The laden fruit trees that were growing there Bent to the ground as if prostrate in prayer— The fruit they bore was of a wondrous size Filling the soul with rapturous surprise; The apples were like goblets red with wine, The pomegranates were so firm and fine They seemed like agate boxes made to hold Their little treasuries of jewels and gold; Quinces seemed stuffed with musk, pistachios smiled Like laughing lips sweet juices have beguiled; Rubies and saffron’s golden yellow vied In parti-colored peaches side by side; Bananas were fit for kings, dates as sweet As three long bitten kisses when lips meet; Pears as if crammed with sugar, figs as though They’d make the garden’s goblet overflow; A grapevine there, its leaves a cap askew, Surveyed the colors where its children grew, The white and black, next to a noble stand Of orange trees, trained by the gardener’s hand. The garden seemed a place of magic where Ripe watermelons sprang up from thin air— Mahan forgot hell as he looked around Delighting in the paradise he’d found, Gazing in wonder at the lovely sight, Eating and wandering, ravished with delight. By magic arts the lovely girls displayed A banquet for him, as they sang and played— Then round about the cloth they sat to eat Food that had felt no fire’s or water’s heat, A dish whose primary ingredients Were pomegranates, sugar, and the scents Of saffron, musk, rose water, aloeswood, Mingled together as a heavenly food. And there was spitted chicken, and fresh fish, And lamb as tasty as a man might wish, And rounds of bread as white and delicate As were the breasts of those who sat and ate, The lovely girls who plied Mahan with sweets And halva now as though they’d never cease.