Eyewitness to the Truth ...
THE RUBAIYAT Omar Khayyam tr Edward Fitzgerald, recent ed by our author: > > > > > > > Wake! for the Sun, who scattered into flight > the Stars before him from the field of night > drives Night along with them from heaven and strikes > the Sultan's turret with shaft of Light! > > > Before the first phantom glint of morning died > methought a voice within the tavern cried, > "When all the temple is prepared within, > why nods the drowsy worshipper outside?" > > > And as the cock crew those who stood before > the tavern shouted - "Open then the door! > You know how little time 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 bough > puts out, and Jesus from the ground suspires. > > > Iram indeed is gone with his Rose > and Jamshyd's seven-ringed cup is where none knows > but still a ruby kindles in the vine > and many a garden by the water blows; > > > And David's lips are locked; but in divine > high-piping Pahlevi, with "Wine, Wine, Wine! > Red Wine!" the nightingale still cries to the rose > that sallow cheek of hers to incarnidine! > > > Come, fill the cup and in the fires of Spring > your winter garment of repentance fling: > the bird of time has but a little way > to flutter - and - the bird is on the wing! > > > Whether at Naishapur or Babylon > whether the cup with sweet or bitter run > the wine of life keeps oozing drop by drop > the leaves of life keep falling one by one; > > > Each morn a thousand roses brings, you say > yes, but where lives the rose of yesterday? > and this first summer month that brings the rose > shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away. > > > Well, let it take them! what have we to do > with Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru? > Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will > or Hatim call to supper - heed not you. > > > With me along the strip of garden strown > that just divides the desert from the sown, > where name of slave and sultan is forgot - > and peace to Mahmud on his golden throne! > > > A book of verses underneath the bough > a jug of wine, a loaf of bread - and thou > beside me singing in the wilderness - > O, wilderness were paradise enow! > > > Some for the glories of this world; and some > sigh for the prophet's paradise to come > ah, take the cash, and let the credit go, > nor heed the rumble of the distant drum! > > > Look to the blowing rose about us - "Lo, > laughing", she says, "into the world I blow > at once the silken tassel of my purse > I tear, and its treasure on the garden throw!" > > > And those who husbanded the golden grain > and those who flung it to the winds like rain > alike to no such aureate Earth are turned > as, buried once, men want dug up again. > > > 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. > > > Think, in this battered caravanserai > whose portals are alternate day and night > how Sultan after Sultan with his pomp > spent his destined hour, and went his way. > > > They say the lion and lizard keep > the courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep > and Bahram, that great hunter - the wild ass > stamps on his head, yet cannot break his sleep. > > > I sometimes think that never blows so red > the rose as where some buried Caesar bled > that every hyacinth this garden wears > dropped in her lap from some once lovely head; > > > And this reviving grass whose tender green > carpets the river-lip on which we lean - > ah, lean on 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 of future fears > Tomorrow! - why, tomorrow I may be > myself with yesterday's seven thousand years! > > > For some we loved - the loveliest and the best > that from his vintage rolling Time hath pressed - > have drunk their cup a round or two before > and one by one crept silently to rest; > > > And we that now make merry in the room > they left, and summer dresses now in new bloom - > ourselves must we beneath the couch of Earth > descend - ourselves to make a couch - for whom? > > > Oh, make the most of what we yet may spend > before we too into dust descend > dust into dust and under dust to lie > no wine, no song, no singer and - no end! > > > Alike for those who for today prepare > and those that after some tomorrow stare > a muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries > "Fools, your reward is neither here nor there!" > > > Why, all the saints and sages who discussed > the two worlds so wisely - they too are thrust > like foolish prophets forth; their words to scorn > are scattered, and their mouths are stopped with dust. > > > Myself, when I was young, did eagerly frequent > doctor and saint, and heard the great argument > around and about it; but evermore > came out by the same door where in I went. > > > With them the seed of wisdom did I sow > and with mine own hand wrought to make it grow > and this was all the harvest that I reaped > "I came like water, and like wind I go." > > > Into this universe, yet the Why not knowing > nor Whence, like water willy-nilly flowing > and out of it, as wind along the waste > I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing. > > > What, without asking? hither hurried Whence? > What, without asking? Whither hurried Hence? > O, many a cup of this forbidden wine > must down the memory of that insolence! > > > Up from Earth's center through the Seventh Gate > I rose, and on the throne of Saturn sate > and many a knot unravelled by the road > but not the master-knot of human fate. > > > There was a door to which I found no key > there was a veil through which I might not see > some little talk awhile of Me, and Thee > there was - and then no more of Thee and Me. > > > Earth could not answer; nor the seas that mourn > in flowing purple their Lord forlorn; > nor rolling Heaven, with all his zodiac revealed > and hidden, by the sleeves of Night, and Morn. > > > Then of the Thee in Me who works behind > the veil, I lifted up my hands to find > a lamp amid the darkness - and I heard > as