Classic Poem

What greatest of all blessing is,
No else can it be than sound health.
He whose lot this blessing is,
From head to foot is favoured he.
If thou its value knowest not,
The greatest fortune is good health.
In thy frame thy life alone
Than all the world more precious is.
Hadst thou no life, but ownedst the world,
Nonentity would be its meaning.
This world is like a mystic phrase,
The interpretation of which is thine existence.
That they should be interpreted,
Of mystic phrases is the purport.
Of the happiness of thy body
The pivot is all centred in health.
He, whose body enjoys not health,
To him his wealth as rubbish is.
Illness in one's home's a trial,
How much more in exile!
My foot pains me so severely,
The moment that passes is as an hour.
My horse is going slowly on the road,
A fall from it is grievous luck.
Since though my head's injury has fallen on my leg,
In this some comfort is for me:
Even for this must I be grateful,
For than every evil there is a worse one.
I said the worst is over, but now I see
That worse ills yet remain for me.
I said, Now indeed Fortune is kind,
Yet on me its violence falls.
Hindustan is now like Hell to me,
Which to others Heaven is.
A prisoner came I to this land,
For some few months I cheerful was;
Hard for me as was imprisonment,
Greater trouble than that came on me.
Every day to be obliged to attend the court;
Consider what a hardship that!
Another's orders are torture to him,
To whom his own will has been customary.
No kindly kindly friends are here,
Nor pleasant intercourse with others;
I can neither give nor seize,
Nor exercise authority.
No longing or desire have I for the chase,
Nor can I interest myself in anything else.
Here no one asks of other's welfare,
So ill-dispositioned this city is.
I reckon that there are only a few men
Who are well disposed towards me.
Akbar was one shared in my grief,
But he is now engaged in his own pursuits.
Whether it be Emperors or Nobles,
Well know I what their condition is:
No one wishes the other well;
So selfish they, it is like the confusion of the last day.
I, that this poem composed,
In Delhi was my stay;
The fourth of Rajab was the day,
Of the Hijra the 1077th year.
O Khush-hal! grumble thou no longer:
If thou sayest more, disgraced art thou!