الشريد — Ali Jarim

أَطَلَّتِ الْآلَامُ مِنْ جُحْرِهِ

وَلُفَّتِ الْأَسْقَامُ فِي طِمْرِهِ

Pains peer out from his hole,

And sicknesses are wrapped within his rag.

بُرْدَتُهُ اللَّيْلُ، عَلَى بَرْدِهِ

وَكِنُّهُ الْقَيْظُ، عَلَى حَرِّهِ

Night is his cloak, cold as it is,

And summer heat his shelter, hot as it is.

مُشَرَّدٌ يَأْوِي إِلَى هَمِّهِ

إِذَا أَوَى الطَّيْرُ إِلَى وَكْرِهِ!

An outcast, he takes refuge in his sorrow

When birds take refuge in their nests.

مَا ذَاقَ حُلْوَ اللَّثْمِ فِي خَدِّهِ

وَلَا حَنَانَ الْمَسِّ فِي شَعْرِهِ

He has never tasted sweet kisses on his cheek,

Nor a tender touch upon his hair.

وَلَا حَوَتْهُ الْأُمُّ فِي صَدْرِهَا

وَلَا أَبٌ نَاغَاهُ فِي حِجْرِهِ

No mother has clasped him to her breast,

Nor father cooed to him upon his lap.

قَدْ صَبَرَ النَّفْسَ عَلَى مَا بِهَا

وَانْتَظَرَ الْمَوْعُودَ مِنْ صَبْرِهِ

He has schooled his soul to bear its suffering

And awaited the promised reward of patience.

الْبَطْنُ مَهْضُومٌ، طَوَاهُ الطَّوَى

وَنَامَ أَهْلُ الْأَرْضِ عَنْ نَشْرِهِ

His belly is sunken, folded in by hunger,

And earth's people slept, heedless of unfolding it.

وَالْوَجْهُ لِلْيَأْسِ بِهِ نَظْرَةٌ

يَقْذِفُهَا الْحِقْدُ عَلَى دَهْرِهِ

Upon his face despair has set a look

That hatred hurls against his times.

جَرَّحَهُ الدَّهْرُ، فَمِنْ نَابِهِ

تِلْكَ الْأَخَادِيدُ، وَمِنْ ظُفْرِهِ

Time has gashed him; from its fang

Come those furrows, and from its claw.

قَدْ كَتَبَ اللهُ عَلَى خَدِّهِ

خَطًّا يَبِينُ الْبُؤْسُ فِي سَطْرِهِ

God has written upon his cheek

A script whose line reveals his misery.

وَغَارَ ضَوْءُ الْحِسِّ مِنْ عَيْنِهِ

وَفَرَّ لَمْحُ الْأُنْسِ مِنْ ثَغْرِهِ

The light of feeling has receded from his eye,

And the gleam of friendliness has fled his lips.

وَالْبِشْرُ، أَيْنَ الْبِشْرُ؟ وَيْحِي لَهُ!

يَا رَحْمَةَ اللهِ عَلَى بِشْرِهِ

And cheer—where is cheer? Alas for him!

God have mercy on his cheer!

يَجُرُّ رِجْلَيْهِ بَطِيءَ الْخُطَى

كَالْجُعَلِ الْمَكْدُودِ مِنْ جَرِّهِ

He drags his feet with sluggish steps,

Like a dung beetle exhausted by its dragging.

إِنْ نَامَ أَبْصَرْتَ بِهِ كُتْلَةً

تَجْمَعُ سَاقَيْهِ إِلَى نَحْرِهِ

When he sleeps, you see in him a huddled mass,

Drawing his shins up to his throat.

احْتَبَسَتْ «أَوَّاهُ» فِي قَلْبِهِ

وَاخْتَنَقَتْ «وَيْلَاهُ» فِي صَدْرِهِ

His “Ah!” is imprisoned in his heart,

And his “Woe is me!” is strangled in his breast.

وَجَفَّ مَاءُ الْعَيْنِ فِي مُوقِهَا

مَاذَا أَفَادَ الْعَيْنَ مِنْ هَمْرِهِ؟

The eye's water has dried in its corner;

What did its pouring gain the eye?

سَالَتْ بِهِ نَهْرًا عَلَى لُقْمَةٍ

فَعَادَ كَالسَّائِلِ فِي نَهْرِهِ!

It poured a river of tears for a morsel,

And returned, like the beggar, rebuffed.

