Mejnun's Distress
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From the Immortal Love Poem:
"Leyla and Mejnun"
By Muhammed Fuzuli
[1498-1556]
(excerpts)

The following are couplets describing Mejnun's distress...

Now every morn Mejnun went forth to school
Where, freed of care, he mastered every rule.

With studied ease he followed all the lines
Of Leyla: Never book marked love's confines.

His heart with pleasure sang when'er the day
He, like the sun, pursued his constant way.

At school, a happiness he looked to find
The happiness of love, not yet unkind.

When passed the day, that Leyla cameth not
The sun was darkened, tho' its rays were hot.

All sunless sped the day, and school, as night,
Fell dark and gloomy, darkened, without light.

He guessed that fortune's cunning trickster hand
Had turned from him the pleasure he had planned.

The Jealous gossips, so the thought was born,
Upon her petalled rose had cast a thorn.

With grief at heart and sorrow in his mind
He railed at fortune, calling it unkind.

"What evil have I done? What left undone,
To kill my soul by banishing the sun?

What sin mine, that now, in sad eclipse,
Thou dashest wine of pleasure from my lips?

Thy favourite once was I, and happy, glad,
Beneath my idol's look in pleasure clad.

O, fortune! Now thy wheel to torture turns,
And now the graces of content it spurns.

Didst thou then fear that with a single sigh
That from my burning heart should reach the sky.

I might thy heaven into ashes turn,
And teach thee how these separations burn?

Were this achieved, then separation's pain
Thou, too, might'st know.

Nor think alone that dreary grief is mine:
The grief that tears my heart is also thine.

O, elif, straight, unbending as a rod,
Be shamed, and fall, to moulder 'neath the sod.

Still now thy boastful voice, seek not her height,
For she is gone, why standst thou upright?

O, noon, thou Joy on beauty's eyebrow set,
Go, hide thyself, seek not my soul to fret.

O, mim, thy crooked shape no purpose holds
Now destiny her smiling mouth withholds.

Corrosion seize thee, inkstand may thy heart,
Rust in thy bosom. Feel its angry smart!

Turn now thy ink that tender love expressed,
To pale and sickly water in thy breast.

And thou, open, as blots thy sorrow prove,
All restless, kissing not the hand of love.

Yet still cry on, pretend no day were here,
There is no day if Leyla be not near.

And as for thee, O, hard and ashen slate,
Talk of her hand and blackly grave thy fate."

The days moved on and still to school he went,
But passed his days in blackest discontent.

From morn till eve his lamentations deep,
Disturbed instruction, and at night no sleep.

Its solace brought to ease his weary mind:
Always to Leyla were his words inclined.

"O, thou, the Joy of heart, the light of eye,
Now, lacking thee, afar all light does fly.

The sweet companionship is sadly changed,
Give but a reason why thy soul has ranged?

Why thus intoxicate my giddy mind?
Why, making me a captive, be unkind?

If all thy purpose was to fling me out,
Why give me darkness and tormenting doubt?

My heart the flame of parting hourly sears,
My eyes are wet with longing bitter tears.

My heart, aflame, glows like the morning bright,
An angry dawn, with crimson clouds alight.

My tears, a mighty ocean without shore,
Well up, each asking more and more.

No friend I seek, thy friendship to replace:
Alone, take thou the image from my face.

Remove it, lest upon my heart, a crown
It burns, or else among my tears should drown.

With heady wine of longing I am drunk,
And deep in pain's bewilderment am sunk.

A drunkard fully masters not his will,
No heed can have bewilderment of ill.

My soul is lost upon this road of pain,
I ne'er shall feel afraid of death again.

One gift I have: This gift for thee has taught,
A gladness that was Joy with passion fraught.

At times I wonder: What if death should come?
No soul is left to seize; pain were its only sun.

A candle am I, burning in the night,
Of pain and suffering, stirr'd by breezes light.

Yet though my heart in torment forces tears,
And, against my head, grief's fiery sword appears.

This agony of pain I would not yield,
But, suffering, make suffering my shield.

And keep these days of misery's deep despair,
When restlessly I wander, full of care.

Should destiny, the Book of Life indict,
Against thee these days of suffering, or write.

The record of my life, I'd scorn the page,
And tear the note to fragments in my rage.

They say the sun translates darkness to day:
Resolve this subtlety, all ye who may.

The day whereon my sun declines to shine,
I cannot call a day, however fine.

The skies above. Alas, that there is none,
To whom in pity is my sorrow known.

With every thought my grief grows mountain high,
Each gusty sigh brings fiercer flames more nigh."

His mind then on his early meetings bent,
Upon this poem, all his forces spent...