parrots?”

Like Adam having eaten a grain fallen from his abode, their crown and fine robes have flown from this dazzling array, this dazzling array.

The rose bower constrained like Adam, alike lamenting and expectant, since the Lord of Bounty said to them, “Do not despair.”

All the trees drawn up in ranks, black-robed, plunged in mourning, leafless and sad and lamenting because of that trial.

O crane and lord of the village, at last return some answer; “Have you gone into the depths or departed to heaven, to heaven?”

They replied, “Enemy raven, that water shall return to the streams, the world will become full of scent even as Paradise, even as Paradise.”

O babbling raven, be patient three months more, till there arrive despite you the festival of the world, the festival of the world.

Through the voice of our Seraphiel our lantern will become bright, we shall become alive from the death of that autumn festival, that autumn festival.

How long this denial and doubt? Behold the mine of joy and salt; fly to heaven like a manikin without a ladder, without a ladder!

The beastlike autumn dies, you stamp upon its grave; lo, the dawn of fortune is breaking, O watchman, watchman!

O dawn, fill the world with light, drive afar these Hindus [of the night], set free the time, recite a spell, recite a spell!

O sweet-working sun, return to Aries, leave neither ice nor mud, scattering ambergris, scattering ambergris.

Fill the rose bower with laughter, bring to life those dead ones, make shining the concourse; ha, see what comes to sight.

The seeds are escaped from prison, we too from the corner of our houses; the garden out of hidden places has brought a hundred presents, a hundred presents.

The rose bower fills with beauties, fur coats are a drug on the market, the cycle of time, the cycle of time is giving birth and generating.

The crane is coming with his drooping wings over the palace, tall as the sky, babbling as if to say, “Yours is the kingdom, O refuge in need, O refuge in need!”

The nightingale enters playing the lute, and that dove cooing, the other birds celebrate with song, youthful fortune, youthful fortune.

I am pregnant with this resurrection; I abandon the speech of the tongue; the thoughts of my heart come not into the tongue, into the tongue.

Silence! Listen, father, to the news from garden and birds: flying arrowlike they have come from placelessness, from placelessness.