أنتَ يا شِعْرُ فلذةٌ مِنْ فؤادي

أنتَ يا شِعْرُ فلذةٌ مِنْ فؤادي

تَتَغَنَّى وقِطْعةٌ مِنْ وُجُودي

تَتَغَنَّى وقِطْعةٌ مِنْ وُجُودي

You, O poetry, are a fragment of my heart,

You, oh poetry, are a piece of my heart

O Poetry, you are a fragment of my heart,

singing, and a piece of my being.

Singing, and a part of my being

A singing voice, a piece of my own being.

فيكَ مَا في جوانحي مِنْ حنينٍ

فيكَ مَا في جوانحي مِنْ حنينٍ

أبديٍّ إلى صميمِ الوُجُودِ

أبديٍّ إلى صميمِ الوُجُودِ

In you is the longing within my breast,

In you is what is in my wings of yearning

In you lies all the longing of my soul,

eternal, for the very heart of existence.

Eternal, for the core of existence

Eternal yearning for the core of life.

فيكَ مَا في خواطري مِنْ بكاءٍ

فيكَ مَا في خواطري مِنْ بكاءٍ

فيكَ مَا في عواطفي مِنْ نشيدِ

فيكَ مَا في عواطفي مِنْ نشيدِ

In you is all the weeping in my thoughts.

In you is what is in my thoughts of crying

In you is the weeping found within my thoughts,

In you is all the song in my emotions.

In you is what is in my feelings of chanting

In you is the anthem rising from my passions.

فيكَ مَا في مَشَاعري مِنْ وُجُومٍ

فيكَ مَا في مَشَاعري مِنْ وُجُومٍ

لا يُغَنِّي ومِنْ سُرورٍ عَهيدِ

لا يُغَنِّي ومِنْ سُرورٍ عَهيدِ

In you is all the silent gloom in my feelings,

In you is what is in my emotions of stars

In you is the gloom that dwells within my feelings,

which does not sing, and all their familiar joy.

That don't sing, and fleeting happiness

That sings no more, and joy of days gone by.

فيكَ مَا في عَوَالمي مِنْ ظلامٍ

فيكَ مَا في عَوَالمي مِنْ ظلامٍ

سَرْمديٍّ ومِنْ صباحٍ وَليدِ

سَرْمديٍّ ومِنْ صباحٍ وَليدِ

In you is all the darkness in my worlds,

In you is what is in my worlds of darkness

In you is the darkness found within my worlds,

everlasting, and all their newborn morning.

Eternal, and of a nascent dawn

Eternal night, and morning newly born.

فيكَ مَا في عَوَالمي مِنْ ضبابٍ

فيكَ مَا في عَوَالمي مِنْ ضبابٍ

وسرابٍ ويقظةٍ وهُجُودِ

وسرابٍ ويقظةٍ وهُجُودِ

In you is all the mist in my worlds,

In you is what is in my worlds of haze

In you is the mist that drifts through all my realms,

and mirage, and wakefulness, and sleep.

Mirage, wakefulness, and fervor

The mirage, the wakefulness, the quiet sleep.

فيكَ مَا في طفولتي مِنْ سلامٍ

فيكَ مَا في طفولتي مِنْ سلامٍ

وابتسامٍ وغبطةٍ وسُعودِ

وابتسامٍ وغبطةٍ وسُعودِ

In you is all the peace of my childhood,

In you is what is in my childhood of peace

In you is the peace that filled my childhood days,

and smiles, and gladness, and good fortune.

Smiles, bliss, and joy

The smiles, the bliss, the moments of good fortune.

فيكَ مَا في شبيبتي مِنْ حنينٍ

فيكَ مَا في شبيبتي مِنْ حنينٍ

وشجونٍ وبَهْجةٍ وجُمودِ

وشجونٍ وبَهْجةٍ وجُمودِ

In you is all the longing of my youth,

In you is what is in my youth of yearning

In you is the deep nostalgia of my youth,

and sorrows, and delight, and numbness.

Melancholy, rapture, and bleakness

The sorrows, the delight, the apathy.

فيكَ إن عانقَ الرَّبيعُ فؤادي

فيكَ إن عانقَ الرَّبيعُ فؤادي

تتثنَّى سَنَابِلي وَوُرُودي

تتثنَّى سَنَابِلي وَوُرُودي

In you, if spring embraces my heart,

In you, if spring embraces my heart

In you, when Spring embraces my poor heart,

my ears of grain and my roses sway.

My stalks and roses twist

My ears of grain and roses sway and dance.

ويغنِّي الصَّباحُ أُنشودَةَ الحبِّ

ويغنِّي الصَّباحُ أُنشودَةَ الحبِّ

على مَسْمَعِ الشَّبابِ السَّعيدِ

على مَسْمَعِ الشَّبابِ السَّعيدِ

And morning sings the song of love

And the morning sings the song of love

And morning sings the anthem of its love,

within hearing of happy youth.