لَا يَجِدُ الْمَأْوَى، وَلَوْ رَامَهُ

أَحَالَهُ الدَّهْرُ عَلَى قَبْرِهِ

He finds no shelter; should he seek it,

Time directs him to his grave.

هُنَاكَ يَثْوِي هَادِئًا آمِنًا

مِنْ شَظَفِ الْعَيْشِ وَمِنْ وَعْرِهِ

There he rests, quiet and safe

From life's privation and its roughness.

فَكَمْ بِصَدْرِ الْقَبْرِ مِنْ ضَجْعَةٍ

أَحْنَى مِنَ الدَّهْرِ وَمِنْ نُكْرِهِ!

How many a resting-place in the grave's embrace

Is kinder than Time and its cruelty!

مَتْعَبَةُ الْإِنْسَانِ فِي حِسِّهِ

وَشِقْوَةُ الْإِنْسَانِ مِنْ فِكْرِهِ

Man's weariness lies in his sensitivity,

And man's unhappiness springs from his thought.

كَيْفَ يُرَجَّى الصَّفْوُ مِنْ كَائِنٍ

الْحَمَأُ الْمَسْنُونُ فِي ذَرِّهِ؟

How can serenity be hoped for from a being

With dark, putrid mud in his very makeup?

لَمْ يَسْمُ لِلْأَمْلَاكِ فِي أَوْجِهَا

وَلَا هَوَى لِلْوَحْشِ فِي قَفْرِهِ

He has not risen to the angels in their heights,

Nor fallen to the beasts in their wilderness.

رَامَ اللُّبَابَ الْمَحْضَ مِنْ سَعْيِهِ

فَلَمْ يَنَلْ مِنْهُ سِوَى قِشْرِهِ

He sought the pure kernel of his striving,

But gained from it nothing but its husk.

يَسْعَى، وَمَا يَدْرِي إِلَى نَفْعِهِ

سَعَى حَثِيثًا، أَمْ إِلَى ضَرِّهِ

He strives, not knowing whether toward his good

He hastens, or toward his harm.

آمَنْتُ بِاللهِ! فَكَمْ عَالِمٍ

أَعْجَزَهُ الْمَحْجُوبُ مِنْ سِرِّهِ

I believe in God! How many a scholar

Has been baffled by the hidden depths of His mystery!

اللهَ فِي طِفْلٍ غَزَاهُ الضَّنَى

بِأَدْهَمِ الْخَطْبِ وَمُغْبَرِّهِ

Fear God for a child whom wasting sickness has assailed

With calamity, black and dust-clouded.

فِي ظُلُمَاتٍ، مَوْجُهَا زَاخِرٌ

كَأَنَّهُ ذُو النُّونِ فِي بَحْرِهِ

In darkness whose waves surge high,

As though he were the Man of the Fish in his sea.

وَالنَّاسُ بِالشَّاطِئِ، مِنْ غَافِلٍ

أَوْ سَاخِرٍ، أَمْعَنَ فِي سُخْرِهِ

And the people on shore: some heedless,

Or mocking, relentless in their mockery.

وَالْمَوْجُ كَالذُّؤْبَانِ حَوْلَ الْفَتَى

يَسُدُّ أُذْنَ الْأُفْقِ مِنْ زَأْرِهِ

The waves are like wolves around the boy,

Deafening the horizon's ear with their roar.

نَادَى، وَمَا نَادَى سِوَى مَرَّةٍ

حَتَّى طَوَاهُ الْيَمُّ فِي غَمْرِهِ

He cried out—he cried out only once—

Before the sea enfolded him in its depths.

تَظُنُّهُ طِفْلًا، فَإِنْ حَقَّقَتْ

عَيْنَاكَ، لَمْ تَعْثُرْ عَلَى عُشْرِهِ

You think him a child; but on close scrutiny,

Your eyes will not find a tenth of one.

كَأَنَّهُ الشَّكُّ إِذَا مَا مَشَى

أَوْ مَا يَرَى النَّائِمُ فِي ذُعْرِهِ

He is like doubt itself when he walks,

Or what a sleeper sees in terror.

طَغَى بِهِ الْجُوعُ، فَفِي دَمْعِهِ

مَا فَعَلَ الْجُوعُ، وَفِي نَبْرِهِ

Hunger has ravaged him; in his tears

And in his voice lies what hunger has done.

