The Rubaiyat
رباعیات
Headnote
Omar Khayyam (1048–1131) was not, in his own century, famous as a poet. He was the foremost mathematician and astronomer of his age in Persia: the geometer who classified and solved the cubic equations, the astronomer whom Malik-Shah commissioned to reform the calendar at Isfahan. The quatrains travelled under his name later, gathering as they went. No collection survives from his lifetime, and the earliest attributions begin decades after his death; by the time the great manuscript anthologies were compiled, hundreds of stray quatrains — some by known poets, many anonymous — had been drawn into the gravitational field of his reputation. Every edition of the Rubaiyat is therefore a judgment call. This translation renders the selection of Mohammad-Ali Foroughi and Qasem Ghani (Tehran, 1942), the standard modern critical choice: 178 quatrains sifted for consistency of voice and earliness of attestation, numbered here as in that edition. Where a quatrain also circulates under other poets’ names, the apparatus says so — the doubt belongs to the record, and the reader is owed it.
The ruba’i itself is the tightest argumentative form in Persian poetry: four hemistichs, the first pair laying down a scene or a premise, the third turning, the fourth landing the whole weight of the poem in one stroke. Khayyam’s quatrains are arguments in miniature, and they argue like the geometer he was — since no one has returned with news of heaven, since the wheel of the sky grinds the wise and the foolish alike, since the clay under your feet was once a face, therefore fill the cup now. The properties are few and concrete: the jug, the potter, the tulip, the green grass over a grave, the moon that will go on shining when it can no longer find us. Out of these he builds a body of verse that is skeptical without bitterness and hedonist without frenzy — the voice of a man who has measured the heavens and concluded that one breath of the present is the only property worth holding.
English readers have known this poetry, since 1859, almost entirely through Edward FitzGerald — and FitzGerald, by his own cheerful admission, was not translating. He fused quatrains, invented others, strung the whole onto a day-long narrative frame of his own devising, and dressed it in a Victorian music that is his real and lasting achievement. “A jug of wine, a loaf of bread — and thou” and “the moving finger writes” are FitzGerald; what Khayyam wrote is leaner, stranger, and more direct. This edition is the other contract: each quatrain rendered faithfully from the Persian, one English line per hemistich, in the Foroughi–Ghani order, with the source text facing. No rhyme is forced on the sense; where FitzGerald’s famous lines shadow a genuine original, the notes point across so the reader can see both what the Persian says and what the Victorian made of it. The wit, the chill, and the tenderness are Khayyam’s own; they need no improving.
solve our difficulty with your own beauty:
one jug of wine, that we may drink together,
before they make jugs out of our clay.
حل کن به جمال خویشتن مشکل ما
یک کوزه شراب تا به هم نوش کنیم
زآن پیش که کوزهها کنند از گل ما
keep it glad for now, this brooding heart;
drink wine by moonlight, O moon — for the moon
will shine a long while yet, and not find us.
حالی خوش دار این دل پرسودا را
می نوش به ماهتاب ای ماه که ماه
بسیار بتابد و نیابد ما را
they read only now and then, not all the time;
but round the cup there lodges an abiding verse
they read in every place, for ever.
گهگاه نه بر دوام خوانند آن را
بر گرد پیاله آیتی هست مقیم
کاندر همه جا مدام خوانند آن را
don’t lay your foundations on cunning and tricks;
and don’t preen yourself on not drinking wine:
you swallow a hundred mouthfuls that wine is slave to.
بنیاد مکن تو حیله و دستان را
تو غره بدان مشو که می مینخوری
صد لقمه خوری که می غلام است آن را
cheek like the tulip, tall as the cypress —
it was never made plain why, in the pleasure-house of dust,
the Painter of pre-eternity adorned me at all.
چون لاله رخ و چو سرو بالاست مرا
معلوم نشد که در طربخانۀ خاک
نقاش ازل بهر چه آراست مرا
soul and heart and cup and clothes steeped in wine’s dregs —
free of the hope of mercy and the fear of torment,
loose of earth and wind and fire and water.
جان و دل و جام و جامه پر درد شراب
فارغ ز امید رحمت و بیم عذاب
آزاد ز خاک و باد و از آتش و آب
without rose-colored wine one ought not live;
this green that is our gazing-ground today —
whose gazing-ground will the green of our dust be?
بی بادهٔ گلرنگ نمیباید زیست
این سبزه که امروز تماشاگه ماست
تا سبزهٔ خاک ما تماشاگه کیست
why does your hand sit idle of the wine-cup?
Drink wine: time is a treacherous enemy,
and such a day is hard to find again.
دست تو ز جام می چرا بیکار است
می خور که زمانه دشمنی غدار است
دریافتن روز چنین دشوار است
and brooding on tomorrow is nothing but black fancy;
do not waste this breath, if your heart is not mad:
no price is written on the rest of this life.
واندیشهٔ فردات به جز سودا نیست
ضایع مکن این دم ار دلت شیدا نیست
کاین باقی عمر را بها پیدا نیست
dazed by the five and the four, the six and the seven:
drink wine — you do not know where you came from;
be glad — you do not know where you go.
حیران شده در پنج و چهار و شش و هفت
می نوش ندانی ز کجا آمدهای
خوش باش ندانی به کجا خواهی رفت
injustice is your oldest habit.
And you, earth: were they to split open your breast,
what wealth of precious stones is in your breast!
بیدادگری شیوهٔ دیرینهٔ توست
ای خاک اگر سینه تو بشکافند
بس گوهر قیمتی که در سینهٔ توست
since the pure spirit quits your body without warning,
sit on the green and live glad a few days,
before green springs out of your dust.
ناگه برود ز تن روان پاکت
بر سبزه نشین و خوش بزی روزی چند
زآن پیش که سبزه بر دمد از خاکت
no one has pierced the pearl of its truth;
each man has said his say out of fancy —
the face of what is, none knows how to tell.
کس نیست که این گوهر تحقیق بسفت
هر کس سخنی از سر سودا گفتند
زآن روی که هست کس نمیداند گفت
caught fast in the curl of some beauty’s hair;
this handle you see at its neck
was a hand that lay round a sweetheart’s neck.
