Ill Never Drink Wine Again Except for Tomorrow Persian Poet
threescore-nine stanzas by Omar Khayyam
adapted, altered
and otherwise rearranged
for musical accompaniment
by Len Bracken
POB 5585 Arlington, VA 22205
Ah! My beard swept the floor of the tavern last night. I bid farewell to good and bad, and if they autumn in my street similar two bullets, you lot'll discover me - if you lot're looking for me - sleeping similar a boozer.
I savage asleep and a sage spoke to me: "The rose of happiness has never blossomed for anyone while he sleeps. Why give yourself upwardly to the blood brother of death? Drink wine, y'all have centuries to sleep."
Every bed of tulips was nourished with the blood of kings. Every lily that springs from the earth was once a dazzler spot on a lover's cheek.
To drink wine and cover beauty is better than the hypocrisy of believers. If lovers and drunks were sent to hell, no-one would believe in heaven.
Dear dervish, with your body wrapped in that arabesque veil... rather than sacrifice your body to that veil, throw the weight of poverty on your shoulders and drums will beat royal marches in your heart.
Imitate the libertines as much every bit you can. Blow up the foundations of prayer and abstinence, and mind to the words of Omar Khayyam: "Get loftier and fly through the sky."
I've been beyond being and non-existence. I've been within everything - high and low. It would bring shame to my cognition of the earth if I found something college than drunkenness.
Today the flavor of youth blossomed for me. I desire the wine that brings all pleasance. Don't arraign me... wine enchants me. It's bitter because information technology tastes similar my life.
For usa now, all that remains of happiness is the name. No quondam friend lasts every bit long as the youngest wine. Raise your cup because today, it's the merely thing that can salvage united states of america.
I drink wine and everyone tells me: "Don't beverage wine, it's the enemy of religion." When I found out that wine was the enemy of faith, I said: "By God, let me drink its claret - information technology's an deed of piety."
Who cares if life ends here or in that location? Once the loving cup is total, who cares if information technology'southward been bitter or sweet. Drink wine, for after we pass the moon will laissez passer from old to new, and from new to old once more and once more.
No-one knows the secrets of darkness. No-1 has stepped out of the shadows. Oh, Woman! What sinister mouth did you kiss to give birth to helpless fools like united states?
Drink vino.. information technology's what remains of the harvest of youth - the season of roses and wine and drunken friends. Exist happy for a moment, that moment's your life.
Be prudent - fortune is uncertain and the wine of destiny is ever bitter. If fate puts sweet morsels in your mouth, don't swallow them; they're laced with poisonous substance.
Wine is a liquid ruby and the cup a mine. No that's not information technology. The cup is the body and the wine its soul. No, no, the crystal loving cup laughing with wine is a tear hiding the claret of a broken heart.
We've come back to our habitual debauch. Total of desire, I put my lips to the cup to ask how long I'll live. She glued her lips to mine and said: "Drink vino, you'll never come back to this world."
We all get wiped out on the path of beloved. Destiny drinks our terminal dreg. Waitress with the soft confront, don't be and then lazy. Give me wine because I'1000 condign grit.
Like water in a stream, or wind beyond the desert, another 24-hour interval of your life passes. One sorrow never comes to mind - that of two days: the day to come, and the twenty-four hours that passed.
Be happy, Khayyam, if you're drunkard. If you're with a tulip-cheeked lover, be happy. As the terminate of everything is nothing, dream that yous're zip..., but while you lot're however something, be happy.
Mysteries should just be unveiled by vile minds, and bulletproof secrets past fools. Recollect about your deportment compared to others - for now you should hibernate your hopes from all of humanity.
Don't waste your time on sorrows, be festive. In the face of injustice, exist the case of justice. Since the cease of this world is nothingness, imagine you don't exist and be free.
Every morning, dew covers the tulips. Violets lower their heads in the garden. In truth, naught moves me like the bud of a rose that seems to be gathering up her brim.
