Omar Khayyam

That wine which can take on diverse forms in its essence sometimes becomes an animal, sometimes a plant. Don’t imagine that its being ever goes away. Its essence is always there even when its attributes are not. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 75

Clouds rolled in  and wept tears on the field. Without wine, purple flowers cannot grow. The greenery provides  pleasant scenery for me today. For whose delight will my remains  nurture grass tomorrow? Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 73

The good and bad that are in human nature, the joy and grief that are in fate and destiny– do not attribute them to the movement of heavenly bodies; for according to the path of science, the stars are a thousand times more helpless than you. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 96

Khayyam, your body  is like a royal tent; your spirit is king and its residence is temporary. The angel of fate strikes this tent when the king moves on, in favor of another dwelling. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 82

A codger staggered drunk  out of the bar, a prayer rug over his shoulder and a wine glass in hand. I said, old man,  what’s come over you? He said, have some wine; the affairs of this world are just hot air. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 80

You ignoramus!   This bodily form is nothing. and this speckled dome  of the nine heavens is nothing. Be happy that in the realm of being and corruption we are dependent  on a single breath; and that, too, is nothing. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 78

Now that the rose of your  good fortune is blooming, why are you standing there with no glass in your hand? Have some wine– fate is a treacherous enemy, And a day like this  is hard to come by. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 71

The sky is a belt woven from our tattered lives. The mighty river was formed by all the tears  our eyes have shed. Hell is a spark from our  searing pain. Heaven is a breath drawn from our  moments of peace. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 92

They say that drunkards are consigned to hell; but that makes no sense and the heart cannot  accept it. If lovers and lushes are going to hell, tomorrow heaven will be as empty as my hand. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 67