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When towards evening the vultures of Gobi rest their weary wings
and when the Muslim bows down to the sun in the West
when the walk of the camel stops, and its bells do not sound
a wanderer seeks rest and shelter from frost and wind
in a tea house on a mountain ridge where all sorts of people he meets
East and West, the waters of two rivers in one swirl
here are Hindus, Tajiks, Persians and Jews
the cold white world of the West, the mysterious dream of the East.
Here is a beggar from Tibet who wishes to rest on a bag
and a rich Chinese shopkeeper with a very valuable cargo
they wish to warm their feet at the same fire and river
where a rug dealer from Tebriz with his bodyguard rest
and from Beirut came a merchant with a Pilgrim in his company
for a late shelter for the night at the fire on the rim of the mountain
for towards the foot of the mountain in the darkness the heavy wave of night flows
everything that the waters of life is: snow white foam and coal-black mud.
And a man who drove camels for the big caravans
half a wise man, half a beggar, sometimes a thief and sometimes an interpreter
and maybe quite a lot more, which his best friend barely knows
while he cleans his pipe with a rare Kurdish dagger
looked at me, who was described with a fine Persian word
- "cold, white sheikh from the North" I was called among Persians-
to ask if I had ever heard of THE ROSE OF IRAN,
when at our host's tea our talk fell on rare rugs.
As a purple-coloured rug was his dream blue story
such colours are not found on the pallet of my Danish language
there were beautiful ornaments in every word and around every sentence
and he spoke for many hours, but never spoke himself tired.
It was not a saga, but true his story was
of the great Nadir Shah, who on his stairs found a girl
beautiful as the houri from Paradise, kneeling in a Mosque
and so beautiful that the Shah Nadir both blushed and froze.
THE ROSE OF IRAN, she was, became his favourite dancer
possibly even more which only she and Nadir know
she was locked up in his house away from the greedy eyes of the world
and she enjoyed his rich leniency, and she took his love.
The Shah let her image be woven into a silk rug
twenty thousand fine threads became a smile on her lips...
...the man spoke, and I heard the entire camp listen without a sound
only the heavy snuffling of a camel sounded somewhere from the animal's sleep.
The narrator took a puff of his pipe, and blue-green rings
became snakes over the fire. I asked the host, who sat nearest the edge
of his mat to please bring me some more strong and hot tea
for I felt in my heart something violent were to happen.
And now the man spoke again: When the Emir wished to visit
Nadir Shah and came to Ispahan from Kabul by horse
then according to the law of feast Nadir Shah offered his guest the very best
and let THE ROSE OF IRAN cast her wail and dance free.
But to Nadir the woman was only chained with love's fortune
there was no fire in her heart, only a lie placed on the lip
everything she took from her master, whom she had given nothing
when the eyes of the emir she met, she was completely within his power
and in the deep darkness of the night, he, in the light of his lamp
found way to her chamber, the conduct of an Afghan thief...
when they under the stars of Iran from the Palace tried to run
the silver white moon became blood red as the sword of Nadir.
The next morning Nadir Shah went to the chamber of the beautiful woman
to bring the dancer to a feast at his palace
there was no sigh or complain, nor screams or wretchedness
only the dry sound of steel in a valuable silk fabric.
When he saw the beautiful rug dimly illuminated by the candle of the chamber
he grabbed the handle of his sword, as an avenger holds firmly
and let the blade of the sword cut her treacherous heart
so the smile on her lips of the twenty thousand silk threads burst.
Nadir Shah let the army gather; over fields and steppes
rode his troops of to war with the emir of Afghan
and a highly entrusted servant carried a ripped rug
which in Kabul was to be swept around the body of a faithless woman.
While his servant served art more than his strict master
in a dark and cloudy hour, black as coal and with no light
he placed the beautiful rug on a wretched donkey cart
and disappeared from the company of the Shah concealed by the deep night of Iran.
When the narrator sighed, the sounds of a new day sounded around us,
first the soft scraping in the thin, loose ground of the camel
and we heard dogs bark, and donkeys bray.
The animals of the caravan were ready to walk the trail of the road.
And with the expensive rugs of Kashan and the rare silk of Peking
they left at day break each their way towards each their goals
there stood the beggar from Tibet on two thin brown legs
I was abundantly blessed for a silver coin in his bowl.
Later in Kirman in a street of rug merchants I asked:
Tell me, where is THE ROSE OF IRAN, with a ripped heart?
Nadir Shah let her bathe in the rose leaves of Kirman
you must know her destiny, you must know her name.
And in Tebriz an old man sat in a chair, blind and almost paralysed
he was a wise man, so he knew the very well the rare rug
but the blind observer said: THE ROSE OF IRAN follows the sun
gone for the night and the avenger she runs from East to West.
And my longing carried me forward without leniency, without mercy
I went south to Egypt, sought along the Nile
where the sphinx forever broods on the mystery of its own heart
my heart cried out: Hurry! To my weary feet.
Then one day in Parkeston I stand, and I smile, and I pause
when a voice in my heart for no sensible reason
asks me this odd question: Do you think THE ROSE OF IRAN blushes
under the yellow mist of London, hidden at the bottom of an anthill?
And you know Ali Zade as "Rug merchant of all sorts"
though in the great chaos of the West he insensibly slid in
and despite all what the mist poison of the Themes simplifies and transforms
the entire Orient lay unadulterated in his mind
worthy and with the look of a wise man in his chair, as if on a throne
Ali gave me an interview, and when I in front of him stood
I heard my heart cheer, and my soul deeply moved sigh
for there I saw THE ROSE OF IRAN on a rug at my feet.
We talked as you do according to Eastern traditions
he answered the question which I did not utter myself
THE ROSE OF IRAN is in my heart, and my heart is not for sale
for I know that her destiny is placed in my hands.
I must carry this burden, which can weigh and trouble
I am chained like a slave, I can rattle my ring
I want what the Koran forbids me to want
and my soul has been tied to a beautiful, but earthly thing.
I came years and years ago to bargain, to plead
and was refused, but finally his reply was another;
Ali said very seriously: When I full and weary of years
am released from all chains I carried on earth
when I walk the pilgrimage with my staff and bag
up to the quiet stars of heaven, out into the deep tranquillity of space
then cold, white sheikh from the North, you will own THE ROSE OF IRAN,
for I know, we have both wanted her beauty.
And now she is in my possession, she is my joy and my pain,
though I know that she knows no peace, it is but a short rest,
Nadir Shah has placed fear in her shattered heart,
and his sharp sword has extinguished her graceful smile;
she will wander after the sun, and she turns and looks towards the West
there is the road she must follow through mysterious things
until in Iran her walk in the distant future ends
when she has come full circle, when she has come full circle with fate.
[translated from the original Danish poem Irans Rose by Aage Herman]
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