وَاهًا لِكَفٍّ لَصِقَتْ بِالثَّرَى

وَائْتَدَمَتْ بِالْبُؤْسِ مِنْ عَفْرِهِ

Alas for a hand that has clung to the earth,

And, in misery, taken its dust for relish!

مَاذَا عَلَى الْإِحْسَانِ لَوْ رَدَّهَا

نَدِيَّةَ الْأَطْرَافِ مِنْ بِرِّهِ؟

What would charity lose by sending it back

With fingertips dewy from its kindness?

مَاذَا عَلَى الْإِحْسَانِ لَوْ رَدَّهَا

رَطِيبَةَ الْأَلْسُنِ مِنْ شُكْرِهِ؟

What would charity lose by sending it back

With tongues moist with thanks for its kindness?

كَمْ بَسْمَةٍ أَرْسَلَهَا مُحْسِنٌ

أَزْهَى مِنَ الرَّوْضِ وَمِنْ زَهْرِهِ!

How many a smile bestowed by a benefactor

Is lovelier than the garden and its flowers!

وَلُقْمَةٍ سَدَّتْ فَمًا جَائِعًا

رَجَّحَتِ الْمِيزَانَ فِي حَشْرِهِ!

And many a morsel that stilled a hungry mouth

Has tipped the balance at his resurrection!

وَمِنَّةٍ كَانَتْ جَنَاحًا لَهُ

طَارَ بِهِ الذَّائِعُ مِنْ ذِكْرِهِ

And many a kindness became his wing,

On which his widespread renown took flight.

وَدَمْعَةٍ يُذْرِفُهَا مُشْفِقًا

أَصْفَى مِنَ الْمَدْخُورِ مِنْ دُرِّهِ

And many a tear he sheds in compassion

Is purer than the pearls he hoards.

لَا تُزْهِرُ الْجَنَّةُ إِلَّا بِمَا

يَسْفَحُهُ الْبَاكِي عَلَى وِزْرِهِ

Paradise blossoms only through what

The weeper pours over his sin.

لَوْ عَرَفَ الْإِنْسَانُ مَا أَجْرُهُ

مَا ضَنَّ بِالنَّفْسِ عَلَى أَجْرِهِ

If man knew what his reward would be,

He would not begrudge his very life to earn it.

يَبْقَى قَلِيلُ الْمَالِ مِنْ بَعْدِهِ

وَيَذْهَبُ الْمَالُ عَلَى كُثْرِهِ

A little wealth endures after him,

While wealth, for all its abundance, passes away.

بِيضُ أَيَادِي الْمَرْءِ فِي قَوْمِهِ

أَغْلَى مِنَ الْبِيضِ وَمِنْ صُفْرِهِ

A man's white-handed kindness among his people

Is worth more than silver and his gold.

وَالْحُرُّ، لَا يَنْعَمُ فِي وَفْرِهِ

حَتَّى يَنَالَ النَّاسُ مِنْ وَفْرِهِ

The noble man finds no joy in his abundance

Until the people share in his abundance.

وَالْمَرْءُ، لَا يُعْرَفُ مِقْدَارُهُ

أَوْ تُنْبِئُ الْأَحْدَاثُ عَنْ قَدْرِهِ

And a man's true measure is not known

Until events reveal his worth.

وَالنَّاسُ كَالْمَاءِ، فَمِنْ ضَحْضَحٍ

وَمِنْ عَمِيقٍ، حِرْتُ فِي سَبْرِهِ

And people are like water: some are shallow,

And some so deep I am baffled to sound them.

لَيْسَ الَّذِي يُنْفِقُ مِنْ يُسْرِهِ

مِثْلَ الَّذِي يُنْفِقُ مِنْ عُسْرِهِ

One who spends out of his affluence is not

Like one who spends out of his hardship.

كَمْ دِرْهَمٍ أُلْقِيَ فِي سِجْنِهِ

وَلَمْ يَنَلْ عَفْوًا مَدَى عُمْرِهِ!

How many a dirham has been cast into its prison

And never granted pardon throughout its life!

لَمْ يَرَ حُسْنَ الصُّبْحِ فِي شَمْسِهِ

وَلَا جَمَالَ اللَّيْلِ فِي بَدْرِهِ

It has never seen morning's beauty in its sun,

Nor night's loveliness in its full moon.

يَطْمَعُ وَخْزُ الْجُوعِ فِي وَصْلِهِ

وَيُرْسِلُ الزَّفْرَاتِ مِنْ هَجْرِهِ

The pang of hunger longs to reach it,

And sends up sighs at being kept from it.

