حَتّامَhow long تَشْكوcomplain of الصَّدىthirst بِيْضٌgleaming swords مَباتِيرُkeen-cutting
حَتّامَ تَشْكو الصَّدى بِيْضٌ مَباتِيرُ
وَلاand not تَخوضُwade through دَماًblood جُرْدٌsleek steeds مَحاضِيرُswift-running
وَلا تَخوضُ دَماً جُرْدٌ مَحاضِيرُ
How long shall gleaming, cleaving swords complain of thirst,
My tents complain with mournful echo's tone,
and sleek, swift-running steeds not wade through blood?
My camels wander riderless, alone;
وَطَالِبُand the seeker of العِزِّglory لاnot يُلْقيcasts مَراسِيَهُhis anchors
وَطَالِبُ العِزِّ لا يُلْقي مَراسِيَهُ
بِحَيْثُwhere يُمْتَهَنُّare humiliated الشُّمُّthe proud المَغاوِيرُthe intrepid warriors
بِحَيْثُ يُمْتَهَنُّ الشُّمُّ المَغاوِيرُ
And the seeker of glory does not cast his anchors
The seeker of renown no more will fling
where proud, intrepid warriors are humiliated.
His tents where they must base dishonor bring;
فَماso what لِظمياءَwith Ẓamyāʾ تَلْحانيshe reproaches me عَلىfor عَدَميmy poverty
فَما لِظمياءَ تَلْحاني عَلى عَدَمي
وَعِنْدِيَand I have العُذْرُthe excuse لَوْif تُغْنيavail المَعاذِيرُthe excuses
وَعِنْدِيَ العُذْرُ لَوْ تُغْني المَعاذِيرُ
Why, then, does Ẓamyāʾ reproach me for my poverty,
Why chide my indolence with bitter blame,
when I have an excuse—if excuses could avail?
When every excuse my lips could frame
وَلَسْتُand I do not أَدْريknow أَنالَhas ... diminished? الدّهْرُTime مِنْfrom جِدَتيmy wealth
وَلَسْتُ أَدْري أَنالَ الدّهْرُ مِنْ جِدَتي
جَهالَةًin ignorance بِيَof me أَمْor جُنَّwent mad المَقادِيرُthe fates
جَهالَةً بِيَ أَمْ جُنَّ المَقادِيرُ
And I do not know: has Time diminished my wealth
Might justly plead? Of destiny I know
in ignorance of me, or have the fates gone mad?
Nor why, nor when, she deals the fatal blow.
وَليand I have قَصائِدُpoems تَحْكيresemble رَوْضَةًa meadow أُنُفاًungrazed
وَلي قَصائِدُ تَحْكي رَوْضَةً أُنُفاً
تَبَسَّمَتْhave smiled فيalong حَواشِيهاits borders الأَزاهِيرُthe blossoms
تَبَسَّمَتْ في حَواشِيها الأَزاهِيرُ
And I have poems that resemble an ungrazed meadow,
My verses picture many a garden gay,
along whose borders the blossoms have smiled.
Where flowers in bright profusion strew the way;
وَالشِّعْرُand poetry لَيْسَis not بِمُجْدٍof any benefit فَالمُلوكُfor the kings لَهُمْthey have
وَالشِّعْرُ لَيْسَ بِمُجْدٍ فَالمُلوكُ لَهُمْ
أَيْدٍhands صُخُورٌrocks وَأَعْرَاضٌand reputations قَوارِيرglass vessels
أَيْدٍ صُخُورٌ وَأَعْرَاضٌ قَوارِير
Yet poetry is of no avail, for kings have
For song no honor brings, and Kings disdain
hands of stone and reputations of glass.
The minstrel's art for sordid greed of gain.
Sol 6.1