This heavenly vault that inspires so much wonder is a magic lantern. The lord's day is the lamp and the globe its shade. And we're the images that alive in it.
I take to get up and find some wine. It makes my cheeks scandalously cherry. And if reason continues to torment me, I'll throw wine in its face... to arrive get to slumber.
You with the cheeks modeled on wild roses. Y'all with the face up cast from the idols of China. Yesterday your loving await changed the king of Babylon into a fool.
Those who are slaves of the intellect and vain subtleties die among quarrels on being and not-beingness. Become on, choose the juice of the grape, because idiots, having eaten dry raisins, turn into grapes.
No-i can pass behind the drape of secrets; no-one knows what's under the surface. There'due south no aviary except in the heart of the world. Drink vino, these illusions are countless.
My arrival adds cipher to the heavens. And my difference doesn't diminish their dazzler or glory. No-one has told me the reason for this arrival and departure of mine. No-1...
When they attack y'all in the night, ask them to bring y'all rose-colored wine. Poor fool, you're not a treasure that'southward dug upwards after it's been buried.
In Spring, on the banks of a stream or on the fringes of a green field with a few friends and nymphs... bring along the bottle for those who drink the morning time draft, for those who are free from the mosque, temple and church...
I only dreamed of the heavens as a resting place, and I cried so much I could hardly meet them. Hell is only a spark compared to what my soul just went through, and I won't believe in heaven until I gustatory modality an instant of peace.
Beverage wine because y'all'll slumber for a long time nether this earth... without friends, comrades, women. Grow old never telling this secret to anyone: withered flowers never blossom again.
What I want is a drib of cherry-red vino and a book of poems..., and a half a loaf of bread to sustain my life. And if I'grand sitting with you, even in a desolate desert, I'd be happier than in the kingdom of a sultan.
Spill a little ruby-red wine, the colour of budding tulips. Pour the pure blood from the throat of the canteen because, autonomously from this loving cup, I don' exist - it's the but pure-hearted friend I accept.
If I was free to come, I wouldn't have come. If I could control my steps, where would I become? Wouldn't it be better in this globe of dust if there were no coming or going...
Since nada assures us of tomorrow, change your honey-sick heart into a happy ane. In the light of the astral moon, drink wine... Nosotros could look for it tomorrow and never see information technology over again.
Don't make too many friends... and merely let your guard down for brief moments. He whose arm seems like a back up, check him out and be careful.
Woe to the heart that beats without passion, that isn't charmed by love, the joy of the middle... Everyday you spend without love? It's not worth the lord's day that shines for you, or the moon that consoles you.
To speak clearly and without parables, we're pieces in the game played by fate. It's tickled with our moves on the chessboard of being, and and then we return, one-past-one, into the box of nothingness.
Get up and become me some vino. It this the time for hollow words? Today, your piffling mouth satisfies all my desires. Give me rose-colored wine, the color of your cheeks.
Everything that will be, was written. The tireless pen writes without worrying about practiced or bad. The first 24-hour interval it decided what will be, and our pain and efforts are in vain.
Drink vino, it'due south eternal life. It'southward what remains in you of youthful delights. Information technology burns like fire, turning sorrows into the fountain of youth. Drink!
I want my epitaph to read like this: Friends, once yous're reunited, think tenderly of me. When yous drink the generous wine together, and it's my turn, empty your cup to the bottom.
Drink vino, one 24-hour interval your body will be dust. And of that dust volition be made cups and jars. Don't worry about heaven and hell - why would a sage worry about such things?
In defence force of wine, recall that everything depends on who drinks it, its quality and on the visitor. Once these conditions are favorable, you might ask: "Who drinks wine, if not a sage?"
Khayyam, working in the tents of wisdom, fell into the burn down of sadness and was consumed at once. The scissors of destiny cut the cord of his tent and the salesman of hope sold it for a vocal.
