by Nizami Ganjavi
On lofty Beysitoun the lingering sun
looks down on ceaseless labours, long begun:
The mountain trembles to the echoing sound
Of falling rocks, that from her sides rebound.
looks down on ceaseless labours, long begun:
The mountain trembles to the echoing sound
Of falling rocks, that from her sides rebound.
Each day all respite, all repose denied—
No truce, no pause, the thundering strokes are plied;
The mist of night around her summit coils,
But still Ferhad, the lover-artist, toils,
A hundred arms were weak one block to move
Of thousands, molded by the hand of Love
Into fantastic shapes and forms of grace,
Which crowd each nook of that majestic place.
The piles give way, the rocky peaks divide,
The stream comes gushing on—a foaming tide!
A mighty work, for ages to remain,
The token of his passion and his pain.
As flows the milky flood from Allah's throne
Rushes the torrent from the yielding stone;
Ah! hapless youth; ah! toil repaid by woe—
A king thy rival and the world thy foe!
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