أَلاlisten! حَيِّيَاyou two, greet لَيلىLayla وَقُولاand you two, say لَهاto her هَلاwhoa! (a horse-call)
أَلا حَيِّيَا لَيلى وَقُولا لَها هَلا
فَقَدfor indeed رَكِبَتshe has mounted أَمراًan affair أَغَرَّwhite-blazed محجَّلاwhite-stockinged
فَقَد رَكِبَت أَمراً أَغَرَّ محجَّلا
Come, you two, greet Layla and tell her, "Whoa!"
Oh hail Layla and say to her "Come now!"
For she has mounted a white-blazed, white-stockinged affair.
For she has set out on a most perilous course
دَعِيleave off عَنكِaway from yourself تَهجاءَlampooning الرِجالِmen وَأَقِبِليand turn
دَعِي عَنكِ تَهجاءَ الرِجالِ وَأَقِبِلي
عَلىtoward أَذلَغيِّa large-penised man يَملأُhe fills استَكِyour arse فَيشلاَwith a penis
عَلى أَذلَغيِّ يَملأُ استَكِ فَيشلاَ
Leave off lampooning men, and turn
Leave off heeding the slander of men, and give ear
To a large-penised man who fills your arse with his penis.
To me, whose love fills you and brings you rest
بُرَيذِيَنةٌa little hack-mare بَلَّhas drenched البَراذِينَthe hack-horses ثَفرُهاher vulva
بُرَيذِيَنةٌ بَلَّ البَراذِينَ ثَفرُها
وَقَدand indeed شَرِبَتshe has drunk مِنfrom آخِرِthe end of اللّيلِthe night أُيَّلاthick urine
وَقَد شَرِبَت مِن آخِرِ اللّيلِ أُيَّلا
A little hack-mare whose vulva has drenched the hack-horses,
A little cup, but it intoxicates like large goblets
And at night's end she has drunk thick urine.
And she drank deep of the dregs of night
وَقَدand indeed أَكَلَتshe has eaten بَقلاًgreens وَخِيماًunwholesome نَباتُهُtheir growth
وَقَد أَكَلَت بَقلاً وَخِيماً نَباتُهُ
وَقَدand indeed نَكَحَتshe has married شَرَّthe worst of الأَخايِلِthe Akhayil أَخيَلاan Akhyal
وَقَد نَكَحَت شَرَّ الأَخايِلِ أَخيَلا
And she has eaten greens whose growth is unwholesome,
She's eaten bitter herbs, though lush their growth
And she has married an Akhyal, the worst of the Akhayil.
And married the worst of steeds, a sorry mount
وَكَيفَand how أُهاجِيI trade satires with شاعِراًa poet رُمحُهُhis spear اُستُهُhis arse
وَكَيفَ أُهاجِي شاعِراً رُمحُهُ اُستُهُ
خَضِيبَdye-stained البَنانِthe fingertips لاnot يَزالُceases to be مُكَحَّلاwearing kohl
خَضِيبَ البَنانِ لا يَزالُ مُكَحَّلا
And how can I trade satires with a poet whose spear is his arse,
How can I contend with a poet whose lance is
With dyed fingertips, forever wearing kohl?
Stained with blood, and is never without kohl?
فَلاَso do not تَحسَبِيyou suppose جَريَrunning الرِهانِthe stakes-contest تَرَقُّشاًself-adornment
فَلاَ تَحسَبِي جَريَ الرِهانِ تَرَقُّشاً
وَرَيطاًand linen wraps وإِعطاءَand giving الحَقِينِmilk stored in a skin مُجَلَّلاcovered
وَرَيطاً وإِعطاءَ الحَقِينِ مُجَلَّلا
So do not think racing for stakes is self-adornment,
Think not the flow of talk mere play and jest
And linen wraps, and offering stored milk beneath a cover.
And granting rights but sport and pretense
Sol 6.1