در بند سر زلف نگاری بودهست
این دسته که بر گردن او میبینی
دستیست که بر گردن یاری بودهست
is made of a king’s eye, a vizier’s heart;
each cup of wine in a hungover hand
is made of a drunkard’s cheek, a veiled girl’s lip.
از دیدهٔ شاهی و دل دستوریست
هر کاسهٔ می که بر کف مخموریست
از عارض مستی و لب مستوریست
stall of the piebald steed of morning and evening,
is a feast a hundred Jamshids left behind,
a palace where a hundred Bahrams took their rest.
وآرامگه ابلق صبح و شام است
بزمیست که واماندۀ صد جمشید است
قصریست که تکیهگاه صد بهرام است
like water down the stream-bed, wind across the plain;
grief for two days has never crossed my mind:
the day that has not come, and the day that is gone.
چون آب به جویبار و چون باد به دشت
هرگز غم دو روز مرا یاد نگشت
روزی که نیامدهست و روزی که گذشت
on the garden lawn a heart-kindling face is sweet;
nothing you can say of yesterday, gone now, is sweet —
be glad, leave yesterday alone: today is sweet.
در صحن چمن روی دلافروز خوش است
از دی که گذشت هر چه گویی خوش نیست
خوش باش و ز دی مگو که امروز خوش است
and the turning sky was already at its work;
wherever you set your foot on the face of the earth,
it was the pupil of some beauty’s eye.
گردنده فلک نیز بکاری بوده است
هرجا که قدم نهی تو بر روی زمین
آن مردمک چشم نگاری بودهست
I am sick of the idol-worshippers of the temple.
Khayyam — who said there is going to be a hell?
Who went to hell? And who came back from heaven?
بیزار شدم ز بتپرستان کنشت
خیام ، که گفت دوزخی خواهد بود
که رفت به دوزخ و که آمد ز بهشت
even the drunkard thinks it wrong to break;
so many a darling head and foot, hand and wrist —
joined by whose love? broken in whose hate?
بشکستن آن روا نمیدارد مست
چندین سر و پای نازنین از سر و دست
از مهر که پیوست و به کین که شکست
go, live glad, though the time of it wrongs you;
keep company with men of sense — for the stuff of your body
is a dust, a breeze, a haze, a breath.
رو شاد بزی اگرچه بر تو ستمیست
با اهل خرد باش که اصل تن تو
گردی و نسیمی و غباری و دمیست
get up, and set your purpose on a cup of wine:
this green that is your gazing-ground today
will all be growing, tomorrow, out of your dust.
برخیز و به جام باده کن عزم درست
کاین سبزه که امروز تماشاگه توست
فردا همه از خاک تو برخواهد رست
and found the rose’s face and the wine-cup laughing,
it came and said in my ear, in the wordless tongue of things:
"Seize it: the life that is gone cannot be found."
روی گل و جام باده را خندان یافت
آمد به زبان حال در گوشم گفت
دریاب که عمر رفته را نتوان یافت
count the heavens seven, or count them eight, as you like;
since you must die, and every desire be dropped,
what difference — the ant eats you in the grave, or the wolf on the plain?
خواهی تو فلک هفت شمر خواهی هشت
چون باید مرد و آرزوها همه هشت
چه مور خورد به گور و چه گرگ به دشت
and if the chance is yours, with a tulip-cheeked one too;
drink wine and be merry, for this old wheel
will suddenly bring you down to dust.
با لالهرخی اگر تو را فرصت هست
می نوش به خرمی که این چرخ کهن
ناگاه تو را چو خاک گرداند پست
we cannot sit out a lifetime hoping against doubt;
careful, then — never set the cup of wine out of your palm:
in unknowing, a man is the same, sober or drunk.
نتوان به امید شک همه عمر نشست
هان تا ننهیم جام می از کف دست
در بیخبری مرد چه هشیار و چه مست
since all there is, is shortfall and breakage,
take it that all that is in the world, is not,
and fancy that all that is not in the world, is.
چون هست به هرچه هست نقصان و شکست
انگار که هرچه هست در عالم نیست
پندار که هرچه نیست در عالم هست
is an idol’s palm, the face of some beloved;
every brick on a palace battlement
is the finger of a vizier or the head of a sultan.
کفّ صنمیّ و چهرهٔ جانانیست
هر خشت که بر کنگرهٔ ایوانیست
انگشت وزیر یا سر سلطانیست
why did he cast it down into shortfall and decay?
If the form came out fair, what was the breaking for?
And if it came out foul — whose fault are these forms?
از بهر چه اوفکندش اندر کم و کاست
گر نیک آمد شکستن از بهر چه بود
ور نیک نیامد این صور عیب که راست
of this contrivance no soul has any knowledge;
there is no lodging-place except in the heart of the dust;
drink wine — for such tales are not short.
زین تعبیه جان هیچکس آگه نیست
جز در دل خاک هیچ منزلگه نیست
می خور که چنین فسانهها کوته نیست
"From sleep the rose of joy has bloomed for no one;
why be at a thing that is the twin of death?
Drink wine — beneath the dust you must sleep."
کز خواب کسی را گل شادی نشکفت
کاری چه کنی که با اجل باشد جفت؟
می خور که به زیر خاک میباید خفت
neither a beginning nor an end can be seen;
no one gets one breath of truth out on this matter:
this coming — from where? and this going — to where?
او را نه بدایت نه نهایت پیداست
کس مینزند دمی در این معنی راست
کاین آمدن از کجا و رفتن به کجاست
hands me one goblet of wine at the green field’s edge,
however ugly the common run may find it,
a dog is better than I am if I name paradise.
یک ساغر می دهد مرا بر لب کشت
هر چند به نزد عامه این باشد زشت
سگ به ز من است اگر برم نام بهشت
you will go behind the curtain of annihilation’s secrets.
Drink wine: you do not know where you came from;
be glad: you do not know where you will go.
در پردۀ اسرار فنا خواهی رفت
می نوش ندانی از کجا آمدهای
خوش باش ندانی به کجا خواهی رفت
grasp it — one week more and they are dust.
Drink wine, pick a rose; for while you stand looking,
the rose has gone to dust and the green to dry straw.
دریاب که هفته دگر خاک شدهست
می نوش و گلی بچین که تا درنگری
گل خاک شدهست و سبزه خاشاک شدهست
trouble always mounting, ease in shortfall and decline.
