Sweet taste of wine in the air hovers
Fear not if succumbed to same earthly powers
In the end the same, one discovers.
Let the beauty of nature renew
And at night on the grass like dew
And in the morn take me away from view.
And the thought of Seventy Two nations’ reign
Never withhold from such elixir again
Of which one sip will purge all that’s insane.
Turn into ruby my face of amber
Bathe me in wine when death me ensnare
With boards of vine my coffin bear.
Clay and dirt mould and deal
My inner eye would reveal
My father’s dust bears his seal.
Only pain will come if remorse engaged
Though with sorrow you may be aged
Not even a dot will be rearranged.
Burnt deep in my heart and sorrow built
I drink wine while prayer thou wilt
The water that quenched the fire of my guilt.
The spring of life has reached December
What is termed youth, I vaguely remember
But know not whence and how from life’s chamber.
The mallet’s left and right becomes your call
He who causes your movements, your rise and fall
He is the one, the only one, who knows it all.
We’ve solved all riddles, turn after turn
Break every chain, our ignorance burn
Except the riddle that fills the urn.
With at least two cups of wine I‘ll sup
I’ll divorce my mind and religion stop
With daughter of vine, all night I’ll stay up.
Flowers bloom from kingly blood
Violet with its colorful shroud
Was a beauty mole on a face once proud.
For each other, together care
With raised cups salute and share
In memory of he who isn’t there
Like angelic smiles faintly gleam
Step gently, cause it not to scream
For it has grown from a lover’s dream.
Soared up so high, stretched the edge
Were still encaged by the same dark hedge
Brought us some tales ere life to death pledge.
I saw two thousand clay pot and cup
Suddenly a lone pot cried out, "stop!
Where the vendor, buyer, where my prop?
This is not a metaphor, but a truth sincere
On this stage, fate for sometime our moves steer
Into the chest of non-existence, one by one disappear.
Has always written both benevolent and mean
What is our lot was given by the hand unseen
With futility we try, exert, weep or keen.
A lock of hair his senses did defeat
The handle that has made the bottleneck its own seat
Was once the embrace of a lover that entreat.
The king celebrated the day with a wine so fair
The herald of dawn intoxicated would blare
Its fame and aroma, for time having not a care.
Died: 4 Dec 1131 in Nishapur, Persia (now Iran)
Has fallen in grief's furnace and been suddenly burned,
The shears of Fate have cut the tent ropes of his life,
And the broker of Hope has sold him for nothing!