In a thousand places along my path you set traps. You say: "I'll take hold of you lot if you step in ane of these." In that location's not an atom in this world that escapes your power. You ordain everything, and yous phone call me a rebel!
If this spirit chosen pure wine is the cure for a devastated heart, then bring me two or iii cups. Why, I ask, is this groovy drink called the accursed share?
For those who know the mysteries of this world, happiness and sadness are identical. Since both good and bad come up to an end, who cares if everything is pain or elation?
How long will I throw stones to the sea? I'm disgusted with the idolaters of the temple. Who knows for sure if Khayyam will dwell in hell? And who has ever gone to hell? And who once more, has e'er come dorsum from heaven?
If a nymph came to me in Leap with a goblet full of wine on the fringe of a light-green field, and fifty-fifty if this seems foreign to everyone, a dog would be better than me if I invoked the proper noun of heaven.
Good and bad are role of human being nature just as happiness and sadness are in our destiny. Don't accuse heaven of this, because heaven is a chiliad times more than helpless than you lot.
I could care less if I was made for heaven or hell. Only a little to consume, a little wine and my lover on a green field - that'due south greenbacks for me. Keep the heaven you give and then much credit - go on it for yourself
Today, tomorrow is beyond you, and your anxiety over it is useless. If your heart isn't momentarily deranged, yous don't even worry about the present. Practise you know what the rest of your days are worth?
The intelligence that walks the path of bliss talks to me a hundred times a 24-hour interval: "You lot're not like the grass that in one case picked, grows again."
Limit your desires for the things of the world and live at ease. Detach yourself from the good and bad around you lot. Lift a cup to your lover'south lips, for soon these days will pass.
Information technology'due south said that the garden of Eden enchants the nymph. I say that simply the juice of the grape is delightful. Continue your cash and forgo credit because the sound of the drum, my blood brother, is only delightful from afar.
The heavenly bodies dement sages. Accept care or you lot'll lose the thread of wisdom, for even the wise lose their minds.
The caravan of life passes mysteriously. Climb aboard for the joy of the ride. And you with the bottle, why worry about the futurity of your friends? Pour the wine... the nighttime is passing...
Bring me that cherry-red wine in a crystal glass... that confidant and friend of every free human. Since you lot know that this earth of dust is merely a passing breeze, bring on the wine.
Similar me, this bottle has been a painful lover, avidly tilted toward some sweet face. The handle y'all come across on its cervix is the manus that was once wrapped around the neck of a lover.
Everyone who waters the plant of dearest never wastes a twenty-four hours of their lives. And that's if they submit to the will of God, or if they desire physical pleasance and raise the glass.
Who hasn't seen truth grow and ripen on its slippery basis? I'll tell you who. Those inclined toward science who recall that today is like yesterday and tomorrow, and but like the very offset day.
It'southward a fine day - the cakewalk is warm and pure. Pelting has washed the cheeks of the rose, and the nightingale calls to her: "I'm boozer on your perfume."
Once a cup is made for wine, a drinker won't let information technology pause. For whose dear, later all, were the ornaments sculpted? And whose detest broke so many heads?
The breeze of Spring brightens the cheeks of the rose, only every bit the shadows of the garden soften the faces of lovers. No talk of yesterday moves me. Exist happy today; don't mention yesterday.
Know this my friend - you and your soul will exist separated. You'll laissez passer behind the drapery of not-being. Exist happy... you don't know where yous're from. Potable wine... you don't know where y'all'll go.
Ane cup of wine is worth a hundred hearts and religions. One typhoon of wine is worth the kingdom of China. Except for ruby wine, there's nix bitter that'southward worth a chiliad sweet souls.
Here we are, drunken minstrels in this ruined tavern that frees us from the promise of mercy and the fear of penalty. Our souls, hearts and cups are filled with the wine that frees us from earth, wind, burn and water.
© 1996 Len Bracken. All rights reserved
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