The veziers of Nushirvan happened to discuss an important affair of state, each giving his opinion according to his knowledge. The king likewise gave his opinion and Barzachumihr concurred with it.
A padshah having issued orders to kill an innocent man, the latter said: ‘"O king, seek not thine own injury on account of the anger thou bearest towards me." He asked: "How?" The man replied: "This punishment will abide with me one moment but the sin of it for ever with thee."
The period of life has passed away like the desert wind.
Bitter and sweet, ugliness and beauty have passed away.
The tyrant fanded he had done injury to us.
It remained on his neck and passed away from us.
A vezier paid a visit to Zulnun Misri and asked for his favour, saying: "I am day and night engaged in the service of the sultan and hoping to be rewarded but nevertheless dread to be punished by him." Zulnun wept and said: "Had I feared God, the great and glorious, as thou fearest the sultan, I would be one of the number of the righteous."
If there were no hope of rest and trouble
The foot of the dervish would be upon the sphere
And if the vezier feared God
Like the king he would be king.
A man had attained great excellence in the art of wrestling, who knew three hundred and sixty exquisite tricks and daily exhibited something new. He had a particular affection for the beauty of one of his pupils whom he taught three hundred and fifty-nine tricks, refraining to impart to him only one.
An unjust king asked a devotee what kind of worship is best? He replied: "For thee the best is to sleep one half of the day so as not to injure the people for a while."
I saw a tyrant sleeping half the day.
I said: "This confusion, if sleep removes it, so much the better;
But he whose sleep is better than his wakefulness
Is better dead than leading such a bad life."
Faire des vers, des vers gamins,
Et rire, et rire, et rire encore,
Et, comme un pierrot qui picore,
Celery, raw
Develops the jaw,
But celery, stewed,
Is more quietly chewed.
I join these words for four people,
Some others may overhear them,
O world, I am sorry for you,
You do not know these four people.
War dust and wine stains mix on my clothes.
My soul melts when I roam from a long distance.
Is this body of mine really that of a poet?
In a drizzle I enter Sword Gate on a donkey.
Tombstone
I fondly nursed an opening rose,
And view'd its beauties every day;
But ah! a withering storm arose
And swept my lovely flower away.