from without - "the Thee within Thee is blind!" > > > Then to the lip of this poor earthen urn > I leaned, the secret of my life to learn - > and lip to lip murmured - "while yet you live > drink! - for once dead, you never shall return!" > > > I think the vessel that with fugitive > articulation answered thus once did live > and drink; and ah! the passive lip I kissed > how many kisses once did take, and give! > > > For I remember stopping by the way > to watch a potter thumping his wet clay > and with its all-obliterated tongue > it murmured - "Gently, brother, gently, pray!" > > > And has not such a story from of old > down man's successive generations rolled > of such a clod of saturated earth > cast by the maker into human mold? > > > And not a drop that from our cups we throw > for Earth to drink of, but may steal below > to quench the fire of anguish in some eye > there hidden - far beneath, and long ago. > > > As then the tulip for her morning sup > of heavenly vintage from the soil looks up > do you devoutly do the like, til heaven > to Earth invert you - like an empty cup. > > > Perplexed no more with human or divine > tomorrow's tangle to the winds resign > and lose your fingers in the tresses of > the cypress-slender mistress of wine. > > > And if the wine you drink, the lip you press > end in what all begins and ends in - Yes! > think then you are today what yesteday > you were - tomorrow you shall not be less! > > > So when the angel of the darker drink > at last shall find you by the river-brink > and, offering his cup, invite your soul > forth to your lips to quaff - you shall not shrink! > > > Why, if the soul can fling the dust aside > and naked on the air of heaven ride > were it not a shame - a shame for him > in this clay carcase crippled to abide? > > > Tis but a tent to take his one days rest > for Sultan, to the realm of Death addressed; > the Sultan rises and the dark Ferrash > strikes, and prepares the tent for another guest. > > > And fear not lest existence closing your > account and mine, should know the like no more; > the eternal Saki from that bowl has poured > millions of bubbles like us, and will pour. > > > When you and I beyond the veil are passed > O, but the long, long while the world shall last > which of our coming and going heeds > as little as the Sea a pebble cast. > > > A moment's halt - a momentary taste > of Being, from the well amid the waste - > and lo! - the phantom caravan has reached > the Nothing it set out from - O, make haste! > > > Would you that spangle of existence spend > about The Secret - quick about it, Friend! > A hair perhaps divides the false and true - > and upon what, pray tell, does life depend? > > > A hair perhaps divides the false and true; > Yes, and a single Alif were the clue - > could you but find it! - to the treasure-house > and maybe to the Master, too; > > > whose secret presence through creation's veins > running quicksilver-like eludes your pains > taking all shapes from fish, to moon, and > they change and perish all - yet He remains; > > > a moment guessed - then back to the fold > immersed in the darkness, round the drama rolled > which for the pastime of eternity > He did Himself contrive - behold! > > > But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor > of Earth and up to Heaven's unopening door > you gaze today, while you are You - how then > tomorrow, when you shall be, You no more? > > > Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit > of this and that endeavor and dispute; > best be jocund with this fruitful grape > than sadden after none, or bitter, fruit. > > > You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse > I made a second marriage in my house > divorced old barren Reason from by bed > and took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse. > > > For "Is" and "Is Not" though with rule and line > and "Up" and "Down" by logic I define > Of all that one should care to fathom, I > was never deep in anything, but - wine! > > > O, but my computations, people say > reduced the Year to better reckoning? - nay > twas only striking from the calendar > unborn tomorrow and dead yesterday. > > > And lately, by the tavern door agape > came shining through the dusk an angel shape > bearing a vessel on her shoulder; and > bid me taste of it - and 'twas the grape! > > > The grape that can with logic absolute > the two and seventy jarring sects confute! > The sovereign alchemist that in a trice > Life's leaden metal into gold transmute: > > > indeed the mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord > that all the misbelieving and black horde > of fears and sorrows that infest the soul > scatters before Him with his whirlwind sword! > > > Why, be this juice the growth of God, who dare > blaspheme the twisted tendril as a snare? > a blessing, we should use it, should we not? > and if a curse - why then, who set it there? > > > I must abjure the balm of life? I must? > scared by some after-reckoning taken on trust > or lured with hope of some diviner drink > to fill the cup - when crumbled into dust? > > > O, threats of hell and hopes of paradise! > one thing at least is certain - THIS life flies > one thing is certain, and the rest is lies; > the flower that once has blown, forever dies. > > > Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who > before us passed the door of darkness through > not one returns to tell us of the road > which to discover, we must travel, too. > > > The revolutions of the devout and learned > who rose before us and as prophets burned > are all but stories, which, awoke from sleep > they told their comrades, and to sleep returned. > > > I sent my soul through the Invisible > some letter of that after-life to spell; > and by and by my soul came back to me > and answered, "I myself am heaven and hell!" > > > Heaven, but the vision of fulfilled desire > and hell but the shadow cast by a soul on fire > cast on the darkness into which ourselves - > so late