وَالْمَالُ كَالْخَمْرِ، إِذَا مَا طَغَى

ضَاقَتْ فِجَاجُ الْأَرْضِ عَنْ شَرِّهِ

And wealth is like wine: whenever it runs rampant,

Earth's broad roads cannot contain its evil.

مَتَى يَهُبُّ الْعَقْلُ مِنْ نَوْمِهِ

أَوْ يَسْتَفِيقُ الْمَالُ مِنْ سُكْرِهِ؟

When will reason awaken from its sleep,

Or wealth recover from its drunkenness?

مَتَى أَرَى النَّفْسَ وَقَدْ أُطْلِقَتْ

مِنْ رِبْقَةِ الْمَالِ وَمِنْ أَسْرِهِ؟

When shall I see the soul set free

From wealth's noose and its captivity?

مَتَى أَرَى الْحُبَّ كَضَوْءِ الضُّحَى

كُلُّ امْرِئٍ يَسْبَحُ فِي طُهْرِهِ؟

When shall I see love like the light of morning,

Every person swimming in its purity?

مَتَى أَرَى النَّاسَ وَقَدْ نُزِّهُوا

عَنْ شَرَهِ الذِّئْبِ وَعَنْ غَدْرِهِ؟

When shall I see people purified

Of the wolf's greed and its treachery?

أُخُوَّةُ الْغُصْنِ إِلَى صِنْوِهِ

وَبَسْمَةُ الزَّهْرِ إِلَى قَطْرِهِ

The brotherhood of a branch toward its twin,

And the blossom's smile toward its rain,

وَرَحْمَةٌ، رَفَّافَةٌ لَمْ تَدَعْ

قَلْبًا يُوَارِي النَّارَ فِي صَخْرِهِ

And fluttering mercy that has left no

Heart concealing fire within its stone.

لَا يُحْسَدُ الْجَاهُ عَلَى مَالِهِ

أَوْ يُنْهَرُ الْبُؤْسُ عَلَى فَقْرِهِ

No rank is envied for its wealth,

Nor misery rebuked for its poverty.

كَمْ شَارِدٍ فِي مِصْرَ، يَا كُثْرَهُ

مِنْ عَدَدٍ، يَسْخَرُ مِنْ حَصْرِهِ!

How many waifs in Egypt—oh, their multitude—

A number that scoffs at being counted!

ذَخِيرَةُ الْأُمَّةِ أَبْنَاؤُهَا

مَاذَا أَفَادَ النِّيلُ مِنْ ذُخْرِهِ؟

A nation's treasure is its children;

What has the Nile gained from its treasure?

مَاذَا أَفَادَ النِّيلُ مِنْ سَاعِدٍ

أَسْرَعَ مِنْ ضِغْثٍ إِلَى كَسْرِهِ؟

What has the Nile gained from an arm

Quicker to snap than a bundle of straw?

وَأَرْجُلٍ أَوْهَنَ مِنْ هَمْسَةٍ

وَمِنْ نَسِيمِ الصُّبْحِ فِي مَرِّهِ

And legs weaker than a whisper,

Or the morning breeze as it passes,

وَمِنْ فَتَاةٍ فَجْرُهَا لَيْلُهَا

وَمِنْ غُلَامٍ ضَلَّ فِي فَجْرِهِ

And from a girl whose dawn is her night,

And from a boy astray at his dawn?

أَلْقَتْهُ مِصْرٌ هَمَلًا ضَائِعًا

فَصَالَ يَبْغِي الثَّارَ مِنْ مِصْرِهِ

Egypt cast him aside, neglected and lost,

So he charged, seeking vengeance on his Egypt.

غَاصَ مِنَ الْآثَامِ فِي آسِنٍ

يَكْرَعُ مِلْءَ الْفَمِ مِنْ مُرِّهِ

He plunged into a stagnant pool of sins,

Gulping mouthfuls of its bitterness.

أَسْرَى مِنَ اللَّيْلِ، وَأَمْضَى يَدًا

مِنْ عَبَثِ اللَّيْلِ، وَمِنْ مَكْرِهِ

More a night-prowler than night, more ruthless of hand

Than night's mischief and its guile.

كَمْ ضَاقَ مِنْ شِقْوَتِهِ عَصْرُهُ

وَضَاقَ بِالسُّخْطِ عَلَى عَصْرِهِ!

