وَاصَلَنِيhas kept me company هَجْرُthe desertion of مَنْthe one whom أُحِبُّI love
وَاصَلَنِي هَجْرُ مَنْ أُحِبُّ
فَلَمْso did not يَغِبْbe absent لاَno وَلاَnor يَغِيبُwill be absent
فَلَمْ يَغِبْ لاَ وَلاَ يَغِيبُ
The estrangement of the one I love has kept me company;
The desertion of the one I love has kept me company;
it has never departed—nor will it depart.
So it has not been absent—no, nor will it be.
فَلَوْso if يَكُونُwere السُّلُوِّsolace حَياًalive
فَلَوْ يَكُونُ السُّلُوِّ حَياً
مَاnot مَاتَdied مِنْfrom هَجْرِهِhis desertion المُحِبُّthe lover
مَا مَاتَ مِنْ هَجْرِهِ المُحِبُّ
If only forgetfulness were a living thing,
Were solace alive,
the lover would not have died from his beloved’s desertion.
The lover would not have died of his beloved's desertion.
وَاalas رَحْمَتَاpity! لاِنْكِسَارِfor the drooping of جَفْنِan eyelid
وَا رَحْمَتَا لاِنْكِسَارِ جَفْنِ
لاَnot يَعْرِفُknows الصَّحْوَsobriety مِنْهُof it هَدْبُan eyelash
لاَ يَعْرِفُ الصَّحْوَ مِنْهُ هَدْبُ
Oh, pity the drooping of an eyelid
Alas, pity for a drooping eyelid,
whose lashes know no waking sobriety!
Not one of whose lashes knows sobriety.
جَارَwas cruel عَلَيْهِto it الخُمَارُthe hangover حَتَّىuntil
جَارَ عَلَيْهِ الخُمَارُ حَتَّى
أَتْلَفَهُdestroyed it والخُمَارُand the hangover صَعْبُharsh
أَتْلَفَهُ والخُمَارُ صَعْبُ
The languor of intoxication oppressed it until
The hangover oppressed it until
it destroyed it—and intoxication’s aftermath is cruel.
It destroyed it—and the hangover is harsh.
يَاO غُصْناًa bough لاnot يَمِيلُbends نَحْوِيtoward me
يَا غُصْناً لا يَمِيلُ نَحْوِي
وَالمَيْلُand bending فيin الغُصنِthe bough مُسْتَحَبُpleasing
وَالمَيْلُ في الغُصنِ مُسْتَحَبُ
O supple branch that will not bend toward me,
O bough that does not bend toward me,
though bending is lovely in a branch,
And bending is pleasing in a bough,
صَيْرتَنيyou have made me كَالنَّسِيمِlike the breeze سُقْماًthrough sickness
صَيْرتَني كَالنَّسِيمِ سُقْماً
لِمْwhy لاَnot تَمِيلُdo you bend إذَاwhen أَهِبُّI blow
لِمْ لاَ تَمِيلُ إذَا أَهِبُّ
you have made me as frail as the breeze with sickness;
You have made me, through sickness, like the breeze;
why do you not bend when I begin to blow?
Why do you not bend when I blow?
Sol 6.1