1. Do the old abodes make you weep?
As if they are crumpled leaves,

2. While my ship and she-camel are confined,
I ride when the plowman reaps,

3. A refractory she-camel, the insolent cannot tame her,
Even if the devil himself should found her for me,

4. And a need whose care would perplex a priest,
As if it were a streaming wound,

5. In the body, or a crashing headache,
In which the swollen tent-peg sticks,

6. When the motley drink is weakened,
She is handled by a villainous mate of mine.

7. A sniffing out for the snakes of enmity, keen of scent,
Neither evil in greed, nor despairing,

8. Drawing to difficulties, intrepid,
When she saw me, after I had become downcast,

9. In the camp, the shabby clothes were enough for me,
And the bloom of youth had been erased,

10. And the bride forgot her jewelry,
The black hair and the gray turned white,

11. From my cares, and the hair of youth feels coarse,
Above a neck as though it were a citadel,

12. Even the wild cows with slit noses recognize me,
Nor do the calling voices of the bellowing camels trouble me.

13. The Devil of Youth has become humble,
Desire has returned to its fetters,

14. May the epoch of youth not be far removed!
Its pleasures and artful tricks,

15. Rather, of a country over which evening comes,
As if they are the arched ship,

16. In the water, were it not for the caulking,
It would ply its course with its deranged crew,

17. There is no calking on its ribs,
With separation, of its caulker, exceedingly zealous,

18. It has a leak and a firmly-tied knot,
Or it is exposed, bearing a heavy load,

19. My saddle has chafed a painful sore,
From the soft, plaited girths, or the stuffed saddlecloth,

20. Onto my shoulders the saddlebags were flung,
When the she-camel turned aside from her course.

21. And she came after the departure at eventide,
While the cares and sorrows for her are profound.

22. I do not know what the battered echo said,
As if it has a suppressed deed,

23. Swaying heavily with four unmatched camels,
With the rigor of monks, its fruit is oppression,

24. Where the vile were brought low.
The father of calamities is a battered old man,

25. Whom thirst has waved toward
An extended, submissive abode,

26. And wherever a fearsome lair is dreaded,
By night, in its den, it is genial,

27. Scorched by misery, its belly empty,
Having nothing in life but rags,

28. Hunger and poverty have come upon it,
And the food which obliges, and is sweet.

29. Then he limped, toil-worn, unkempt,
Wearing a coat as if it were fur,

30. And a timid, delirious female camel shied away,
So the archer missed, and the vile creature showed its heel,

31. And it bolted from a body having for it a saddle,
With its beard hanging over the sides of its head.

32. Over its baggage is a coarse cover,
I will drive it away if it is recalcitrant.

33. But the scholar and priest both know
That a man who fought against us is possessed,

34. Evil is the mixture! War brings woe.
Why do people who have insight

35. Show on their heads the sign of humility?
And a thought that obsesses them is confused,

36. Upon which the Magi warm themselves.
Insults and sneezes have been visited upon it.

37. With us the contemptible charlatan is healed,
And insolence, until the unyielding becomes gentle.

38. When caprice has aroused our desire,
Our pampered arrogance was satisfied by the bully,

39. Until he softened his obstinate neck for tethering,
And ignited the fire of strife,

40. Its fuel being the sealed flame,
Now is the hour when souls find peace,

41. Strife has cast away its wand,
And there remain only terrible doubts,

42. And its affair was rejected with disdain.
And others than us it has degraded,

43. Misguidance in religion and sacrilege,
Ours are the leaders, and ours are the heads,

44. And the armies on Thursday and Friday.
Our spears are better than any that spear,

45. In glory, and among us are the towering banners,
With them we vie, and with them we spear,

46. Beneath them every day is quarry,
A lancer, or a body in a pit,

47. And a military umbrella above it and spears,
Missing its stab, the lances swerve,

48. And their drinking-troughs and roses are bathed in blood,
A stroke and a stab with the spear brings woe,

49. An opponent, or a flaring-nostrilled horse,
It sniffs in anger, enraged.