The Masnavi of Giti and Saeed - Part 3, 4 and 5

Part Three — Zuhrah's Song (1) O knower of love and mystic's wine, Sweet mistress of the dance divine! With harp and lute she weaves her tune, Her music soars beyond the moon. A queen whose steed none can outrace, While kings of every land give chase. From dawn until the setting sun, She sang of her beloved one. "Sweet Giti," thus she named that rose, Whose light could banish all our woes. Not just a name—she lit each heart, Both day and night, she played her part. With sugar lips and cypress grace, No words could paint that lovely face. A beauty swift as dancing flame, Sun-browed and moon-cheeked, just the same. The morning breeze grew drunk with bliss, While hearts were caught in her hair's kiss. Two eyes—enchanting, deep, and bright— Had stolen many a lover's sight. And with a smile of sweetest art, She bound a hundred beating hearts. Part Four — Zuhrah's Song (2) One night beneath the starlit skies, She cast her spell with silent eyes. She closed her gaze in playful art, And loosed love's arrow from her heart. That arrow flew with destined aim, And marked young "Saeed" by his name. Love's golden shaft pierced through his soul, And made his wounded spirit whole. It struck his heart with sudden fire, And filled his breast with sweet desire. The moment Saeed beheld her face, His heart took flight from its safe place. In one swift breath, his peace was gone, His chest blazed bright like break of dawn. Had he possessed a thousand hearts, He'd offer all before love starts. He gave his heart, and with it, rest, And joined the ranks of love's blessed test. He bound his soul to her dark braid, Thus love's sweet story was first played. Part Five — The Cupbearer's Song (1) O Saqi, pour that vintage wine, Let fate not claim this heart of mine. We're drunk on just our lover's sight, Without the cup, we seek the light. Yet still, like flowers, let beauty grow, Let blooms from your sweet presence flow. Grant us a draught so pure and deep, No finer gift your hands could keep. That wine from which the tulip's hue And mountain's molten heart once grew. O minstrel, play the promised song Of joy and union lost so long! Strike the drum, the reed, the lyre, Lift the dawn cup, set hearts on fire! Play the stream and raise your voice, Let grieving hearts in love rejoice. Strike me with a hundred blows, Without sweet pain, no music flows. Let hearts be gladdened with the dance, Give aged lovers one more chance!