KÚZA-NÁMA

LIX

Listen again. One Evening at the Close
Of Ramazán, ere the better Moon arose,
In that old Potter’s Shop I stood alone
With the clay Population round in Rows.

LX

And, strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:
And suddenly one more impatient cried-
‘Who is the Potter, pray, and who is the Pot?’

LXI

Then said another-‘Surely not in vain
My Substance from the common Earth was ta’en,
That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
Should stamp me back to common Earth again.’

LXII

Another said-‘Why, ne’er a peevish Boy,
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy;
Shall he that made the Vessel in pure Love
And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy!’

LXIII

None answer’d this; but after Silence spake
A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
‘They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
What! did the Hand of the Potter shake?’

LXIV

Said one-‘Folks of a surly Tapster tell’
And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;
They talk of some strict Testing of us-Pish!
He’s a Good Fellow, and ‘twill all be well.’

LXV

Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
‘My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by-and-bye!’

LXVI

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:
And then they jogg’d each other, ‘Brother! Brother!
Hark to the Porter’s Shoulder-knot a-creaking!’

*

LXVII

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And in a Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt
So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.

LXVIII

That ev’n my buried Ashes such a Snare
Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air
As not a True Believer pasing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.

LXIX

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my Credit in Men’s Eye much wrong;
Have drown’d my Honour in a shallow Cup,
And sold my Reputation for a Song.

LXX

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 thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

LXXI

And much as Wine has play’d the Infidel,
And robb’d me of my Robe of Honour-well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
And half so precious as the Goods they sell.

LXXII

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and wither flown again, who knows!

LXXIII

Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits-and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!

LXXIV

Ah, Moon of my Delight who know’st no wane,
The Moon of Heav’n is rising once again:
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me-in vain!

LXXV

And When Thyself with shining Foot shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass,
And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot
Where I made one-turn down an empty Glass.

TAMAM SHUD

Editor’s notes: Kúza-Náma: The Book of Pots

Taman shud: the very end