Abu Lala Mahari
By A. Issahagian
*Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian*
Part I.
And the caravan of Abu Lala
purling so gently as though a fountain
was walking calmly in the sleeping night,
with the sweet tinkling of resonant bells.
With its equal steps it measured the road,
that caravan which twisted and wandered,
and the tinkling sounds were flowing sweetly
and inundating then the tranquil fields.
In sluggish softness Baghdad was asleep
with splendid and bright dreams of paradise,
in flower gardens bulbuls were singing
the sweet serenades with the tears of love.
The sprouting fountains were giggling as well
with their bright laughter made from the diamonds,
perfume and kisses incensed everywhere
out of the crystal cups of the khalifs.
And the caravan swinging and rocking
was ringing forward and not looking back,
the endless road with its infinite charm
was calling Abu Lala and stroking...
And the caravan was twisting around
on through the rows of the tall trees of palm,
it was raising dust, caravan of dust,
and the feeble wind was blowing the dust.
"Go on, caravan, what is that we left
for us to look now behind and regret?"
In this way he was talking with his heart
Abu Mahari, that one great poet.
"What is behind us for us to turn back
With longing again, caravan of mine?
Have we left behind friends, wives, relatives,
have we left glory, family and wealth?
Have we left people or community,
homeland, laws and rights and justice as well?
Walk now, do not stop! We have left behind
just chains and constraints, guile and illusion."
And the caravan of Abu Lala
purling so gently as though a fountain
on through the rays of the feeble moonlight
was walking forward tranquil and peaceful.
With the fragrance of carnations the wind
was whispering tales of thousand one nights,
the palm and cypress in their sweet slumber
were over the roads swaying back and forth.
Giving his ear to the speech of the wind
Abu Mahari was mutely speaking:
"The world, one might say, is a fairy tale
without start or end, sublime, magical.
And who has woven this grand fairy tale,
woven with the stars, thousand miracles?
Who is telling it with countless voices
without stop or end with such enchantment?
Nations have come by, and nations have gone
and its meaning they did not comprehend;
yet the poets have grasped it a little
and are stammering its immortal sounds.
No one has ever heard its beginning,
and will never hear its ending as well,
each one of its sounds lives for centuries
to every sound there is no start or end.
But for every one who is newly born
this grand fairy tale is told all again,
it begins again and it ends again
together with each human being's life.
Life is just a dream, the world, fairy tale,
the generations, passing caravans,
which in fairy tale with a vivid dream
are walking unseen to the cemetery.
You men blind and deaf, without any dreams,
without hearing this golden fairy tale,
You grab bits of food from each other's throats,
and push each other to the cemetery.
The laws which you have are yokes and lashes
and a brainless web of a mad spider,
and with their venom are poisoning
this delicate dream, this grand fairy tale.
Pitiful people, you will turn to dust,
your wicked hearts and your empty affairs,
and the indifferent hand of time will then
erase, sweep away your bloody traces.
And the wind will blow with a hollow breath
over the stones of your own cemetery,
yet you are always too dull to enjoy
this ravishing dream, this grand fairy tale..."
The caravans then of the jewel stars
were wandering in the roads of heaven,
and the whole endless sky was resounding
with the undying grand tinkling of stars.
"Go, my caravan, weaving your soft rings
with sky's luminous reverberation,
give the wind my grief, walk toward nature,
the motherly lap, and do not look back...
Take me to a far and luminous beach,
unknown, distant and isolated shores,
sacred solitude, you, my oasis,
you, the fountain of cool and breezy dreams.
Heaven of silence, converse with me now
with your stars' language and give me solace;
give love to my soul, injured by the world,
my soul so wounded by the sting of men.
A longing in me burns insatiably,
a compassionate heart crying always,
and inside my soul there is a grand dream
and delicate tears and limitless love.
My soul is so free, I don't tolerate
any power which dominates on me,
nor any borders, and nor any laws,
nor evil and good, nor any judgment.
Above my own head there should not exist
any shelter or any single right,
and outside my life everything is jail,
it is slavery, and violation."
Abu Lala Mahari,*
the famous poet of Baghdad,
lived in the splendid city of the khalifs for thirty years,
he sat on the table with the powerful and the wealthy,
he had debates with the scientists and the sages,
he loved and challenged his friends,
he visited the countries of various nations,
he saw and observed people and their laws,
and his deeply penetrating spirit recognized man,
he recognized and deeply despised man and his laws.
And because he had no wife or children,
he distributed all of his wealth among the poor,
he picked up the caravan of his camels and one night,
when Baghdad was asleep on the cypress-covered shores of Tigris_
he secretly left the city...
*Based on Abu El Ala El Ma'ari, who was a great Arab poet of the tenth century AD.
