Monday, 19 December 2011

Hakim Sanai

Collect your mind's fragments
that you may fill yourself
bit by bit with Meaning:
the slave who meditates
on the mysteries of Creation
for sixty minutes
gains more merit
than from sixty years
of fasting and prayer.
high-soaring hawk
of Intellect's wrist
resting at last
on the flowering branch
of the Heart:
this world and the next
are hidden beneath
its folded wing.
Now perched before
the mud hut
which is Earth
now clasping with its talons
a branch of the Tree
of Paradise
soaring here
striking there -- each moment
fresh prey
gobbling a mouthful of moonlight
wheeling away
beyond the sun
darting between the Great Wheel's
star-set spokes, it rips to shreds
the Footstool and the Throne
a Pigeon's feather
in its beak --
or a comet --
till finally free of everything
it alights, silent
on a topmost bough.
Hunting is king's sport,
not just anyone's
but you?
you've hooded the falcon
-- what can I say? --
clipped its pinions
broken its wings...

Hakim Sanai
(1044? - 1150?)
English version by Peter Lamborn Wilson and Nasrollah Pourjavady

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