Thanks be to God: whatever the stuff of affliction is,
we never have to beg it from anyone else.
محنت همه افزوده و راحت کم و کاست
شکر ایزد را که آنچه اسباب بلاست
ما را ز کس دگر نمیباید خواست
with two or three companions and a doll of houri stock:
bring out the bowl — for the drinkers of the dawn draught
are at rest from the mosque and free of the temple.
با یک دو سه اهل و لعبتی حورسرشت
پیش آر قدح که بادهنوشان صبوح
آسوده ز مسجدند و فارغ ز کنشت
and if life sits snug on your body like a coat,
in the tent of the body — a sunshade lent you —
take care, do not lean: its four pegs are loose.
ور بر تن تو عمر لباسی چستست
در خیمه تن که سایبانیست ترا
هان تکیه مکن که چارمیخش سستست
I say the juice of the grape is sweet.
Take this cash and keep your hand off that credit:
the sound of a drum is sweet — from far away.
من میگویم که آب انگور خوش است
این نقد بگیر و دست از آن نسیه بدار
کآواز دهل شنیدن از دور خوش است
a contested saying — no heart can be fastened on it.
If lover and wine-drinker are bound for hell,
tomorrow you will see paradise bare as the palm of a hand.
قولیست خلاف ، دل در آن نتوان بست
گر عاشق و میخواره به دوزخ باشند
فردا بینی بهشت همچون کف دست
fitted me out for paradise or for hideous hell.
A cup, an idol, a lute at the edge of the green:
the three in cash for me — and paradise, on credit, for you.
از اهل بهشت کرد یا دوزخ زشت
جامی و بتی و بربطی بر لب کشت
این هرسه مرا نقد و تو را نسیه بهشت
drink wine — no finer moment than this will be found.
Be glad, and do not brood: for moonlight in plenty
will shine on the dust above our heads, one by one.
می نوش دمی بهتر از این نتوان یافت
خوش باش و میندیش که مهتاب بسی
اندر سر خاک یک به یک خواهد تافت
being free of unbelief and belief is my religion.
I asked the bride of the world, "What is your bride-price?"
She said, "Your glad heart is my bride-price."
فارغ بودن ز کفر و دین دین من است
گفتم به عروس دهر کابین تو چیست
گفتا دل خرم تو کابین من است
the cup is a body whose wine is the soul;
that crystal bowl that stands laughing with wine
is a tear in which heart’s blood lies hidden.
جسم است پیاله و شرابش جان است
آن جام بلورین که ز می خندان است
اشکی است که خون دل در او پنهان است
this, all that youth’s season will yield you:
the hour of roses, of wine, of companions far gone —
be glad one breath, for this is what life is.
خود حاصلت از دور جوانی این است
هنگام گل و باده و یاران سرمست
خوش باش دمی که زندگانی این است
the joy and the grief that are in fate and decree —
do not charge them to the wheel: in reason’s road
the wheel is a thousand times more helpless than you.
شادی و غمی که در قضا و قدر است
با چرخ مکن حواله کاندر ره عقل
چرخ از تو هزار بار بیچارهتر است
the red of it was once the blood of a king;
every violet stem that rises from the earth
is a mole that once lay on a beauty’s cheek.
از سرخی خون شهریاری بودهست
هر شاخ بنفشه کز زمین میروید
خالیست که بر رخ نگاری بودهست
was a crown and a signet before me and you;
brush the dust from your darling’s cheek gently —
it too was once the fair cheek of a darling.
پیش از من و تو تاج و نگینی بودهست
گرد از رخ نازنین به آزرم فشان
کآن هم رخ خوب نازنینی بودهست
you would say, has grown from an angel-natured lip;
do not set your foot on the green in contempt:
that green has grown from the clay of a tulip-cheeked one.
گویی ز لب فرشتهخویی رستهست
پا بر سر سبزه تا به خواری ننهی
کآن سبزه ز خاک لالهرویی رستهست
and in the gathering of perfection became the companions’ candle —
they made no road out of this dark night;
they told a fable, and went back into sleep.
در جمع کمال شمع اصحاب شدند
ره زین شب تاریک نبردند برون
گفتند فسانهای و در خواب شدند
without him they had already settled all the business;
today they throw down a pretext before him;
tomorrow will be all that they fashioned beforehand.
بی او همه کارها بپرداختهاند
امروز بهانهای درانداختهاند
فردا همه آن بود که درساختهاند
each runs his single sprint after his own desire;
this old world remains to no one for keeps:
they went, and we go; others come, and will go.
هر کس به مراد خویش یک تک به دوند
این کهنهجهان به کس نماند باقی
رفتند و رویم دیگر آیند و روند
many the brand he has set on the grieving heart;
many a ruby lip and many musk-black curls
he has laid away in earth’s drum, in the casket of dust.
بس داغ که او بر دل غمناک نهاد
بسیار لب چو لعل و زلفین چو مشک
در طبل زمین و حقهٔ خاک نهاد
and to no one do they uncover the secret;
of fate they show us no more than this much:
it is the measure of our life they are measuring out.
بر هیچکسی راز همینگشایند
ما را ز قضا جز این قدر ننمایند
پیمانهٔ عمر ماست میپیمایند
are the cause of the wise men’s wavering;
careful — do not lose the thread-end of reason:
those who govern there are themselves turned round and round.
اسباب تردد خردمنداناند
هان تا سر رشتهٔ خرد گم نکنی
کآنان که مدبرند سرگرداناند
nor did my going add to its splendor and rank;
nor have my two ears ever heard from anyone
why this coming and this going of mine had to be.
وز رفتن من جلال و جاهش نفزود
وز هیچ کسی نیز دو گوشم نشنود
کاین آمدن و رفتنم از بهر چه بود
when the drop endures the shell’s prison, it becomes a pearl.
If wealth won’t stay, then may the head stay in its place:
when the measure is emptied, it fills again.
قطره چو کشد حبس صدف در گردد
گر مال نماند سر بماناد به جای
پیمانه چو شد تهی دگر پر گردد
and at the hand of death many a heart has turned to blood;
no one has come back from that world whom I might ask
how it has gone with the travelers from this one.