How often his age has chafed at his wretchedness,

And he has seethed with resentment against his age!

شَجًا بِحَلْقِ الْوَطَنِ الْمُفْتَدَى

وَشَوْكَةٌ كَالنَّصْلِ فِي ظَهْرِهِ

A bone in the throat of the homeland we would die for,

And a thorn like a blade in its back.

مَدْرَسَةُ النَّشْلِ وَسَلِّ الْمُدَى

أَسَّسَهَا الشَّيْطَانُ فِي جُحْرِهِ

The school of pickpocketing and drawing knives—

The Devil founded it within his hole.

إِذَا هَوَى الْخُلْقُ، وَضَاعَ الْحِجَا

فَكُلُّ شَيْءٍ ضَاعَ فِي إِثْرِهِ!

When morality falls and reason is lost,

Everything is lost in its wake!

مَنْ يُصْلِحِ الْأُسْرَةَ يُصْلِحْ بِهَا

مَا دَمَّرَ الْإِفْسَادُ فِي قُطْرِهِ

Whoever reforms the family repairs through it

What corruption has destroyed within his country.

جِنَايَةُ الْوَالِدِ نَبْذُ ابْنِهِ

فِي عُسْرِهِ، إِنْ كَانَ، أَوْ يُسْرِهِ

A father's crime is abandoning his son,

Whether he be in hardship or in ease.

لَا تَتْرُكُ الذِّئْبَةُ أَجْرَاءَهَا

وَلَا يَغِيبُ الْكَلْبُ عَنْ وَجْرِهِ

The she-wolf does not abandon her cubs,

Nor does the dog stay away from its den.

الْبَيْتُ صَحْرَاءُ إِذَا لَمْ تَجِدْ

طُفُولَةً تَمْرَحُ فِي كِسْرِهِ

The house is a desert if you cannot find

Childhood playing in its corner.

فَعَاقِبُوا الْآبَاءَ إِنْ قَصَّرُوا

لَا بُدَّ لِلسَّادِرِ مِنْ زَجْرِهِ

So punish fathers if they neglect their duty;

The heedless must be rebuked.

وَأَنْقِذُوا الطِّفْلَ فَمَا ذَنْبُهُ

إِنْ جَمَحَ الْوَالِدُ فِي خُسْرِهِ؟

And save the child—what is his fault

If the father runs headlong into ruin?

رَبُّوهُ، يَنْمُو ثَمَرًا طَيِّبًا

لَا يَيْئَسُ الزَّارِعُ مِنْ بَذْرِهِ

Raise him, and he will grow into good fruit;

The sower will not despair of his seed.

وَعَلِّمُوهُ عَمَلًا صَالِحًا

يَشُدُّ — إِنْ كَافَحَ — مِنْ أَزْرِهِ

And teach him honest work

To strengthen his back if he struggles.

رَبُّوهُ فِي الرِّيفِ لَعَلَّ الْقُرَى

تُصْلِحُ مَا أَعْضَلَ مِنْ أَمْرِهِ

Raise him in the countryside; perhaps the villages

Will mend what has grown intractable in his condition.

النَّفْسُ مِرْآةٌ وَغُصْنُ النَّقَا

يَطِيبُ أَوْ يَخْبُثُ مِنْ جِذْرِهِ

The soul is a mirror, and a branch on the dunes

Grows good or foul according to its root.

لَعَلَّ هَمْسَ الْغُصْنِ فِي أُذْنِهِ

يُنْسِيهِ مَا أَضْمَرَ مِنْ ثَأْرِهِ

Perhaps the branch's whisper in his ear

Will make him forget the vengeance he has harbored.

لَعَلَّ أَنْفَاسَ نَسِيمِ الرُّبَا

فِي صَدْرِهِ، تُبْرِدُ مِنْ جَمْرِهِ

Perhaps the breaths of the breeze upon the hills,

Within his breast, will cool some of his embers.

النِّيلُ يَسْتَنْجِدُ مُسْتَنْصِرًا

فَأَسْرِعُوا الْخَطْوَ إِلَى نَصْرِهِ

The Nile calls for help, seeking aid;

So hasten your steps to its rescue.

لَا يَذْهَبُ الْمَعْرُوفُ فِي لُجَّةٍ

وَلَا يَكُفُّ الْمِسْكُ عَنْ نَشْرِهِ

Kindness is never lost in the depths,

Nor does musk cease spreading its fragrance.