Tuhannen yön uni

Runoilija lipoo kaksihaaraisella kielellään.

"Hei Veli, kerroppa kerran,
Jos vierestä veljen en heräisi,
Ystävän luona en yöpyisi,
Luota lammen en läksisi,
Vaan istuisin yksin koivikossa,
Päätä pitelisin pajukoissa;
Metsämailla mä määrättä,
Soilla ilman sanelematta,
Vuorilla veljettä vaeltaisin,
Vailla kotoa ma kaukomailla.
Jos perheettä mä pahoilla mailla;
Toivotta tyynyyn laskisin,
Pääni sanaakaan sanomatta,
Vailla toivoa tulevasta,
Enkä menneitä muistelesi,
Huoletta nukkuisin huomeniin;
Niin nukkuisinko silloin heräämättä,
Nukkuisinko nälkää näkemättä,
Tuhannen toivotonta yötä,
Uneksisin unetonta yötä?"
"Sit' heräisin mä öiden unista,
Nukuksista ma nousisin,
Katselisin kaukomailla,
Kotimaille sit' läksisin;
Vaan veliseni, sanoppas sitten,
Oisko mulle paremmat paikat,
Viisaat vuodet vierineet,
Oisko mulle kadonneet kodot,
Takaisin tulleet kadoksista?
Josko ois kansa karaistunut,
Vanhat käävät viisastuneet?
Oisko vedet vaan vuolaammat,
Metsämaat vaan kauniimmat,
Tulleet takaisin tuhoksista,
Ajaneet vuodet ajattelemaan?"
"Vaan äläpäs vastaa, tiedän kyllä,
Ei kuusta löydy kadonneet,
Halikoilta ei hukkuneet,
Ei mies muutu vuodessa,
Ei laiva käänny hetkessä,
Historiaa haasta ei sadassa,
Eikä tähdet aukee tuhannessa.
Paremmin tekisin mä nukkumatta,
Päätä pitelemättä pajukoissa,
En kauaa koisisi koivikoissa,
Vaan pois läksisin huomenissa,
Toimeen kävisin mä hämärissä!
Oi veliseni! Jos vuoden voisin nukkua,
Silmät paremmat ois sulkematta,
Päät paremmat ois laskematta!
Näin haastoin mä hämärissä,
Aamulla yksin pimeässä,
Näkemättä mä yöllä haastoin,
Vailla aamua odottellessa."

Interlude

Say,
Not much my love will miss,
If one day it'll idle away,
Nor much delay its bliss,
If it sleeps some summer day.

Today,
Neither lenghty love nor loss,
Nor nature's worthy art,
Will bring its point across,
To dreams that hold my heart.

So,
Let Paris defend Troy for day,
Let Romulus find Rome alone,
Fair company shan't spell away,
The courts of inertia in my bone.

Today,
Endeavor shan't hold its spell,
Nor duty retain its haste,
Yet that is all I will tell,
For I dreamt and dreamt for waste.

In the Jungles of Life

The jungle, like a desert, is silent. While the hues of thousand colours play their silent cacophony from dawn till dusk, and while the maddening odours of flowers and moths wage their eternal war in air, no sound is audible, as if none could or none dared to voice their amorous complaint. There are no grasshoppers, and no beasts to roaringly announce their excited pride. Only at times a brief rustling of leaves is heard, punctuating the silence, or at others a loud noise is viciously crashing or snapping, eerily echoing for a moment before silence regains its throne. Yet ignore the silence; this is no dominion for death: leaves quiver in wind, vibrant flowers shiver and undulate; somewhere, a chamelont mantis is creeping by, a butterfly is idly hovering above the ground, and even somewhere above the canopy a pair of eyes can be seen, unblinking or otherwise watchful. Overripe fruits weigh the branches, often almost touching the ground, which, covered by a thick layer of fallen leaves, seems to be reaching back.

Then the illusion shatters; the moth alights on a verdant leaf, and flapping its wings no more, quietly slides to the ground. Looking closer, the leaves are seen covered in tiny spikes, transparent and almost invisible. The mantis too, its laughing eyes now gently mocking, slowly disappears beneath the twisting branches, and in its place we hear a silent slither; an azure serpent has come, and circles the bodies of a dozen bats, outstretched as they are beneath the fruits of a poison tree. The silence retreats; the forest is suddenly filled with noise; birds cry and tweet, fleeing animals crash with the flora, air is filled with flying lizards. Above all this, a vast shadow blocks the sun, and the unblinking eyes are no more, having left for more bountiful hunting-grounds. As the silence returns, the flowers continue their quivering dance; only this time there is no wind.