وز دست اجل بسی جگرها خون شد
کس نآمد از آن جهان که پرسم از وی
کاحوال مسافران دنیا چون شد
and that fresh springtime of life has turned to Dey;
that bird of joy, whose name was youth —
alas, I do not know when it came or when it went.
و آن تازه بهار زندگانی دی شد
آن مرغ طرب که نام او بود شباب
افسوس ندانم که کی آمد کی شد
neither name of us nor trace will be;
before this we were not, and nothing was amiss;
after this, when we are not, it will be just the same.
نی نام ز ما و نی نشان خواهد بود
زین پیش نبودیم و نبد هیچ خلل
زین پس چو نباشیم همان خواهد بود
tells you itself a hundred times a day:
seize this one breath of your time — for you are not
the green herb that they mow and that grows again.
روزی صد بار خود تو را میگوید
دریاب تو این یک دم وقتت که نهای
آن تره که بدروند و دیگر روید
seize the breath that passes with delight.
Saki, why swallow grief for the companions’ tomorrow?
Bring up the cup — the night is passing.
دریاب دمی که با طرب میگذرد
ساقی غم فردای حریفان چه خوری
پیش آر پیاله را که شب میگذرد
everything I set my hand to comes out ill;
my soul made ready to depart; I said, Do not go.
It said: What can I do? The house is falling down.
وز من همه کار نانکو میآید
جان عزم رحیل کرد و گفتم بمرو
گفتا چه کنم خانه فرومیآید
and the earth has never had its fill of eating men.
You preen yourself that it has not eaten you yet?
Don’t hurry — it will eat you too; it is not late.
وز خوردن آدمی زمین سیر نشد
مغرور بدانی که نخوردهست تو را
تعجیل مکن هم بخورد دیر نشد
do not incline where the wise do not incline;
many like you will go and many will come:
snatch your own share before you are snatched away.
مگرای بدان که عاقلان نگرایند
بسیار چو تو روند و بسیار آیند
بربای نصیب خویش کت بربایند
why do they then reckon its good and evil mine?
Yesterday, without me; today, like yesterday, without me and you;
tomorrow — on what plea will they summon me before the Judge?
پس نیک و بدش ز من چرا میدانند
دی بی من و امروز چو دی بی من و تو
فردا به چه حجتم به داور خوانند
How long go chasing every ugly thing and fair?
Though you were Zamzam’s spring or the Water of Life,
in the end you will sink into the heart of the earth.
چند از پی هر زشت و نکو خواهی شد
گر چشمهٔ زمزمی و گر آب حیات
آخر به دل خاک فروخواهی شد
until you wash your face in the heart’s blood, it will not come;
why simmer vain fancies? — until, like the burnt-hearted,
you freely say goodbye to self, it will not come.
رخساره بخون دل نشویی نشود
سودا چه پزی تا که چو دلسوختگان
آزاد به ترک خود نگویی نشود
no one has seen a thing better than pure wine.
I am in wonder at the wine-sellers, for they —
better than what they sell, what will they buy?
بهتر ز می ناب کسی هیچ ندید
من در عجبم ز میفروشان کایشان
به زآنکه فروشند چه خواهند خرید
do not let the heart darken over less and more;
my business and yours, to the pattern my mind and yours would set,
is not to be shaped out of wax by our own hands.
دل را به کم و بیش دژم نتوان کرد
کار من و تو چنانکه رای من و توست
از موم به دست خویش هم نتوان کرد
is the very one who always sets the enemy’s business right.
They say the flask-maker is no Muslim:
what do you say, then, of Him who makes the gourd?
همواره همو کار عدو میسازد
گویند قرابهگر مسلمان نبود
او را تو چه گویی که کدو میسازد
command, my idol, that wine be poured in measure;
as for houris and palaces, for paradise and hell,
sit unconcerned: all of that is so much rumor.
فرمای بتا که می بهاندازه دهند
از حور و قصور و ز بهشت و دوزخ
فارغ بنشین که آن هر آوازه دهند
and has some nest of a place to settle in,
who is no one’s servant and no one’s master —
say to him: live glad; he has a sweet world.
از بهر نشست آشیانی دارد
نه خادم کس بود نه مخدوم کسی
گو شاد بزی که خوشجهانی دارد
to swallow grief in vain brings in no profit;
fill the bowl with wine, set it quick into my palm,
that I may drink again: what was to be has all been.
غم خوردن بیهوده نمیدارد سود
پر کن قدح می به کفم درنه زود
تا باز خورم که بودنیها همه بود
the cloud is washing the dust from the rose-garden’s face;
the nightingale, in its wordless tongue, to the yellow rose
keeps up its cry: wine must be drunk.
ابر از رخ گلزار همیشوید گرد
بلبل به زبان حال خود با گل زرد
فریاد همیکند که می باید خورد
give the order: let them bring the rose-red wine.
You are not gold, you heedless fool, that they
should lay you in the earth and dig you out again.
فرمای که تا بادهٔ گلگون آرند
تو زر نهای ای غافل نادان که تو را
در خاک نهند و باز بیرون آرند
or pass in chasing not-being and being?
Drink wine: a life that death is stalking
is better passed in sleep or drunkenness.
یا در پی نیستی و هستی گذرد
می نوش که عمری که اجل در پی اوست
آن به که به خواب یا به مستی گذرد
no one has set one step outside the circle;
I look from the beginner to the master:
helplessness in the hand of all whom mothers bore.
کس یک قدم از دایره بیرون ننهاد
من مینگرم ز مبتدی تا استاد
عجز است به دست هرکه از مادر زاد
break the tie that binds you to time’s good and bad;
take wine in palm, and a charmer’s curls — for soon
these few days too will pass, and will not stay.
از نیک و بد زمانه بگسل پیوند
می در کف و زلف دلبری گیر که زود
هم بگذرد و نماند این روزی چند
and your ease and joy hold their heads high —
put your weight on neither: the wheel’s revolving
keeps a thousand kinds of game behind the curtain.
عیش و طرب تو سرفرازی دارد
بر هر دو مکن تکیه که دوران فلک
در پرده هزار گونه بازی دارد
that it does not break and give back to the earth;
if the cloud lifted dust the way it lifts up water,
till the Gathering it would rain the blood of dear ones.
کش نشکند و هم به زمین نسپارد
گر ابر چو آب خاک را بردارد
تا حشر همه خون عزیزان بارد
do not let it pass except in gladness;
beware: the capital of the world’s whole trade
is life: as you spend it, so it goes.