To the hearing of happy youth

Within the hearing of a happy youth.

ثُمَّ أَجْني في صيفِ أَحلاميَ

ثُمَّ أَجْني في صيفِ أَحلاميَ

السَّاحِرِ مَا لَذَّ من ثمارِ الخُلودِ

السَّاحِرِ مَا لَذَّ من ثمارِ الخُلودِ

Then I gather, in the summer of my dreams—

Then I reap in the magic of my dreams

Then, in the enchanting summer of my dreams,

that enchanting summer—whatever is sweet among immortality's fruits.

What is most delightful from the fruits of eternity

I harvest the sweet fruits of eternity.

فيكَ يبدو خريفُ نَفْسي مَلُولاً

فيكَ يبدو خريفُ نَفْسي مَلُولاً

شاحِبَ اللَّوْنِ عاريَ الأُمْلودِ

شاحِبَ اللَّوْنِ عاريَ الأُمْلودِ

In you my soul's autumn appears weary,

In you my soul's autumn seems dejected

In you, the autumn of my soul looks weary,

pale in hue, its tender bough bare.

Pale, bare and faded

Pale in its hue, and stripped of tender boughs.

حَلَّلته الحَيَاةُ بالحَزَنِ الدَّا

حَلَّلته الحَيَاةُ بالحَزَنِ الدَّا

مي وغَشَّتْهُ بالغيومِ السُّودِ

مي وغَشَّتْهُ بالغيومِ السُّودِ

Life clothed it in bleeding sorrow

Life has clad it with everlasting sorrow

Life has dissolved it with a bleeding grief,

and veiled it with black clouds.

And cloaked it with black clouds

And covered it with clouds of darkest hue.

فيكَ يمشي شتاءُ أَيَّاميَ البا

فيكَ يمشي شتاءُ أَيَّاميَ البا

كي وتُرغي صَوَاعقي ورُعُودي

كي وتُرغي صَوَاعقي ورُعُودي

In you walks the weeping winter of my days,

In you walks the winter of my days

In you there walks the weeping winter of my days,

and my thunderbolts and thunderclaps bellow.

Weeping, with my lightnings and thunders raging

While my thunders roar and lightning strikes.

وتَجِفُّ الزُّهورُ في قلبيَ الدَّا

وتَجِفُّ الزُّهورُ في قلبيَ الدَّا

جي وتهوي إلى قرارٍ بعيدِ

جي وتهوي إلى قرارٍ بعيدِ

And flowers wither in my dark heart

And the flowers dry up in my grieving heart

And flowers wither in my gloomy heart,

and plunge to a distant depth.

Plunging into a distant stillness

Falling down into a deep abyss.

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ قصَّةٌ عن حياتي

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ قصَّةٌ عن حياتي

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ صورةٌ مِنْ وُجودي

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ صورةٌ مِنْ وُجودي

You, O poetry, are a story about my life.

You, oh poetry, are a tale of my life

O Poetry, you are the story of my life,

You, O poetry, are an image of my being.

You, oh poetry, are a portrait of my being

O Poetry, you are the image of my being.

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ إنْ فَرِحْتُ أغاريدي

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ إنْ فَرِحْتُ أغاريدي

وإنْ غنَّتِ الكآبَةُ عُودي

وإنْ غنَّتِ الكآبَةُ عُودي

You, O poetry, if I rejoice, are my joyful songs,

You, oh poetry, are my trills of joy

O Poetry, if I rejoice, you are my songs,

and, if sorrow sings, my lute.

And my oud's song when sadness strums

And if depression sings, you are my lute.

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ كأسُ خمرٍ عجيبٍ

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ كأسُ خمرٍ عجيبٍ

أَتلهَّى به خلالَ اللُّحودِ

أَتلهَّى به خلالَ اللُّحودِ

You, O poetry, are a cup of wondrous wine,

You, oh poetry, are a cup of wondrous wine

O Poetry, you are a cup of wondrous wine,

with which I amuse myself among the graves.

I am entertained with through times of solitude

With which I find distraction 'midst the graves.

أتحسَّاهُ في الصبَّاحِ لأنسى

أتحسَّاهُ في الصبَّاحِ لأنسى

مَا تقضَّى في أمسيَ المَفْقودِ

مَا تقضَّى في أمسيَ المَفْقودِ

I sip it in the morning to forget

I sip it in the morn, to forget

I sip from it at dawn so I forget,

what has passed in my lost yesterday.

What was decreed in my lost yesterday

What passed away in yesterday's lost hours.

وأُناجيه في المساءِ ليُلْهِيني

وأُناجيه في المساءِ ليُلْهِيني

مَرْآهُ عن الصَّباحِ السَّعيدِ

مَرْآهُ عن الصَّباحِ السَّعيدِ

And I commune with it in the evening, so that

And whisper to it at night, to distract me

I confide in it at eve to turn my gaze,

its sight may distract me from the happy morning.

