أُداري العُيونَ الفاتِراتِ السَواجِيا

أُداري العُيونَ الفاتِراتِ السَواجِيا

وَأَشكو إِلَيها كَيدَ إِنسانِها لِيا

وَأَشكو إِلَيها كَيدَ إِنسانِها لِيا

I coax the languid, tranquil eyes,

I turn my listless eyes, complaining of the wiles of their mistress,

And complain to them of their pupil's wiles against me.

Who killed and revived the slain with tongues of magic that turn sorrows to joys.

قَتَلنَ وَمَنَّينَ القَتيلَ بِأَلسُنٍ

قَتَلنَ وَمَنَّينَ القَتيلَ بِأَلسُنٍ

مِنَ السِحرِ يُبدِلنَ المَنايا أَمانِيا

مِنَ السِحرِ يُبدِلنَ المَنايا أَمانِيا

They slew, then gave the slain hope with tongues

With glances they converse with the love-sick and turn illness to health in hearts,

Of magic, turning deaths into wishes.

I loved you, O mole-bearer, and love is a state, that when it befalls a man, he knows not its nature,

وَكَلَّمنَ بِالأَلحاظِ مَرضى كَليلَةٍ

وَكَلَّمنَ بِالأَلحاظِ مَرضى كَليلَةٍ

فَكانَت صِحاحاً في القُلوبِ مَواضِيا

فَكانَت صِحاحاً في القُلوبِ مَواضِيا

And they wounded with glances, ailing and blunt,

Yet you are the life of my heart, though oft it betray you, coming to you filled with passion sincere.

Yet within hearts they proved sound and sharp.

Your coyness hurts it not, nor does your disdain cease to dress its wounds.

حَبَبتُكِ ذاتَ الخالِ وَالحُبُّ حالَةٌ

حَبَبتُكِ ذاتَ الخالِ وَالحُبُّ حالَةٌ

إِذا عَرَضَت لِلمَرءِ لَم يَدرِ ماهِيا

إِذا عَرَضَت لِلمَرءِ لَم يَدرِ ماهِيا

I have loved you, O you with the beauty mark; and love is a state:

Between passion and disdain my heart is poised, like your mole between sword and fire wavering,

When it befalls a man, he does not know what it is.

And between attainment and despair my patience halts, like your waist ‘twixt breast and flank fainting.

وَإِنَّكِ دُنيا القَلبِ مَهما غَدَرتِهِ

وَإِنَّكِ دُنيا القَلبِ مَهما غَدَرتِهِ

أَتى لَكِ مَملوءً مِنَ الوَجدِ وافِيا

أَتى لَكِ مَملوءً مِنَ الوَجدِ وافِيا

And you are the heart's world; however much you betray it,

My people expose me, saying I have gone astray. I disown my madness, if mad I be.

It comes to you, full of longing, still faithful.

They would give medicine to my love-sick heart to still it, but who can procure me a remedy so precious?

صُدودُكِ فيهِ لَيسَ يَألوهُ جارِحاً

صُدودُكِ فيهِ لَيسَ يَألوهُ جارِحاً

وَلَفظُكِ لا يَنفَكُّ لِلجُرحِ آسِيا

وَلَفظُكِ لا يَنفَكُّ لِلجُرحِ آسِيا

Your turning away never fails to wound it,

Love is only rapture and then misery, as the sot suffered with wine when sober.

And your words never cease to heal the wound.

وَبَينَ الهَوى وَالعَذلِ لِلقَلبِ مَوقِفٌ

وَبَينَ الهَوى وَالعَذلِ لِلقَلبِ مَوقِفٌ

كَخالِكِ بَينَ السَيفِ وَالنارِ ثاوِيا

كَخالِكِ بَينَ السَيفِ وَالنارِ ثاوِيا

And between passion and reproach the heart stands,

Like your beauty mark, abiding between sword and fire.

وَبَينَ المُنى وَاليَأسِ لِلصَبرِ هِزَّةٌ

وَبَينَ المُنى وَاليَأسِ لِلصَبرِ هِزَّةٌ

كَخَصرِكِ بَينَ النَهدِ وَالرِدفِ واهِيا

كَخَصرِكِ بَينَ النَهدِ وَالرِدفِ واهِيا

And between hopes and despair, patience trembles,

Like your waist, frail between breast and buttocks.

وَعَرَّضَ بي قَومي يَقولونَ قَد غَوى

وَعَرَّضَ بي قَومي يَقولونَ قَد غَوى

عَدِمتُ عَذولي فيكِ إِن كُنتُ غاوِيا

عَدِمتُ عَذولي فيكِ إِن كُنتُ غاوِيا

And my people made insinuations about me, saying, 'He has gone astray.'

May I be rid of my reproacher over you, if I am astray!

يَرومونَ سُلواناً لِقَلبي يُريحُهُ

يَرومونَ سُلواناً لِقَلبي يُريحُهُ

وَمَن لي بِالسُلوانِ أَشريهِ غالِيا

وَمَن لي بِالسُلوانِ أَشريهِ غالِيا

They seek forgetfulness for my heart, to give it rest,

And who can bring me forgetfulness? I would pay dearly for it.

وَما العِشقُ إِلّا لَذَّةٌ ثُمَّ شِقوَةٌ

وَما العِشقُ إِلّا لَذَّةٌ ثُمَّ شِقوَةٌ

كَما شَقِيَ المَخمورُ بِالسُكرِ صاحِيا

كَما شَقِيَ المَخمورُ بِالسُكرِ صاحِيا

And passion is nothing but pleasure, then misery,

As the drunken man suffers from drunkenness when sober.