مگذار که جز به شادمانی گذرد
هشدار که سرمایهٔ سودای جهان
عمر است چنان کش گذرانی گذرد
there, there will be wine and milk and honey.
If we have chosen wine and a beloved, what’s the fear,
since the end of the business will be just this?
آنجا می و شیر و انگبین خواهد بود
گر ما می و معشوق گزیدیم چه باک
چون عاقبت کار چنین خواهد بود
streams of wine and milk, of honey and of sugar.
Fill up the cup with wine and set it on my hand:
one cash in hand is sweeter than a thousand credits.
جوی می و شیر و شهد و شکر باشد
پر کن قدح باده و بر دستم نه
نقدی ز هزار نسیه خوشتر باشد
will rise from death just as they died:
that is why we hold to wine and the beloved constantly —
in hope they’ll rouse us at the Gathering just so.
زآنسان که بمیرند چنان برخیزند
ما با می و معشوقه از آنیم مدام
باشد که به حشرمان چنان انگیزند
and carries off the thought of the seventy-two sects;
do not abstain from an alchemy from which
one swallow drunk carries off a thousand ailments.
و اندیشه هفتاد و دو ملت ببرد
پرهیز مکن ز کیمیایی که از او
یک جرعه خوری هزار علت ببرد
must be hidden deeper than the Anqa;
for it is hiddenness in the shell that makes the drop a pearl —
the drop that is the secret of the sea’s heart.
باید که نهفتهتر ز عنقا باشد
کاندر صدف از نهفتگی گردد در
آن قطره که راز دل دریا باشد
and the violet bows its head in the meadow,
in fairness, it is the bud that pleases me —
the way it gathers in its own skirt.
بالای بنفشه در چمن خم گیرد
انصاف مرا ز غنچه خوش میآید
کاو دامن خویشتن فراهم گیرد
few of the secrets remained that were not known;
seventy-two years I thought, by night and day —
and it was known to me that nothing is known.
کم ماند ز اسرار که معلوم نشد
هفتاد و دو سال فکر کردم شب و روز
معلومم شد که هیچ معلوم نشد
garden and house are left, without a you or me;
your silver and gold, from a dirham to a barley-grain —
spend it with a friend, or it is left to an enemy.
هم باغ و سرای بی تو و من ماند
سیم و زر خویش از درمی تا به جوی
با دوست بخور گرنه به دشمن ماند
trampled down one by one beneath the foot of death;
we drank from a single wine at the banquet of life,
and a round or two before us they fell drunk.
در پای اجل یکان یکان پست شدند
خوردیم ز یک شراب در مجلس عمر
دوری دو سه پیشتر ز ما مست شدند
one swallow of wine is worth the kingdom of China;
except ruby wine, there is not on the face of the earth
a bitter thing worth a thousand sweet lives.
یک جرعهٔ می مملکت چین ارزد
جز بادهٔ لعل نیست در روی زمین
تلخی که هزار جان شیرین ارزد
one mote of dust, and it became one with the earth.
What is your coming-and-going in this world?
A fly appeared — and vanished.
یک ذرهٔ خاک با زمین یکتا شد
آمدشدن تو اندر این عالم چیست
آمد مگسی پدید و ناپیدا شد
and a mouthful of cold water from a broken jug,
why should he take orders from a lesser man than himself,
or wait in service on his own equal?
از کوزه شکستهای دمی آبی سرد
مأمور کم از خودی چرا باید بود
یا خدمت چون خودی چرا باید کرد
bring that confidant and intimate of every free soul;
since you know that the term of this world of dust
is a wind that passes quickly — bring wine.
وآن محرم و مونس هر آزاده بیار
چون میدانی که مدت عالم خاک
باد است که زود بگذرد باده بیار
heart and soul worn ragged with useless thought?
Live merry, pass the world along in gladness:
at the start of the work, the plan was made without you.
وز فکرت بیهوده دل و جان افکار
خرم بزی و جهان به شادی گذران
تدبیر نه با تو کردهاند اول کار
set nothing in place but to snatch another away;
if those not yet come knew what we
endure from the world, they would not come at all.
ننهند به جا تا نربایند دگر
ناآمدگان اگر بدانند که ما
از دهر چه میکشیم نایند دگر
you are not here in vain — do not grieve vain griefs;
since the been has passed and the not-been is not in sight,
be glad: do not grieve for been and not-been.
بیهوده نهای غمان بیهوده مخور
چون بوده گذشت و نیست نابوده پدید
خوش باش غم بوده و نابوده مخور
suppose your garden of delight arrayed in green;
and then suppose that you, like dew upon that green,
had settled for one night, and risen with the morning.
باغ طربت به سبزه آراسته گیر
و آنگاه بر آن سبزه شبی چون شبنم
بنشسته و بامداد برخاسته گیر
each mote has taken its leave of every other mote.
Ah, what wine is this, that until the Day of Reckoning
they lie beside themselves, unknowing of every thing?
هر ذره ز هر ذره گرفتند کنار
آه این چه شراب است که تا روز شمار
بیخود شده و بیخبرند از همه کار
there is a cup they give to everyone, in turn, to taste;
when the turn comes round to you, do not sigh —
drink with a glad heart, for it is the turn, not tyranny.
جامیست که جمله را چشانند بدور
نوبت چو به دور تو رسد آه مکن
می نوش به خوشدلی که دور است نه جور
trampling and trampling on a lump of clay;
and the clay, in its wordless tongue, was telling him:
I was once like you — treat me kindly.
بر پاره گلی لگد همی زد بسیار
و آن گل بزبان حال با او میگفت
من همچو تو بودهام مرا نیکودار
it is the capital of youth’s delight — drink;
it burns like fire, yes — but for grief
it is mending as the Water of Life: drink.
سرمایه لذت جوانی است بخور
سوزنده چو آتش است لیکن غم را
سازنده چو آب زندگانی است بخور
or drink with a laughing, tulip-cheeked idol;
do not drink much, make no rite of it, do not parade it:
drink little, drink now and then, drink in secret.
