وَقتٌtime يَمُرُّpasses وَأَقدارٌand fates مُسَبَّبةٌbrought about through causes
وَقتٌ يَمُرُّ وَأَقدارٌ مُسَبَّبةٌ
مِنهاamong them الصَغيرُthe small وَمِنهاand among them الفادِحُthe grievous الَجَلَلُthe immense
مِنها الصَغيرُ وَمِنها الفادِحُ الَجَلَلُ
Time passes, and fates are brought about through causes;
Some are small, and some grievous and immense.
وَاللَهُand God يَقدِرُis able أَنto يُفنيannihilate بَريَّتَهُHis creatures
وَاللَهُ يَقدِرُ أَن يُفني بَريَّتَهُ
مِنfrom غَيرِother than سُقمٍillness وَلَكِنand yet جُندُهُHis army العِلَلُailments
مِن غَيرِ سُقمٍ وَلَكِن جُندُهُ العِلَلُ
And God can annihilate His creatures
Without illness, yet ailments are His army.
وَفيand in اللَياليthe nights مَضاءٌsharpness مُوَجَّبٌordained أَبَداًalways
وَفي اللَيالي مَضاءٌ مُوَجَّبٌ أَبَداً
كُلولَdullness طِرفِكَyour gaze عَمّاtoward what حازَتِenclosed الكِلَلُthe curtains
كُلولَ طِرفِكَ عَمّا حازَتِ الكِلَلُ
And in the nights is a sharpness, forever ordained
To dull your gaze toward what the curtains enclose.
سُقياrainfall الغَمائِمِthe clouds بَعضَsome of الإِنسِhumankind تُفسِدُهspoils him
سُقيا الغَمائِمِ بَعضَ الإِنسِ تُفسِدُه
كَالطَرسِlike a written page يَهلِكُperishes إِمّاif مَسَّهُtouches it البَلَلُmoisture
كَالطَرسِ يَهلِكُ إِمّا مَسَّهُ البَلَلُ
Rain from the clouds spoils some people,
Like a written page that perishes if moisture touches it.
وَدِدتُI wished أَنِّيَthat I مِثلُlike السَيفِthe sword لَيسَthere is no لَهُfor it
وَدِدتُ أَنِّيَ مِثلُ السَيفِ لَيسَ لَهُ
حِسٌّfeeling إِذاwhen فُلَّis notched أَوor رَثَّتwear out لَهُfor it خِلَلُscabbard linings
حِسٌّ إِذا فُلَّ أَو رَثَّت لَهُ خِلَلُ
I wished I were like a sword, which has no
Feeling when notched, or when its scabbard linings wear out.
ظَلَّتremained غَرائِزُinstincts مِنّاwithin us باعِثاتِstirring أَسىًsorrow
ظَلَّت غَرائِزُ مِنّا باعِثاتِ أَسىً
إِذاwhen الضَنىwasting illness حَلَّsettles in أَوor لَمnot يُؤهَلَis inhabited الطَلَلُthe ruined dwelling
إِذا الضَنى حَلَّ أَو لَم يُؤهَلَ الطَلَلُ
Instincts within us have kept stirring sorrow,
When wasting illness settles in, or the ruined dwelling lies uninhabited.
فيamong الناسِpeople مَنsomeone فَقرُهُhis poverty عُزٌّhonor لِجارَتِهِfor his female neighbor
في الناسِ مَن فَقرُهُ عُزٌّ لِجارَتِهِ
وَجارُهُand his neighbor وَغِناهُand his wealth كُلَّهُall of it ذَلِلُlowly
وَجارُهُ وَغِناهُ كُلَّهُ ذَلِلُ
Among people is one whose poverty brings honor to his female neighbor,
And his neighbor, with all his wealth, is lowly.
ضَلَّwent astray اِمرُؤٌa man قالَsaid خِلّيmy friend أَستَعينُI seek help بِهِfrom him
ضَلَّ اِمرُؤٌ قالَ خِلّي أَستَعينُ بِهِ
وَأَيُّand which خِلٍّfriend نَأىstayed distant عَنfrom وِدِّهِhis affection خَلَلُa flaw
وَأَيُّ خِلٍّ نَأى عَن وِدِّهِ خَلَلُ
A man errs who says, 'I seek help from my friend.'
And what friend's affection is free of a flaw?
وَماand not فَتِئتُI have ceased وَأَيّاميand my days تُجَدَّدُare renewed ليfor me
وَما فَتِئتُ وَأَيّامي تُجَدَّدُ لي
حَتّىuntil مَلَلتُI grew weary وَلَمand not يَظهَرappeared بِهاin them مَلَلُweariness
حَتّى مَلَلتُ وَلَم يَظهَر بِها مَلَلُ
And I have gone on, my days renewed for me,
Until I grew weary, yet no weariness appeared in them.
إِنَّindeed الأَكُفَّthe hands إِذاif كانَتare عَلىtoward سَرَقٍtheft
إِنَّ الأَكُفَّ إِذا كانَت عَلى سَرَقٍ
مَجبولَةًmolded by nature فَجَديرٌthen fitting ماindeed بِهاfor them الشَلَلُparalysis
مَجبولَةً فَجَديرٌ ما بِها الشَلَلُ
Indeed, if hands are bent on theft
By nature, paralysis is surely fitting for them.
وَالحائِمونَand those circling thirstily كَثيرٌmany ثُمَّthen بَعدَهُمُafter them
وَالحائِمونَ كَثيرٌ ثُمَّ بَعدَهُمُ
قَومٌpeople نِهالٌwith thirst quenched وَقَومٍand people كَظَّهُمglutted them عَلَلُsecond draughts
قَومٌ نِهالٌ وَقَومٍ كَظَّهُم عَلَلُ
And many circle in thirst; then, after them,
Are people whose thirst is quenched, and people glutted by second draughts.
الشِعرُpoetry كَالناسِlike people تَلقىyou find الأَرضَthe earth جائِشَةًsurging
الشِعرُ كَالناسِ تَلقى الأَرضَ جائِشَةً
بِالجَمعِwith the throng يُزجىis driven onward وَخَيرٌand better مِنهُمُthan them رَجُلُa man
بِالجَمعِ يُزجى وَخَيرٌ مِنهُمُ رَجُلُ
Poetry is like people: you find the earth surging
With a throng driven onward, yet one man is better than them.
Sol 6.1