Remark on mindless fervours

OH, you sphinxes of the old, everlasting earth,
Your green world tumbles and orbits the sun;
Your pale moon tumbles and orbits the earth;
Yet below the spheres of your light, some men
Still tumble and orbit the old race-course.
Do they think themselves celestial orbs too,
Hurtling mindlessly along endless paths,
With little care and even less regrets?
OH, you all-knowing sphinxes, tell me this,
Do you think we have yet to grow tired,
That like children we still loudly applaud and boo,
When a flaming chariot is seen, tumbling
Towards high walls, whilst all the audience
Laughs and marvels at such a strange sight?
Or perhaps you think, that we have grown old already
And are like the idle old men, with nothing better to do
Than to bet on the course of the burning wheel,
Or analyse the machinations of some captive youths,
Running towards an inferno, barefoot and with no regrets?
I assure you it is not so, for we have seen it all before,
And besides, all this bread has grown stale,
And our tastes have drifted, like some heavy old clouds.
SO let the moon and earth tumble and orbit, mindless as they are;
But tell me, oh sphinxes, should we not do better?

Dreams of Coffee

Dream on! Oh youth of day,
And stretch your legs below the table;
Soon the dreams of coffee will come to you,
Whether you be sitting alone,
Together with your spectres of mild mindfulness,
Or amongst pleasant and genial company,
And surrounded by waxing waters of conversation.

So dream; oh dream on!
And wave your hand within or without;
As like nymphs, gathering in woods whilst
Circling a sleeping minstrel, or like muses,
Hearkening to the pipe of a flute, these dreams
That you shall neither avoid nor pass
Will enter within, through the holes in your ears.

So dream on! And drink the draught of day,
You sleepy-eyed youth, for these grand dreams
Shall wake your idle ambitions, and serve them
The supper of intoxicating self-absorption.
So drink that draught, and whether it be in Babylon,
Or in China you wish to be; so be it,
The servings shall be the hanging gardens,
And the forbidden palaces shall be scrawled into the napkins.

So dream on! O' youth of day,
And stretch your legs below the table.
Whilst you pass your worries along for a while,
Don't you worry a bit, but sip for sipping,
And when in time, these dreams long dispelled
You will be emptied of the bitter drink;
Fear not, for not alone shall they leave you -
Those sweet dreams of coffee.

Ode to Melancholy

The sadness of the sleeping hours; who could endure?
When past are the splendid powers, prophets of poetry gone;
When to night turns the evening's spell, who could revel alone,
When soon rings the midnight bell, bereft of drunken lure?

For is friendship not a lost thing; found in chance's flight?
And alike the gladness age does bring, best had in bitter taste;
Won't weary mouths that sweetness favour, turn this wine to waste,
Lose in loss a thing to savour, pass a pleasure of deep delight?

And is not love feather-light too; once to love and then to lose?
Does dying light not leave us rue; how ashes follow a flaming fire,
And how cold is that empty hall; how silent its echoing desire?
Yet in silence squall; why would you care of silence abuse?

Why abuse the glance of the moon, the sparkling stars of ice?
Sooner, sooner, play a stranger tune! chime hollow and sad,
And when asleep, sooner plot aloud; on the morn to wake up glad!
For is this hue not fair and proud; does this sadness not suffice?

Dialogue between three wise persians

Wikipedia has this to say, within a certain article:

"This account is particularly interesting in light of a possibly apocryphal story recounted by Jorge Luis Borges. In this story a pact is formed between a young Nizam al-Mulk (at that time known as Abdul Khassem) and his two friends, Omar Khayyam and Hassan-i-Sabbah. Their agreement stated that if one should rise to prominence, that they would help the other two to do likewise. Nizam al-Mulk was the first to do this when he was appointed vizier to the sultan Alp Arslan. To fulfil the pact he offered both friends positions of rank within the court. Omar refused the offer, asking instead to be given the means to continue his studies indefinitely. This Nizam did, as well as building him an observatory. Although Hassan, unlike Omar, decided to accept the appointment offered to him, he was forced to flee after plotting to dispose Nizam as vizier. Subsequently, Hassan came upon and conquered the fortress of Alamut, from where he established the Assassins."

I have, of course, read that bit of Borges.

