1. O Time, be not harsh on a man in grief,
I fear your chapter of wrath be brief,

2. Trust not the forbearing whose pride you've crushed,
To mount ignorance bare, without sheath,

3. May God give me respite from an ailing heart,
That loves to sit, and loves station of esteem,

4. Seek from your desires only the arduous,
And rid my chest, for in you I have no cream,

5. Glory seeks him who bears tribulations,
None gains glory who avoids misfortune’s scream,

6. Let not the clash of swords make you afraid,
For humiliation is greater than fright’s regime,

7. Return the flock in the sun’s attire concealed,
And hold with your eyelids the shooting stars’ beam,

8. So you take from this life its finality,
Either as dove, or as beauty’s delightful scene,

9. Men have strived and attained what they’ve earned,
No livelihood comes without toil and dream,

10. Patience’s beauty is key to riches, and,
Per demands made, toils’ severity is seen,

11. Naught is time but its children’s innate ways,
If not its sons, then time itself is their regime,

12. They avoid me, and the gazelle keeps its distance,
Oh how I long for the spear and the slender stem!

13. Tragedies barely affect my state,
Nor don the frightful Sword of State’s esteem,

14. With smooth hair atop earth’s spine outstretched,
And necks like the blade’s sharpened gleam,

15. Their graves lo! Like lanterns, abodes,
Prey replaces eyelids and pupils it seems,

16. War is too proud for its sword to be sheathed,
Till the gallant army’s heart it redeems,

17. Their skulls it makes flee, while death lies in wait,
For the warriors’ chests a bloody stream,

18. Bewitched by the strangest of sorrows her soul,
Sees joy in sadness, and ease as extreme,

19. She’s not eased by life and its elation,
And eased by misfortunes and strokes of fate’s whip,

20. If a thing were to give her comfort at all,
It would be your majesty that makes her heart skip,

21. Well-mannered, attaining hopes before asked,
No palm need say “grant me” from his lip,

22. If not for availing the giver, his restraint
From asking, itself is a gracious tip,

23. The giver hides his gifts from the one he intends,
So he may be pleased, though hid is the gift,

24. As if, when he hides his virtues,
Revealing them would breed our mistrust,

25. Time wanders blindly in its paths,
Matching neither glory nor lineage crisp,

26. You are silenced, O time, so you do not claim,
Kinship to his father Al-Qaram if you persist,

27. I implore you, O lantern, a man lies ill,
At your door, healed from harm at your wrist,

28. You have granted the best of worldly manners,
So grant him success, O granter of custom chic,

29. And say not “I'm content” with what you have given,
Rather strike at fate’s throat, and earnings risks,

30. Whoever loses favor with you tastes no benefit,
And whoever surpasses you grasps no wish,

31. If one such as I does not please your nature,
It befits you to please him out of duty’s twist,

32. Can you perform a deed devoid of pride?
Yet all your deeds cannot be pride’s antithesis,

33. Where did your equal err, that lapse preceded?
Nay, grant me nothing, neither gift nor bequest,

34. You are one the world and all in it
Are ascribed to, none trace their lineage crisscrossed,

35. You disdain to be claimed by the Arabs any one,
O one whose feet are kneaded from Arab soil midst,

36. If you have a face like theirs in their eyes,
To the seer, yellow is like gold in its glint,

37. If you have a tongue like theirs in their ears,
God’s speech in holy books has no equivalent,

38. Kings would give their lives for you if you wished,
Their skulls would spin for drink like rounded flasks glint,

39. Their wealth does not rest if asked by their seekers,
Nor does their blood quench, however minked,

40. Sons of Taghlib, death robbed their youth,
So they called out in our home, with woe and dins,

41. Grant us from your lifetime’s pride but a moment,
To live what of our days and eras has dimmed,

42. For your glory gives, out of lineage’s merit,
What your gifts do not, out of same lineage’s glint,

43. A band camped out the night’s tents towards you,
Till propped by pegs and poles distinct,

44. Their father is anxiety, and worry their mother,
No kin to them but the slender sand grouse glint,

45. They seek no reason for your favors but
Your unsolicited gifts that needs no link,

46. Roaming is an alien persona, befriended,
Only by one tasked with worry and the jinx,

47. Envy no foreigner for being told,
Earth bears none like an outcast with a glint,

48. I pity all expatriates at sunset,
Except for my heart’s mercy for each distinct expatriate tinge.