خَليلَيَّmy two friends ماwhat بالُthe matter with اللَّياليthe nights تَلَفَّتَتْhave turned
خَليلَيَّ ما بالُ اللَّيالي تَلَفَّتَتْ
إِلَيَّtoward me بِأَعْناقِwith the necks of الخُطوبِcalamities الطَّوارِقِnight-visiting
إِلَيَّ بِأَعْناقِ الخُطوبِ الطَّوارِقِ
My two friends, why have the nights turned
My friend, why have the nights persistently turned
toward me with the necks of night-visiting calamities?
Towards me with events of misfortune?
وَأَعْقَبَنيand brought me قَبْلَbefore الثلاثِينَthirty صَرْفُهاtheir vicissitudes
وَأَعْقَبَني قَبْلَ الثلاثِينَ صَرْفُها
بِسُودِthrough the black ones دَواهِيهاtheir calamities بَياضَwhiteness المَفارِقِthe hair-partings
بِسُودِ دَواهِيها بَياضَ المَفارِقِ
And their vicissitudes brought me, before I turned thirty,
And before I turned thirty, their alternation
through their black calamities, whiteness at my hair’s partings.
Replaced their darkness with the whiteness of separation.
وَلَسْتُand I do not أَذُمُّblame الدَّهْرَTime فِيماfor what يَسُومُنيit makes me endure
وَلَسْتُ أَذُمُّ الدَّهْرَ فِيما يَسُومُني
وَقَدْand indeed حُمِدَتْhave been praised فيin النَّائِباتِadversities خَلائِقِيmy character traits
وَقَدْ حُمِدَتْ في النَّائِباتِ خَلائِقِي
Yet I do not blame Time for what it makes me endure,
I do not blame fate for what has befallen me,
for my character has won praise amid adversities.
My manners were praised during adversities.
لَئِنْif indeed أَنَاI لَمْhave not أَخْلُفْreplaced شَباthe point of الرُّمْحِthe spear فيin الوَغَىbattle
لَئِنْ أَنَا لَمْ أَخْلُفْ شَبا الرُّمْحِ في الوَغَى
بِأَخْرَسَwith a mute one رَعّافِgushing blood الخَياشِيمِthe nostrils نَاطِقِspeaking
بِأَخْرَسَ رَعّافِ الخَياشِيمِ نَاطِقِ
If indeed I have not replaced the spear’s point in battle
If I have not failed to match the youth in battle
with a mute yet eloquent one, its nostrils streaming blood,
With a speechless wielder of the deadly lance.
فَلاthen may not شَامَsheathe فيin هَامِthe heads of الأَعادِيthe enemies مُهَنَّداًa sword of Indian steel
فَلا شَامَ في هَامِ الأَعادِي مُهَنَّداً
يَمينيmy right hand وَلاnor شَمَّsmell الحَمائِلَthe sword-straps عاتِقيmy shoulder
يَميني وَلا شَمَّ الحَمائِلَ عاتِقي
then may no sword of Indian steel be sheathed in enemies’ heads
So my right hand is not humiliated in the necks of foes,
by my right hand, nor may my shoulder smell the sword-straps.
Nor have shoulders borne what my shoulders have borne.
Sol 6.1