With tears in her eyes and sadness in her heart!

When the enamoured odes of Solomon the prophet, in praise of the beauty of his beloved and bewailing his separation from that tormenting idol, inscribed by the enchanted quills of the  calligraphers of Jerusalem upon golden sheets and in letters the colour of lovers, cheeks or the countenances of sweethearts.

Were brought as a gift to the coquettish Queen of Sheba by couriers clad in cloth of gold and submissive slaves with rings of servitude in their ears.

She commanded one of the young scribes and sweet – voiced declamers of the court to translate for her the text of that letter of lamentation.

All those present expressed their praise for the eloquence and worth of the golden manuscript, but Belkis removed her veil and, brushing aside the ringlets from her forehead in anger so great that the hearts of the servants beat as fast as that of impassioned Solomon himself, said:

“O, most ungrateful lackeys! How can you say These verses do justice to my beauty?”

“How impudent is Solomon to liken my lips to wine which is bitter and nauseating, my cheeks to the rose, companion to the Thi itle.”

“What arrogance to liken my eyes to the pool of Hesbon, abounding in crayfish, my head to Mount Carmel where the lizards bask in the sun, my locks to the goats of Mount Jalaad whose ribs stick out and whose herdsmen have failed to cure them of mange, my head again to the horse that pulls the chariot of mad Pharaoh, my nose to the tower of Lebanon, beneath which reptiles lurk in their lairs and where the watchmen sigh for am round loaf of bread whenever they see the full moon.”

“It seems that his army of eunuchs and maid-servants, his numberless concubines, and especially his lady-love, the darling daughter of Pharaoh, have looted the honey from the beehives of Jerusalem’s vineyards of which he is so proud, depriving him of sense and strength, that not a drop of it is left to mix with the wine he likens to my purple lips.”

“Clearly he is neither constant in his love for me nor a true artist.”

In a corner of the palace sat a black female slave whose duty it was to prepare kohl and perfumes for the Queen. With tears in her eyes and sadness in her heart, she murmured to herself.

“Truly Belkis is a rose growing in the swamps of conceit, a wine fermented in the vat of the devil of vanity, who cannot appreciate the worth of such heartening words.”

“O, could I but hear from someone just once in my life words free from the poison of sarcasm. I would lay my life at his feet-nay. I would use as kohl for my eyes the dust from beneath the feet of the hero who could look upon me and conceal his aversion!”

No one knew into which pit they flung her at dusk for these rash words, or how many stray dogs of Yemer feasted upon her body.

Wood-Cutter's Epic

Tehran - Iran

1965