عيشَتيmy life سَلَّتيmy unsheathing وَرَمسيand my grave غِمديmy sheath
عيشَتي سَلَّتي وَرَمسي غِمدي
فَاِقرُبونيso sheathe me فيهِin it وَلاand do not تَقرَبونيapproach me
فَاِقرُبوني فيهِ وَلا تَقرَبوني
My life is my unsheathing; my grave, my sheath.
My life is my quiver, and my poems are my arrows,
So sheathe me in it, and do not approach me.
So bring me close to the target, but do not let me draw near,
زَبَّنَتهاdrove it away عَنfrom دَرِّهاher milk أُمُّMother دَفرٍStench (together, an epithet for the world)
زَبَّنَتها عَن دَرِّها أُمُّ دَفرٍ
فَصِفوهاso describe her بِالحَيزَبونِas the old hag الزَبونِthat kicks
فَصِفوها بِالحَيزَبونِ الزَبونِ
Mother Stench has driven it away from her milk;
Their perfume was hidden from its pearls by a shell,
so describe her as the kicking old hag.
So describe it with gazelle musk and ambergris.
وَرَأَيتُand I saw البَقاءَcontinued life فيهاin it وَإِنand even if مُدbeginning of 'was prolonged'
وَرَأَيتُ البَقاءَ فيها وَإِن مُد
دَcompletion of 'was prolonged' لِوَشكِtoward the imminence of الحِمامِdeath كَالعُربونِlike a down payment
دَ لِوَشكِ الحِمامِ كَالعُربونِ
And I saw continued life in it, even if prolonged,
And I saw survival in it, though it passes quickly
as a down payment toward death's swift coming.
Like the dowry before union, a mere down payment,
إِنَّindeed فيin الشَرِّevil فَاِعلَموهُso know it خَياراًa choice
إِنَّ في الشَرِّ فَاِعلَموهُ خَياراً
وَحُبونُand the boils الرِجالِof men فَوقَworse than الحُبونُthe boils
وَحُبونُ الرِجالِ فَوقَ الحُبونُ
Even in evil—know this—there is a choice;
For in evil, know that there are still good things,
and men's boils are worse than ordinary boils.
And men's love is above all jewels.
لَيسَis not حالُthe plight of المَخبولِthe mutilated (two metrical deletions) فيماin what يُلاقيhe faces
لَيسَ حالُ المَخبولِ فيما يُلاقي
مِثلَlike حالِthe plight of المَطوِيِّthe folded (ṭayy-shortened metrical foot) وَالمَخبونِand the hemmed (khabn-shortened metrical foot)
مِثلَ حالِ المَطوِيِّ وَالمَخبونِ
The mutilated one's plight in what he faces is not
The state of the deceived with what they encounter
like that of the folded and the hemmed.
Is not like those who bend and those who cheat.
وَهُمُand they الناسُthe people وَالحَياةُand life لَهُمfor them سوbeginning of 'market'
وَهُمُ الناسُ وَالحَياةُ لَهُم سو
قٌcompletion of 'market' فَمِنso some are غابِنٍswindlers وَمِنand some are مَغبونِswindled
قٌ فَمِن غابِنٍ وَمِن مَغبونِ
And they are people; life is their marketplace—
People and life are an open market for them,
some swindle, and some are swindled.
With some who lose and some who profit.
هَرمَgrew old البازِلُthe full-grown camel الَّذيwho يَحمِلُcarries العِبbeginning of 'the burden'
هَرمَ البازِلُ الَّذي يَحمِلُ العِب
أَcompletion of 'the burden' فَأَمسىso he came to be يَعُزُّهُoverpowers him اِبنُa son اللَبونِof a milk-giving she-camel
أَ فَأَمسى يَعُزُّهُ اِبنُ اللَبونِ
The full-grown camel that carries the burden has grown old;
The poor wretch who carries offal
so now a two-year-old camel overpowers him.
Has he not come to esteem the son of Labun?
كَمhow many قَطَعناwe have traversed مِنof حِندِسٍa pitch-dark night وَنَهارٍand a day
كَم قَطَعنا مِن حِندِسٍ وَنَهارٍ
وَكَأَنَّand as though الزَمانَtime فيin دَيدَبونِidle play
وَكَأَنَّ الزَمانَ في دَيدَبونِ
How many a pitch-dark night and day we have crossed!
How much steam and daylight have we traversed,
And time seems absorbed in idle play.
As if time creeps like a lizard!
فَرَعىso may ... protect اللَهُGod جيرَةًneighbors ماnot تَناءَواthey strayed far
فَرَعى اللَهُ جيرَةً ما تَناءَوا
عَنfrom رَحيبٍbroad لَبانُهُhis breast مَلبونِstruck in the breast
عَن رَحيبٍ لَبانُهُ مَلبونِ
So may God guard neighbors who have not strayed
May God pasture a neighbor who would not
from a broad-chested man, stricken in the breast.
Turn away from a downpour whose drops are clear.
أَطرَبونيthey stirred my heart وَماand ... is not اِبنُson of سَبرَةَSabrah فيin السَبbeginning of 'the morning chill'
أَطرَبوني وَما اِبنُ سَبرَةَ في السَب
رَةِcompletion of 'the morning chill' إِلّاexcept مَنِيَّةُthe doom of الأَطرَبونِal-Atrabun
رَةِ إِلّا مَنِيَّةُ الأَطرَبونِ
They stirred my heart; and Ibn Sabrah in the morning chill
They excited me, and the son of Sabra in Sabra
is nothing but al-Atrabun's doom.
Is none but the death of the aroused one.
Sol 6.1