یا با صنمی لاله رخی خندان خور
بسیار مخور ورد مکن فاش مساز
اندک خور و گه گاه خور و پنهان خور
and fill the crystal goblet with ruby wine;
for this one breath, on loan, in this corner of perishing —
seek long as you may, you will not find it again.
پر بادهٔ لعل کن بلورین ساغر
کاین یکدم عاریت در این کنج فنا
بسیار بجویی و نیابی دیگر
who has come back, that he might tell us the secret?
So at this crossroad of craving and of need,
see you leave nothing wanting — you do not come back.
باز آمده کیست تا به ما گوید راز
پس بر سر این دو راههٔ آز و نیاز
تا هیچ نمانی که نمیآیی باز
and watch that dust-sifting child with a sharp eye;
counsel him: say, sift softly, softly —
it is Kay Qobad’s brain, and the eyes of Parviz.
و آن کودک خاکبیز را بنگر تیز
پندش ده گو که نرم نرمک میبیز
مغز سر کیقباد و چشم پرویز
softly, softly drink the wine and play the harp;
for those who are here will not stay for long,
and of those who are gone, not one comes back.
نرمک نرمک باده خور و چنگ نواز
کانها که بجایند نپایند بسی
و آنها که شدند کس نمیاید باز
that had set before it the skull of Kay Kavus;
it was saying to the skull: alas, alas —
where is the clang of the bells? where the moan of the drums?
در پیش نهاده کله کیکاووس
با کله همی گفت که افسوس افسوس
کو بانگ جرسها و کجا ناله کوس
and plants a hundred kisses of love upon its brow —
and this potter of Time fashions a cup so fine,
and smashes it back against the ground.
صد بوسه ز مهر بر جبین میزندش
این کوزهگر دهر چنین جام لطیف
میسازد و باز بر زمین میزندش
if you sit with a moon-faced one — be glad;
since the end of the world’s whole business is not-being,
suppose you are not: while you are, be glad.
با ماهرخی اگر نشستی خوش باش
چون عاقبت کار جهان نیستی است
انگار که نیستی چو هستی خوش باش
I saw two thousand jugs, some speaking and some silent;
suddenly one jug raised up a cry:
where is the jug-maker, the jug-buyer, the jug-seller?
دیدم دو هزار کوزه گویا و خموش
ناگاه یکی کوزه برآورد خروش
کو کوزهگر و کوزهخر و کوزه فروش
who sits heart-cramped, grieving over the days;
drink wine from the glass, to the harp’s lament,
before the glass is dashed against the stone.
کو در غم ایام نشیند دلتنگ
می خور تو در آبگینه با ناله چنگ
زان پیش که آبگینه آید بر سنگ
I solved all the universal problems;
I loosed the knots of every difficulty by craft —
every knot came open but the knot of death.
کردم همه مشکلات کلی را حل
بگشادم بندهای مشکل به حیل
هر بند گشاده شد به جز بند اجل
do not put down the wine-cup or let go the rose’s skirt,
before the wind of death, all at once,
makes the shirt of our life like the shirt of the rose.
از دست منه جام می و دامن گل
زان پیش که ناگه شود از باد اجل
پیراهن عمر ما چو پیراهن گل
let us count this one breath of life a windfall:
tomorrow, when we pass out of this cloister of perishing,
we go level with the seven-thousand-year dead.
وین یک دمِ عمر را غنیمت شمریم
فردا که ازین دیرِ فنا درگذریم
با هفتهزارسالگان سربهسریم
we know the shadow-lantern for a figure of it:
the sun is the lamp, and the world is the lantern,
and we the painted images that circle in it, bewildered.
فانوس خیال از او مثالی دانیم
خورشید چراغ دان و عالم فانوس
ما چون صوریم کاندر او حیرانیم
before we swallow what twist the times will deal us;
for this quarrel-faced wheel, one day, without warning,
will not give us even time to swallow water.
زان پیش که از زمانه تابی بخوریم
کاین چرخ ستیزه روی ناگه روزی
چندان ندهد زمان که آبی بخوریم
I will make my cheek the color of the jujube;
as for this reason whose trade is meddling — a fist of wine
I will fling in its face, and put it to sleep.
رنگ رخ خود به رنگ عناب کنم
این عقل فضول پیشه را مشتی می
بر روی زنم چنانکه در خواب کنم
under the earth I see the hidden away;
as far as I look across the desert of not-being,
I see the unarrived and the departed.
در زیرزمین نهفتگان میبینم
چندانکه به صحرای عدم مینگرم
ناآمدگان و رفتگان میبینم
What is it, in this world, to be a hundred years or one day?
Pour the wine into the bowl, before we too,
in the workshop of the jug-makers, become jugs.
در دهر چه صد ساله چه یکروزه شویم
در ده تو بکاسه می از آن پیش که ما
در کارگه کوزهگران کوزه شویم
to go without wine and the beloved is an enormous error.
How long the hoping and fearing over eternal and created?
Once I am gone, what matter if the world is created or eternal?
پس بی می و معشوق خطائیست عظیم
تا کی ز قدیم و محدث امیدم و بیم
چون من رفتم جهان چه محدث چه قدیم
I cannot tell the secrets of the times;
out of the sea of my reflection, reason has brought up
a pearl that for sheer fear I cannot pierce.
و اسرار زمانه گفت مینتوانم
از بحر تفکرم برآورد خرد
دری که ز بیم سفت مینتوانم
God knows that I am not what he has said.
But since I have come into this nest of grief,
might I at least be allowed to know who I am?
ایزد داند که آنچه او گفت نیم
لیکن چو در این غم آشیان آمدهام
آخر کم از آنکه من بدانم که کیم
the capital of justice and the groundwork of oppression;
we are the low and the high, the perfect and the lacking,
the rust-eaten mirror and the cup of Jam.
سرمایهٔ دادیم و نهاد ستمیم
پستیم و بلندیم و کمالیم و کمیم
آئینهٔ زنگ خورده و جام جمیم
nor for fear of scandal and drunkenness that I do not drink;
I drank wine for the gladness of my heart —
now that you have settled on my heart, I do not drink.
یا از غم رسوایی و مستی نخورم
من می ز برای خوشدلی میخوردم
اکنون که تو بر دلم نشستی نخورم
without wine I cannot carry the body’s load.
I am the slave of that moment when the saki says
take one more cup — and I cannot.
