أَعيانِيَhas worn me out الشادِنُthe young gazelle الرَبيبُthe pampered one
أَعيانِيَ الشادِنُ الرَبيبُ
أَكتُبُI write أَشكوI complain وَلاand not يُجيبُhe replies
أَكتُبُ أَشكو وَلا يُجيبُ
The pampered young gazelle has worn me out.
The spring rains revived me,
I write, complaining, but he does not reply.
I write, I complain, but no response,
مِنfrom أَينَwhere أَبغيI seek دَواءَa cure ماwhat بيafflicts me
مِن أَينَ أَبغي دَواءَ ما بي
وَإِنَّماand in fact دائِيَmy illness الطَبيبُthe physician
وَإِنَّما دائِيَ الطَبيبُ
Where can I seek a cure for what ails me,
From where can I find a cure for my ills,
when my illness is none other than the physician?
When my ailment is the healer himself,
فَكَمso how long إِلىuntil كَمhow long يَكونُwill be هَذاthis
فَكَم إِلى كَم يَكونُ هَذا
ياO أَيُّهاyou الساحِرُthe enchanter الخَلوبُthe beguiling one
يا أَيُّها الساحِرُ الخَلوبُ
How long, then—how long will this go on,
How long will this last,
O you beguiling enchanter?
O charming sorcerer,
بِطَرفِهِby his glance تُقسَمُare apportioned المَناياdeaths
بِطَرفِهِ تُقسَمُ المَنايا
وَدَلِّهِand by his coquetry تَمرَضُfall ill القُلوبُhearts
وَدَلِّهِ تَمرَضُ القُلوبُ
By his glance, deaths are apportioned,
By his glances, lives are lost,
and by his coquetry, hearts fall ill.
By his coquetry, hearts grow sick.
Sol 6.1