emerged from - shall so soon expire. > > > We are no other than a moving row > of magic shadow shapes that come and go > round with the Sun-lit lantern held > in midnight, by the Master of the show; > > > We are but helpless pieces of the game He plays > upon this checkerboard of nights and days > hither and thither the moves, and checks, and slays > and one by one, back in the box he lays. > > > The ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes > but here or there as strikes, the player goes; > and He that tossed you down the field > He knows about it all - He knows - HE knows! > > > The moving finger writes; and having writ, > moves on; nor all your piety or wit > shall lure it back to cancel half a line > nor all your tears wash out a word of it. > > > And that inverted bowl they call the sky, > whereunder crawling cooped we live and die > lift not your hands to It for help - for It > as impotently moves as you or I! > > > With Earth's first clay they did the Last Man knead > and there for Last Harvest sow the seed: > and the first Morning of Creation wrote > what the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read. > > > Yesterday this day's madness did prepare > tomorrow's silence, triumph, or despair: > Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why; > Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where. > > > I tell you this - when, started from the goal > over the flaming shoulders of a foal - > into heaven the Pleiades and Jupiter they flung, > as my predestined plot of dust, and soul. > > > The vine had struck a fiber: which about > if clings my being - let the Dervish 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 > kindle to love or to wrath, or consume me quite > one flash of it within the tavern caught > is better than in temple lost outright! > > > What! of the senseless Nothing to provoke > a conscious Something to resent the yoke > of unpermitted pleasure, under pain > of everlasting penalties, if broke! > > > What! from His helpless creature be repaid > pure gold for what He lent him dross-allayed: > to sue for a debt we never did contract > and cannot answer - O, a sorry trade! > > > O Thou, who did with pitfall and with gin > beset the road I was to wander in > Thou wilt not with predestined Evil round > enmesh, and then impute my fall to Sin! > > > O Thou, who man of baser Earth did make > and even with Paradise devise the Snake - > for all the Sin wherewith the face of man > is blackened: man's forgiveness give - and take! > > > As under cover of departing day > slinks hunger-stricken Ramadan away, > once more within the potter's house alone > I stood, surrounded by the shapes of clay; > > > Shapes of all sorts and sizes, great and small > that stood along the floor and by the wall; > and some loquacious vessels were; and some > listened perhaps, but never talked at all. > > > Said one among them - "Surely not in vain > my substance of the common earth was ta'en > and to this figure molded - to be broke > or trampled, back to shapeless Earth again?" > > > Then said a second - "Never a peevish boy > would break the bowl from which he drank in joy; > and He that with his hand the vessel made > will surely not in after wrath destroy!" > > > After a momentary silence spake > some vessel of a more ungainly make > "They sneer at me for leaning all awry: > what! did the Hand then of the potter shake?" > > > Whereat someone of that loquacious lot - > I think a Sufi pipkin - waxing hot - > "All of this pot and potter - tell me then, > who is the potter, pray, and who the pot?" > > > "Why" said another "some there are who tell > of one who threatens he will toss to Hell > the luckless pots he marr'd in making - Pish! > He's a good fellow, and 'twill all be well!" > > > "Well" murmured one, "let whoso make or buy. > My clay with long oblivion is gone dry; > but fill me with the old familiar juice, > methinks I might recover, by and by." > > > So while the vessels one by one were speaking > first new Moon, ending Ramadan, peeked in, that all were seeking > and then they jogged each other, "brother, brother!" > now for the potter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!" > > > (with the burden of wine-jars full) > > > Indeed these Idols I have loved so long > have done my credit in this world much wrong: > have drowned my glory in a shallow cup > and sold my reputation for a song; > > > Indeed, indeed, repentance oft before > I swore - but was I sober when I swore? > and then and then came Spring, and rose in hand > my threadbare penitance in pieces tore; > > > but much as wine has played the infidel > and robbed me of my robe of honor - well > I wonder often what the vintners buy > one half so precious as the stuff they sell! > > > Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the rose! > that youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close! > the nightingale that in the branches sang, > O, whence, and whither, flown again, who knows! > > > Would but the desert of the fountain yeild > one glimpse - if dimly, yet unmistakably revealed > with which the fainting traveller might reborn spring > as springs back the trampled grasses of the field! > > > Would but some winged angel ere too late > arrest the yet unfolded roll of Fate > and make the stern Recorder otherwise > enregister, or quite obliterate! > > > Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire > to grasp this sorry scheme of things entire > would not we shatter it to bits - and then > remold it nearer to our heart's desire! ... > > > You rising Moon that look for us again - > how oft hereafter will you wax and wane; > how oft hereafter rising look for Us > through this same garden - and for One, in vain! > > > and when, like her, O Saki, you shall pass > among the guests star-scattered on the grass > and in your joyous errand reach the spot > where I made One - turn down an empty glass! > > > tamam ...
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