بی باده کشید بارتن نتوانم
من بنده آن دمم که ساقی گوید
یک جام دگر بگیر و من نتوانم
comes with wealth, with silver and gold: it is I.
Then, just as his little business takes on order,
death springs from ambush one day: it is I.
با نعمت و با سیم و زر آید که منم
چون کارک او نظام گیرد روزی
ناگه اجل از کمین برآید که منم
for a time we took joy in mastery of our own;
hear how the story ends, and what became of us:
out of dust we came, and on the wind we went.
یک چند به استادی خود شاد شدیم
پایان سخن شنو که ما را چه رسید
از خاک در آمدیم و بر باد شدیم
not for one drawn breath am I glad of my own being;
I served a long apprenticeship to time,
and at the world’s work I am still no master.
یک دمزدن از وجود خود شاد نیم
شاگردی روزگار کردم بسیار
در کار جهان هنوز استاد نیم
for tomorrow, which has not come, raise no cry;
on what has not come, and what is gone, build nothing:
be glad this hour, and do not cast your life to the wind.
فردا که نیامده ست فریاد مکن
برنامده و گذشته بنیاد مکن
حالی خوش باش و عمر بر باد مکن
behold this world, all riot and all tumult:
kings and chiefs and lords of chiefs are under the clay —
behold the moonlike faces in the mouths of ants.
وین عالم پر فتنه و پر شور ببین
شاهان و سران و سروران زیر گلند
روهای چو مه در دهن مور ببین
sit, and pass one breath of it in gladness;
if there were any constancy in the world’s nature,
the turn would never have come round to you from the others.
بنشین و دمی به شادمانی گذران
در طبع جهان اگر وفایی بودی
نوبت بتو خود نیامدی از دگران
is the swallowing of grief, until the soul is torn out,
happy the heart that left this world early,
and at rest the one who never came into the world at all.
جز خوردن غصه نیست تا کندن جان
خرم دل آنکه زین جهان زود برفت
و آسوده کسی که خود نیامد به جهان
is to be left with nothing in the hand but wind.
Let that man be glad over my death
who can be free himself from the hand of death.
در دست نخواهد به جز از باد بدن
آن را باید به مرگ من شاد بدن
کز دست اجل تواند آزاد بدن
no unbelief, no Islam, no world, no religion;
no God, no Truth, no sacred Law, no certainty —
in the two worlds, who has the gall for this?
نه کفر و نه اسلام و نه دنیا و نه دین
نه حق نه حقیقت نه شریعت نه یقین
اندر دو جهان کرا بود زهره این
is better than to sponge at the table of the base;
with your own barley loaf, in truth, you are better off
than fouled with the paludeh of every nobody.
به ز آن که طفیل خوان ناکس بودن
با نان جوین خویش حقا که به است
کالوده و پالوده هر خس بودن
another has stumbled into doubt on the way of certainty.
I fear the day when a cry goes up:
you ignorant ones — the way is neither that nor this.
قومی به گمان فتاده در راه یقین
میترسم از آن که بانگ آید روزی
کای بیخبران راه نه آنست و نه این
another cow lies hidden under the earth.
Open the eye of your reason and see with certainty:
under and over the two cows, a fistful of asses.
یک گاو دگر نهفته در زیر زمین
چشم خردت باز کن از روی یقین
زیر و زبر دو گاو مشتی خر بین
I would lift this sky away out of the world,
and build another sky from nothing, so fashioned
that the free man would reach his heart’s desire with ease.
برداشتمی من این فلک را ز میان
از نو فلکی دگر چنان ساختمی
کازاده بکام دل رسیدی آسان
call for strained-bright wine with those who came in splendor:
one by one, the ones who came up here have gone,
and no one gives a sign of any who came back.
می خواه مروق به طراز آمدگان
رفتند یکان یکان فراز آمدگان
کس می ندهد نشان ز بازآمدگان
is better than to drill yourself in the ascetic’s fraud;
if the lover and the drunkard are for hell,
then no one will ever see the face of paradise.
به زانکه بزرق زاهدی ورزیدن
گر عاشق و مست دوزخی خواهد بود
پس روی بهشت کس نخواهد دیدن
nor your good hour ground on the millstone of trouble;
no one knows the unseen, or what is still to be:
what is wanted is wine, and the beloved, and ease at your desire.
وقت خوش خود بسنگ محنت سودن
کس غیب چه داند که چه خواهد بودن
می باید و معشوق و به کام آسودن
at whose threshold kings laid down their brows —
we saw, on its battlement, a ringdove
perched, calling and calling: Where? Where? Where? Where?
بر درگه آن شهان نهادندی رو
دیدیم که بر کنگرهاش فاختهای
بنشسته همی گفت که کوکوکوکو
Of the warp of our hope, where is one thread of weft?
So many heads and feet of the world’s darlings
burn and become dust — and where is the smoke?
وز تار امید عمر ما پودی کو
چندین سروپای نازنینان جهان
میسوزد و خاک میشود دودی کو
they will lay a brick or two on the grave-pit of me and you;
and then, for the bricks of other people’s graves,
they will press into a mold the dust of me and you.
خشتی دو نهند بر مغاک من و تو
و آنگاه برای خشت گور دگران
در کالبدی کشند خاک من و تو
has a design against the pure soul of me and you;
sit on the green grass and drink the bright wine down,
for this grass will spring long from the dust of me and you.
قصدی دارد بجان پاک من و تو
در سبزه نشین و می روشن میخور
کاین سبزه بسی دمد ز خاک من و تو
wine, too, from the hand of a pavilion idol is better;
drunkenness, the qalandar’s way, the straying road — better;
one draught of wine, than all from the Moon to the Fish, is better.
می هم ز کف بتان خرگاهی به
مستی و قلندری و گمراهی به
یک جرعه می ز ماه تا ماهی به
the nightingale is rapt at the rose’s beauty.
Sit in the rose’s shade: this rose will go on
showering into the dust when we are dust ourselves.
بلبل ز جمال گل طربناک شده
در سایه گل نشین که بسیار این گل
در خاک فرو ریزد و ما خاک شده
or whether I shall pass this life in gladness or not?
Fill up the bowl with wine: for I do not know
whether this breath I am drawing in will come out again or not.
