تُرى لِحَنيني أَو حَنينِ الحَمائِمِ

تُرى لِحَنيني أَو حَنينِ الحَمائِمِ

جَرَت فَحَكَت دَمعي دُموعُ الغَمائِمِ

جَرَت فَحَكَت دَمعي دُموعُ الغَمائِمِ

I wonder: was it for my longing or the doves' plaintive cooing

My friend, your sadness echoes through the verses.

that the clouds' tears flowed and mimicked my tears?

The doves' yearning, or my own, tears flow like rain.

وَهَل مِن دُموعٍ أَو رُبوعٍ تَرَحَّلوا

وَهَل مِن دُموعٍ أَو رُبوعٍ تَرَحَّلوا

فَكُلٌّ أَراها دارِساتِ المَعالِمِ

فَكُلٌّ أَراها دارِساتِ المَعالِمِ

And was it from tears or dwellings that they departed?

Have the clouds wept too? Have breezes wept and wandered?

For I see them all with their traces effaced.

Each landmark here reminds me of our pain.

لَقَد ضَعُفَت ريحُ الصِبا فَوَصَلتُها

لَقَد ضَعُفَت ريحُ الصِبا فَوَصَلتُها

فَمِنّي لا مِنها هُبوبُ السَمائِمِ

فَمِنّي لا مِنها هُبوبُ السَمائِمِ

The east wind had indeed grown weak, so I joined it;

The morning breeze once stirred me, now I stir it.

thus the scorching blasts come from me, not from it.

The sighing comes from me, not heaven's breath.

دَعوا نَفسَ المَقروحِ تَحمِلُهُ الصِبا

دَعوا نَفسَ المَقروحِ تَحمِلُهُ الصِبا

وَإِن كانَ يَهفو بِالغُصونِ النَواعِمِ

وَإِن كانَ يَهفو بِالغُصونِ النَواعِمِ

Let the east wind carry the wounded man's breath,

Let the torn soul bear this, though branches tremble.

even if it blows gently through the tender boughs.

My message to you delayed by grief and death.

تَأَخَّرتُ في حَملِ السَلامِ عَلَيكُمُ

تَأَخَّرتُ في حَملِ السَلامِ عَلَيكُمُ

لَدَيها لِما قَد حُمِّلَت مِن سَمائِمِ

لَدَيها لِما قَد حُمِّلَت مِن سَمائِمِ

I delayed sending my greetings to you

Hear only words that flow like pouring tears

with it, because of the scorching blasts it had been made to bear.

As my heart speaks of one beyond compare -

فَلا تَسمَعوا إِلّا حَديثاً لِناظِري

فَلا تَسمَعوا إِلّا حَديثاً لِناظِري

يُعادُ بِأَلفاظِ الدُموعِ السَواجِمِ

يُعادُ بِأَلفاظِ الدُموعِ السَواجِمِ

So hear nothing but the tale of my eye,

The son of she who calms my restless fears.

retold in the words of streaming tears.

فَإِنَّ فُؤادي بَعدَكُم قد فَطَمتُهُ

فَإِنَّ فُؤادي بَعدَكُم قد فَطَمتُهُ

عَنِ الشِعرِ إِلّا مِدحَةً لِاِبنِ فاطِمِ

عَنِ الشِعرِ إِلّا مِدحَةً لِاِبنِ فاطِمِ

For, since your departure, I have weaned my heart

from poetry, save a panegyric for Ibn Fatim.