From tomorrow's happy dawn

Away from the sight of the happy morn.

أَنْتَ مَا نلتُ من كهوفِ اللَّيالي

أَنْتَ مَا نلتُ من كهوفِ اللَّيالي

وتصفَّحتُ مِنْ كتابِ الخلودِ

وتصفَّحتُ مِنْ كتابِ الخلودِ

You are what I gained from the caverns of the nights

You are what I attained from the caves of nights

You are what I won from the caves of the nights,

and what I perused in the book of eternity.

And perused from the book of eternity

And what I read within the book of time.

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ حَلَكٍ دا

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ حَلَكٍ دا

جٍ وما فيه مِنْ ضياءٍ بعيدِ

جٍ وما فيه مِنْ ضياءٍ بعيدِ

In you is all existence holds of deep darkness,

In you is what exists in being of dark fervor

In you is all the pitch-black dark of being,

and all the distant light it holds.

And what is in it of distant light

And all it holds of light that shines afar.

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ نَغَمٍ

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ نَغَمٍ

حُلْوٍ وما فيه من ضجيجٍ شَديدِ

حُلْوٍ وما فيه من ضجيجٍ شَديدِ

In you is all existence holds of melody,

In you is what exists in being of sweet melody

In you is all the melody of life,

sweet, and all the fierce clamor it holds.

And what is in it of loud clamor

The sweet, and all its harsh and heavy noise.

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ جَبَلٍ وَعْ

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ جَبَلٍ وَعْ

رٍ وما فيه مِنْ حَضيضٍ وهِيدِ

رٍ وما فيه مِنْ حَضيضٍ وهِيدِ

In you is all existence holds of rugged mountains,

In you is what exists in being of mountain and plain

In you is every rugged mountain peak,

and all the low-lying hollows it holds.

And what is in it of low and lofty

And every deep ravine and hollow pit.

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ حَسَكٍ يُدْ

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ حَسَكٍ يُدْ

مِي وما فيه مِنْ غَضيضِ الوُرودِ

مِي وما فيه مِنْ غَضيضِ الوُرودِ

In you is all existence holds of thorns that draw blood,

In you is what exists in being of tender affection

In you are all the thorns that tear the flesh,

and all the tender roses it holds.

And what is in it of withering roses

And all the tender roses of the world.

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ حَبَّ بنو الأَر

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ حَبَّ بنو الأَر

ضِ قصيدي أَمْ لَمْ يُحبُّوا قَصيدي

ضِ قصيدي أَمْ لَمْ يُحبُّوا قَصيدي

In you is all existence holds, whether the sons of earth

In you is what exists in being, did earth's people love

In you is all existence, whether the sons of earth

love my verse or do not love my verse.

My poem or did they not love my poem

Love my poem, or cherish not my song.

فسواءٌ على الطُّيورِ إِذا غنَّ

فسواءٌ على الطُّيورِ إِذا غنَّ

تْ هُتافُ السَّؤُوم والمُسْتَعيدِ

تْ هُتافُ السَّؤُوم والمُسْتَعيدِ

For it is all the same to birds, when they sing,

It matters not to the birds if the dirge of gloom sang

It is the same to birds, when they sing out,

the cry of the bored and the one asking for an encore.

Or the cry of joy

The bored one's shout, the plea to sing again.

وسواءٌ على النُّجومِ إِذا لاحتْ

وسواءٌ على النُّجومِ إِذا لاحتْ

سكونُ الدُّجى وقَصْفُ الرُّعودِ

سكونُ الدُّجى وقَصْفُ الرُّعودِ

And it is all the same to stars, when they shine,

It matters not to the stars if the stillness of night shone

It is the same to stars when they appear,

the stillness of night and the crash of thunder.

Or the lashing of thunder

The dark's repose, the thunder's crashing sound.

وسواءٌ على النَّسيمِ أَفي القف

وسواءٌ على النَّسيمِ أَفي القف

رِ تُغَنِّي أَمْ بَيْنَ غَضِّ الوُرودِ

رِ تُغَنِّي أَمْ بَيْنَ غَضِّ الوُرودِ

And it is all the same to the breeze whether in the wasteland

It matters not to the breeze, does it sing in the grave

It matters not to the breeze, whether in the waste

you sing or among tender roses.

Or amidst the blowing roses

It sings, or amidst the tender blooms.

وسواءٌ على الوُرودِ أَفي الغيرانِ

وسواءٌ على الوُرودِ أَفي الغيرانِ

فاحَتْ أَمْ بَيْنَ نَهْدٍ وَجِيدِ

فاحَتْ أَمْ بَيْنَ نَهْدٍ وَجِيدِ

And it is all the same to roses whether in caves

It matters not to the roses if they bloomed in passion

It matters not to roses, whether in the caves

they spread their fragrance or between a breast and a neck.

Or between a bosom and hand

They waft their scent, or on a breast and neck.