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Omar Khayyam
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Dying in the shadow of the minaret,
Old Khayyám faces death without regret.
The Bird of Time lands, the evening winds murmur;
Omar savors the glow of his last sunset.

Old Khayyám reclines on the grass, near death.
The Dark Angel arrives and to him saith:
Drink one last deep draught from Life’s precious cup.
Omar smiles and sips, then breathes his last breath.

The Angel of Light found Omar to bless,
And said: Khayyám, I must soon repossess
Your clay, so, let us drink to your success!
He drank and smiled, then met Life’s last caress.

Like the rose, Omar Khayyám came hither
From the earth, blossomed, and showed his flower
With charm, color, and beauty—till to earth
His petals floated downward to wither.

Omar as a tulip was like a cup,
Looking up to take his Heavenly sup.
He happily quaffed the wine of life, then
To earth he was inverted, all used up.

Sad Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow
They all came, led by their tears and sorrow,
To mourn old Khayyám: Hail, cheer, and farewell!
You took from death ALL that life could borrow.

Farewell to the starry skies that he knew—
Oh, heaven, your eyes will soon rise anew,
And will search for him all over the earth,
But never find him, for he’s bid adieu.

Old Khayyám has gone to where no one knows:
He’s buried far beneath the winter snows;
Yet, his voice through the centuries echoes,
And still the summer blossoms with the rose.

Across Khayyám’s gravestone blows the simoom,
Carrying forth Omar’s Persia-fume;
Redressed by the translator’s costume,
It’s remade into Victorian perfume.

The fumes of ageless rhyme from ancient times
Waft from the Persian verses, while some chimes
New are mixed in the spirit of the old,
Deftly transmogrified for Victorian climes.

Through The Quatrains I sense Omar’s Enchantment,
That essence distilled with the translator’s scent.
Recomposed from Khayyám’s verse, dust, and spirit,
The potent elixir escapes interment!

Out of the dust of this world’s gloom and doom,
Drift the spores of Omar Khayyám’s mushroom,
Spreading forth the seeds of wisdom—to whom?
To those who would taste of life, I assume.

Omar’s Persia fumes caught me unawares,
And unveiled Sufi mysteries of theirs:
Eternal spirits re-condensed from
Universal wisdom we’d gained somewheres.

Omar’s Rubáiyát was a revelation—
Seven times I read through every edition.
At last it all became clear: Life is precious!
Thus to its LIVING I made my transition.

Long time, old friend, since you lived and died;
Yet, you taught me wisdom by the fireside,
Led me and mine along the riverside,
And watered our flowers through the springtide.

Many follow the advice that you give,
And enjoy their life by being active,
But others are deaf, dumb, and blind to sense—
You can lead ’em to life but you can’t make ’em live.

In Naishápúr, Persia, rose gardens sing,
Then shed their blossoms at the end of spring.
Likewise, old Khayyám’s earthly splendor flew,
But, still, his Bird of Time lives on the wing.

At Omar’s grave in Naishápúr I see
Blossoms in the dirt, blown from the rose tree.
As I dust my shoes the clay says to me:
Once I was like you, tread softly on me.

Then a few drops I poured onto the ground—
That precious drink of the quatrains profound;
Through the soil it trickled and seeped,
As to his thirsty lips the way it found.

I turn the cup: wine-drops to thirsty lips descend.
Can old Khayyám rise anew? Like spring grass ascend?
Mournful rose petals kiss his grave, hence he a-rose!
Now Omar lives again in the heart of his friend.

Like phantoms in the tomb, the lamps relume.
From promise in the womb, the verses bloom.
The poetic spirit spreads, like perfume,
As he my Book of Quatrains does illume.

Mentor Khayyám, you gave me reason and rhyme
I followed your quatrains, testing them through time;
The real proof of your advice was to live it.
Thanks, Omar—now I write the ones that are mine.

In his flowered bed Omar reposes,
Resting in the earth in peace, one supposes.
Underneath my words and themes on roses
In my quatrain-poems, old Khayyám composes.

I live forever by my words, a poem
Of life, a conscious dream, an immortal gem.
Read me and my verses will come alive;
By living out my words you shall know them.

It is old Omar Khayyám, I presume,
By whose inspiration my themes resume.
Your wine, love, laughter, and song I subsume,
Adding my own thoughts for all to consume.

Your spirit wanders ’long the Persian way,
With an houri, life’s moments drank away
In some sweet wood far from the noise of day
Where with her you yet live, sing, laugh, and play.

There on the summer grass where you made one,
We turned down our cups—the feasting begun:
With earthly food and Heaven’s drink we then
Toasted you—with each other we made ONE.