'We find ourselves in the grand madrasah of Cairo; or, in more
detail, in a secluded courtyard within it, where rising marble
steps on four sides surround a grand fountain in Roman style. Here,
slanting roofs the colour of sandstone lean over the courtyard,
providing the shade only the twin heirs of Jamshid and Zohák can
appreciate, accompanied by fine palm trees with large,
overshadowing leaves. Above the roofs of the university, we may see
a dozen towers of darkness, whose innumarable steps even now a
dozen muezzins climb. Ignorant or unheeding of this, three young
persians, whose vivid eyes reveal wisdom unbecoming of their age,
recline on the marble steps, their heads cooled by the spirits of
shadows, and their feet warmed by them of the sun. In their hands
they indolently hold cups and glasses filled with ice-cold water,
topped with chunks and cubes of the transparent mirage itself; a
boundless luxury to have. Suddenly, the fairest of the persian
youth begins to exclaim with joyful air:'

Nizam Al-Mulk: You harsh master, who laid low the pride of Babylon,
and you who obliterated the glories of Rome, have you now forsaken
your cursed habits? Am I asleep or awake, and if asleep - whence
these dreams that would befit a caliph? Do you allow friendship
such as this, friends like these, only to take them away; or is
this finally the promised temptation that will rival the paradise?
Omar Khayyam: I hear you! I love my mother; for my father I have
in store but praise; my brothers truly deserve the name of that
word; but you - how many virgins would have to pass, for them to
steal but one gaze from me now? Quickly! Invigorate your memory,
lest this sight shall soon fracture and shatter!
Hassan i-Sabbah: Bold words I hear, and vows of power! But are
they not deserved, now if never else? The eagle has its valley and
mountain, but I would not trade your presence for its wings!
Nizam: You vindicate me, though I would need no vindication. Did
not the damed philosopher Epicurus abandon his gods for this: for
the pleasure of cold water, enjoyed amongst his boundless friends?
Hassan: The shadow of morality ever hangs above the pleasure. Can
you blame Epicurus for trading idolatry for atheism? I think not.
Omar: Ice-water among the young, steaming tea among the old;
Epicurus is close to my heart as well. Though he be damned, I hope
he shall enjoy bathing in cold water in his damnation.
Nizam: Epicurus knew no paradise, he made the right choice; to
enjoy the company of closest friends, in the life he saw as
limited. We, whose sight scans the infinite, must be content with
limited friendship. All earthly things come to an end: madrasahs
close, and friends separate.
Hassan: Sad words but true; my heart hears not, and my mind would
wish to follow suit. But must it truly be so? Friends may separate,
and courses diverge, but memories as strong as this never fade
away. Will we not one day, when one is in Sind, the Second in
Cordoba, and the last one in Samarkand, meet in some distant
courtyard like this, and relive all the pleasant memories?
Nizam: I would wish it so, but it is not only thus, that the
courses of men diverge in time. In long years hence, will not one
be a king, the second a beggar, and third a captain in fabled
Abyssinia? Would the captain set his sail to unprofitable lands,
the king grant audience to the beggar? I would, if I were the king,
but will it always be so? Will my vizier too never turn you away,
and lock you behind my doors?
Hassan: For that reason then, why not make such a vow, to never
betray and not to forget the brotherhood, though brothers were to
die, and new friends usurp their place? Let us cast our lot
together, so that if one were to become a prince, and the others
beggars, the prince would then fulfill the dreams of all three!
Were I the king, dozen beggars could enter the front-door, but none
would leave - only princes would haste through the back-door!
Omar: If dreams were water, yours would be wine: dreamy and
deceitful. If princes fulfilled all the promises they gave to the
common man and the sundry soldier - why, every prostitute would be
a queen, and the back-alleys of Baghdad paved with gold.
Nizam: Such cold words! Why not for once, let the sun reflect
from your cold cup?
Omar: And spoil the fortune? You wish. Did not the triumvirate of
Caesar last but a while, though all were princes, and none a
beggar? Had Pompey been a pauper, you think the Romans would still
rule Alexandria?
Hassan: Would you rather have no vows, Omar? Is your invigorated
memory enough to last a lifetime?
Nizam: I will give my word, and his too, if need be. My brotherly
love would make another man!
Omar: Fine. Call me a clay pot if you wish, but my heart pumps
hot blood. I vow to keep my friendship, though all others vows be
rent untrue.
Nizam: I vow for my honour, I vow for life. In thus vowing, let
the other man in me keep his love, mine shall now never die.
Hassan: Here, let me spill my cup. Though the water I spilled be
the water of love and life, I would not regret this vow.
Omar: I vow for us to remain brothers, and a persian never
abandons his brother, though he be trapped in the passes of
Thermopylae!
Nizam: I vow for us to remain friends, and I would rather abandon
a brother than friend. Let him who stands in light give me strength!
Hassan: I vow... - wait! What is it that I hear; a score of
muezzins chants the song for prayer! Posthaste, brothers! There is
a vow still more sacred!
Nizam and Omar: We haste to pray!