وین عمر به خوشدلی گذارم یا نه
پرکن قدح باده که معلومم نیست
کاین دم که فرو برم برآرم یا نه
the way out of all that is not wine is better;
a hundred times better, in the hand, than Feridun’s throne
is the brick on the wine-vat’s lid — better than Kay Khosrow’s realm.
you are excused if you strive in the seeking of it;
all the rest is not worth having at a gift — beware,
do not sell a precious life away for it.
معذوری اگر در طلبش میکوشی
باقی همه رایگان نیرزد هشدار
تا عمر گرانبها بدان نفروشی
the pages of our being are folded over and away;
drink wine, and do not drink grief — for the sage has ruled:
the world’s sorrows are a poison, and wine its antidote.
اوراق وجود ما همی گردد طی
می خور! مخور اندوه که فرمود حکیم
غمهای جهان چو زهر و تریاقش می
the jug talked, and told off every secret:
I was a king; the cup I held was gold;
now I am become the jug of every wine-sick drinker.
آن کوزه سخن گفت ز هر اسراری
شاهی بودم که جام زرینم بود
اکنون شدهام کوزه هر خماری
forever in a fever from the seven and the four,
drink wine — I have told you a thousand times and more:
there is no coming back; once you have gone, you are gone.
وز هفت و چهار دایم اندر تفتی
می خور که هزار بار بیشت گفتم
باز آمدنت نیست چو رفتی رفتی
you will not reach the fine point the clever and learned make;
here, with ruby wine, build a paradise of your own,
for there, where paradise is, you may arrive or you may not.
در نکته زیرکان دانا نرسی
اینجا به می لعل بهشتی می ساز
کانجا که بهشت است رسی یا نرسی
stay with the ruby wine, and with a silver-bodied love;
for the One who made the world has no concern
for a mustache like yours, or a beard like mine.
با باده لعل باش و با سیم تنی
کانکس که جهان کرد فراغت دارد
از سبلت چون تویی و ریش چو منی
or that this long road somewhere had an arriving;
would that, after a hundred thousand years, from the heart of the dust,
there were hope of springing up again, like the grass.
یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
کاش از پی صد هزار سال از دل خاک
چون سبزه امید بر دمیدن بودی
I was far gone in drink when I committed that revel;
the pitcher was saying to me, in the wordless tongue:
I was like you — and you will be like me.
سرمست بدم که کردم این عیاشی
با من به زبان حال میگفت سبو
من چون تو بدم تو نیز چون من باشی
I would have found one end of my own tangled thread;
how long this narrow strait, the prison of existence?
Would I had found a door that gave on not-being.
هم رشته خویش را سری یافتمی
تا چند ز تنگنای زندان وجود
ای کاش سوی عدم دری یافتمی
sit free of care by the sown field and the stream’s lip;
for many a darling body has the foul-tempered wheel
made a hundred times a cup, a hundred times a pitcher.
فارغ بنشین بکشتزار و لب جوی
بس شخص عزیز را که چرخ بدخوی
صد بار پیاله کرد و صد بار سبوی
I said, have you no news to give of the departed?
He said, drink your wine: for many such as we
have gone, and word has never once come back.
گفتم نکنی ز رفتگان اخباری
گفتا می خور که همچو ما بسیاری
رفتند و خبر باز نیامد باری
One riddle or a hundred thousand — what matter, O saki?
We are all dust: strike up the harp, O saki.
We are all wind: bring on the wine, O saki.
مشکل چه یکی چه صد هزار ای ساقی
خاکیم همه چنگ بساز ای ساقی
بادیم همه باده بیار ای ساقی
a stream of Kawthar runs through the garden;
the plain is paradise itself — talk less of Kawthar;
sit down in paradise beside a paradise-faced one.
در باغ روان است ز کوثر جویی
صحرا چو بهشت است ز کوثر کم گوی
بنشین به بهشت با بهشتی رویی
they were done with all your asking — yesterday;
why make a story of it? at your own asking, yesterday,
they fixed the business of your tomorrow — yesterday.
فارغ شدهاند از تمنای تو دی
قصه چه کنم که به تقاضای تو دی
دادند قرار کار فردای تو دی
I saw the master at the wheel’s base, standing to his work;
boldly he was making handles and heads for jugs
out of the skull of a king and the hand of a beggar.
در پایه چرخ دیدم استاد بپای
میکرد دلیر کوزه را دسته و سر
از کله پادشاه و از دست گدای
the decree that fate has passed — you think it mine?
Had I a hand in my own turning,
I would have freed myself from my own giddy round.
حکمی که قضا بود ز من میدانی
در گردش خویش اگر مرا دست بدی
خود را برهاندمی ز سرگردانی
fill a bowl and drink, and hand me another,
before, my idol, somewhere by the roadside,
a jug-maker makes a jug of the dust of me and you.
پر کن قدحی بخور بمن ده دگری
زان پیشتر ای صنم که در رهگذری
خاک من و تو کوزهکند کوزهگری
had my going been mine as well, when would I go?
Better than either, that in this ruined cloister
I had never come, never gone, never been.
ور نیز شدن بمن بدی کی شدمی
به زان نبدی که اندر این دیر خراب
نه آمدمی نه شدمی نه بدمی
two mans of wine, and the haunch of a sheep,
with a tulip-cheeked one in the corner of a garden —
that is a feast not in the compass of every sultan.
وز می دو منی ز گوسفندی رانی
با لاله رخی و گوشه بستانی
عیشی بود آن نه حد هر سلطانی
the sky’s arrangements would all win approval;
and if there were justice in the turning vault’s affairs,
when would the minds of the worthy ever have been wounded?
احوال فلک جمله پسندیده بدی
ور عدل بدی بکارها در گردون
کی خاطر اهل فضل رنجیده بدی
how long will you so dishonor the clay of men?
The finger of Feridun, the palm of Kay Khosrow —
you have set them on the wheel: what do you suppose you are doing?
تا چند کنی بر گل مردم خواری
انگشت فریدون و کف کیخسرو
بر چرخ نهادهای چه میپنداری
strike up a song, and bring the wine on:
for it has thrown to the dust a hundred thousand Jams and Kays,
this coming of Tir and this going of Dey.
برساز ترانهای و پیشآور می
کافکند بخاک صد هزاران جم و کی
این آمدن تیرمه و رفتن دی