وَأَشلاءِ دارٍ بالحِمى تَلبَسُ البِلَى

وَأَشلاءِ دارٍ بالحِمى تَلبَسُ البِلَى

ومنها بكفَّيْ كُلِّ نائبَةٍ شِلْوُ

ومنها بكفَّيْ كُلِّ نائبَةٍ شِلْوُ

And the remains of a dwelling at al-Ḥimā are clad in decay,

The ruins of a house wrapped in oblivion’s shroud

and a fragment of it lies in the two palms of every calamity.

Whose hands, in their very destruction, seem yet proud

نأَت دعدُ عنها فهيَ تَشكو كَخَصرِها

نأَت دعدُ عنها فهيَ تَشكو كَخَصرِها

نُحولاً بنفسي ذلك النَّاحِلُ النِّضْوُ

نُحولاً بنفسي ذلك النَّاحِلُ النِّضْوُ

Daʿd has gone far from it, so it complains, like her waist,

I pass by, then it calls, bending waist in woe

of wasting—may my life ransom that slender, wasted one!

That slender shape, more graceful in its overthrow

تُسائِلُني أَترابُها هَل تُحبُّها

تُسائِلُني أَترابُها هَل تُحبُّها

لَها وأَبيها من مَوَدَّتي الصَّفْوُ

لَها وأَبيها من مَوَدَّتي الصَّفْوُ

Her peers ask me, “Do you love her?”

It asks, do you love me still? My friends all died here

Hers, by her father, is the purest of my affection.

For me and it, still flows your heart’s love, sincere?

أيحسَبْنَ قَلبي خالياً من غَرامِها

أيحسَبْنَ قَلبي خالياً من غَرامِها

وأَيُّ فؤادٍ من مَودَّتها خِلوُ

وأَيُّ فؤادٍ من مَودَّتها خِلوُ

Do they suppose my heart empty of passion for her?

Does it think my heart empty of passion for it?

And what heart is free of love for her?

What heart from its love could ever stay clear?

عَفا اللَهُ عنها فهيَ روحي وإِن جَنَتْ

عَفا اللَهُ عنها فهيَ روحي وإِن جَنَتْ

عليها وَمَرْجوٌّ لِذي الهَفوَةِ العَفوُ

عليها وَمَرْجوٌّ لِذي الهَفوَةِ العَفوُ

May God forgive her—she is my soul, even if she has done wrong

God pardon it, though it wronged me, it’s my soul

against it; and for one who errs, pardon is hoped for.

I hope who’s erred finds in the end grace to make all whole

أَرى عَينَها نَشوى وَبي نَشوَةُ الهَوى

أَرى عَينَها نَشوى وَبي نَشوَةُ الهَوى

فَما لِيَ أَو تَصحو نواظِرُها صَحوُ

فَما لِيَ أَو تَصحو نواظِرُها صَحوُ

I see her eye intoxicated, and in me is love’s intoxication;

I see her eyes intoxicated, and mine by desire drunk

so I have no sobriety until her eyes grow sober.

How can I sober be, when her glances at me are sunk?

وَأَعلَمُ أَنَّ الجورَ مُرٌّ مذاقُهُ

وَأَعلَمُ أَنَّ الجورَ مُرٌّ مذاقُهُ

وَلكنَّه منها وفي حُبِّها حُلوُ

وَلكنَّه منها وفي حُبِّها حُلوُ

And I know that injustice has a bitter taste,

I know injustice is bitter to taste

yet from her, and in loving her, it is sweet.

But from her, even that is honey, pure and chaste