Скачать или смотреть Persian Medieval Poem - Rubaiyat by Omar Khayyam | رباعیات

*I do not have any sort of agenda in this channel. This video is not meant to promote my own beliefs or political views.*

These are selected 5 quatrains from the "Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam", an 1859 translation from Persian to English by Edward FitzGerald of a selection of quatrains (rubaiyat) attributed to Omar Khayyam.

Omar Khayyam (عمر خیّام) was a Persian poet and polymath, known for his contributions to mathematics, astronomy, philosophy and Persian literature. He was born in Nishapur, Iran and lived during the Seljuk era, around the time of the First Crusade (1048-1131 AD).

Ttranslation might be wrong, feel free to correct in the comments.

Audio source:    • Persian Poetry with Translation - Rubaiyat...  

Text:
ای دوست بیا تا غم فردا نخوریم
این یکدم عمر را غنیمت شمریم
فردا که ازین دیر فنا درگذریم
با هفت هزار سالگان سر بسریم

قومی متفکرند اندر ره دین
قومی به گمان فتاده در راه یقین
می‌ترسم از آن که بانگ آید روزی
کای بیخبران راه نه آنست و نه این

ابر آمد و باز بر سر سبزه گریست
بی بادهٔ گلرنگ نمی‌باید زیست
این سبزه که امروز تماشاگه ماست
تا سبزهٔ خاک ما تماشاگه کیست

تا کی غم آن خورم که دارم یا نه
وین عمر به خوشدلی گذارم یا نه
پرکن قدح باده که معلومم نیست
کاین دم که فرو برم برآرم یا نه

ای کاش که جای آرمیدن بودی
یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
کاش از پی صد هزار سال از دل خاک
چون سبزه امید بر دمیدن بودی

English Translation:
O friend, come, let us not mourn tomorrow’s sorrow.
Let us treasure this single breath of life we borrow.
For when we pass beyond this ruin of mortality,
We shall lie with the dead of seven thousand years in sorrow.

Some spend their days in thought upon the path of faith,
Some are lost in certainty, persuaded without debate.
I fear the day a voice may come and clearly say:
O unaware ones, the true path is neither this nor that you take.

The cloud came and once again wept over the spring green,
Without the rose red wine life is scarcely to be seen.
This meadow where today we stand and gaze with delight
When will the grass of our dust be a sight for someone keen?

How long must I fret over what I have or not?
How long must I ponder if joy will come or not?
Fill up the cup of wine, for I do not know
Whether the breath I draw I shall breathe out again or not.

Would that there were a place for peaceful rest in this span,
Or that this long road could be crossed by weary man.
Would that after a hundred thousand years beneath the earth,
Like fresh green grass hope might sprout from dust again.