ما بالُ عَينِكَ تَبكي دَمعُها خَضِلُ

ما بالُ عَينِكَ تَبكي دَمعُها خَضِلُ

كَم وَهي سَرِبُ الأَخراتِ مُنبَزِلُ

كَم وَهي سَرِبُ الأَخراتِ مُنبَزِلُ

What ails your eye, weeping, its tears streaming wet?

Why do your eyes shed tears that flow

How profusely it leaks, its openings split and gushing!

Continuously like the rain of spring showers?

لا تَفتَأُ الدَهرَ مِن سَحٍّ بِأَربَعَةٍ

لا تَفتَأُ الدَهرَ مِن سَحٍّ بِأَربَعَةٍ

كَأَنَّ إِنسانَها بِالصابِ مُكتَحِلُ

كَأَنَّ إِنسانَها بِالصابِ مُكتَحِلُ

It never ceases, through all time, to pour from four channels,

You weep incessantly as if with kohl lined

As though its pupil were lined with bitter plant sap.

Eyes for a man whose lineage was never known

تَبكي عَلى رَجُلٍ لَم تَبلَ جِدَّتُهُ

تَبكي عَلى رَجُلٍ لَم تَبلَ جِدَّتُهُ

خَلّى عَلَيكَ فِجاجاً بَينَها سُبُلُ

خَلّى عَلَيكَ فِجاجاً بَينَها سُبُلُ

It weeps for a man whose freshness had not faded,

He left you pregnant, between you lies distance

Who left you wide passes, with paths between them.

You wondered, as did I, how he was killed

فَقَد عَجِبتُ وَما بِالدَهرِ مِن عَجَبٍ

فَقَد عَجِبتُ وَما بِالدَهرِ مِن عَجَبٍ

أَنّى قُتِلتَ وَأَنتَ الحازِمُ البَطَلُ

أَنّى قُتِلتَ وَأَنتَ الحازِمُ البَطَلُ

For I have marveled, though time holds no wonder:

That prudent hero of outstanding traits

How were you slain, when you were the prudent hero?

Woe betide the man who with him rivalry creates

وَيلُمِّهِ رَجُلاً تَأبى بِهِ غَبَناً

وَيلُمِّهِ رَجُلاً تَأبى بِهِ غَبَناً

إِذا تَجَرَّدَ لا خالٌ وَلا بَخَلُ

إِذا تَجَرَّدَ لا خالٌ وَلا بَخَلُ

Woe to his mother—what a man! With him you would brook no loss,

When he stands alone no stinginess or greed

When he stripped for action, neither conceited nor miserly.

That carrier of burdens wakeful night its feet

السالِكُ الثُغرَةَ اليَقظانَ كالِئُها

السالِكُ الثُغرَةَ اليَقظانَ كالِئُها

مَشيَ الهَلوكِ عَلَيها الخَيعَلُ الفُضُلُ

مَشيَ الهَلوكِ عَلَيها الخَيعَلُ الفُضُلُ

He entered the breach whose guard was wide awake,

The abandoner of the bow his fingers yellow

With a wanton's walk, a sleeveless shift her only garment.

As if from the syrup of coffee they Machinero

وَالتارِكُ القِرنَ مُصفَرّاً أَنامِلُهُ

وَالتارِكُ القِرنَ مُصفَرّاً أَنامِلُهُ

كَأَنَّهُ مِن عُقارِ قَهوَةٍ ثَمِلُ

كَأَنَّهُ مِن عُقارِ قَهوَةٍ ثَمِلُ

And left his opponent with yellowed fingertips,

Wounded, his skin receives his blood

As though drunk on strong wine,

As the trunk of a palm tree dripping its sap

مُجَدَّلاً يَتَلَقّى جِلدُهُ دَمَهُ

مُجَدَّلاً يَتَلَقّى جِلدُهُ دَمَهُ

كَما يُقَطَّرُ جِذعُ النَخلَةِ القُطُلُ

كَما يُقَطَّرُ جِذعُ النَخلَةِ القُطُلُ

Laid low, his skin receiving his blood,

Not of high lineage, neither a youth nor elderly

As the severed trunk of a palm is toppled.

But Uthaylah of radiant untroubled face

لَيسَ بِعَلٍّ كَبيرٍ لا شَبابَ بِهِ

لَيسَ بِعَلٍّ كَبيرٍ لا شَبابَ بِهِ

لكِن أُثَيلَةُ صافي الوَجهِ مُقتَبَلُ

لكِن أُثَيلَةُ صافي الوَجهِ مُقتَبَلُ

He was no frail old man with no youth left in him,

He responds after being called “I am here”

But Uthaylah, clear-faced, just entering his prime.

Impulsive toward his whims restless and uneasy

يُجيبُ بَعدَ الكَرى لَبَّيكَ داعيَهِ

يُجيبُ بَعدَ الكَرى لَبَّيكَ داعيَهِ

مِجذامَةٌ لِهَواهُ قُلقُلٌ وَقِلُ

مِجذامَةٌ لِهَواهُ قُلقُلٌ وَقِلُ

After sleep, he answers his caller: "At your service!"

Sweet and bitter were his ways in the darkness

Resolute in his purpose, quick-moving and nimble on heights.

In every nightfall were his sandals unloosed

حُلوٌ وَمُرٌّ كَعَطفِ القِدحِ مِرَّتُهُ

حُلوٌ وَمُرٌّ كَعَطفِ القِدحِ مِرَّتُهُ

بِكُلِّ إِنيٍ حَذاهُ اللَيلُ يَنتَعِلُ

بِكُلِّ إِنيٍ حَذاهُ اللَيلُ يَنتَعِلُ

Sweet and bitter, his strength like the flex of an arrow-shaft,

So go on as among men who has eluded

He makes sandals of every hour the night bestows on him.

From his death, endless darkness or towering crags

فَاِذهَب فَأَيُّ فَتىً في الناسِ أَحرَزَهُ

فَاِذهَب فَأَيُّ فَتىً في الناسِ أَحرَزَهُ

مِن حَتفِهِ ظُلمَ دُعجٌ وَلا جَبَلُ

مِن حَتفِهِ ظُلمَ دُعجٌ وَلا جَبَلُ

Go, then: what young man among mankind has been sheltered

Neither can the heavens if between them he dashed

From his death by pitch-black darkness or a mountain?

Fly on a day the evilest of which is the best

وَلا السِما كانَ إِن يَستَعلِ بَينَهُما

وَلا السِما كانَ إِن يَستَعلِ بَينَهُما

يَطُر بِخُطَّةِ يَومٍ شَرُّهُ أَصِلُ

يَطُر بِخُطَّةِ يَومٍ شَرُّهُ أَصِلُ

Nor the two Simāk stars: if he should rise between them,

Nor can any ostrich outrun him on land

He would fly into a day's ordeal, its evil deep-rooted.

Nor donkey, deer or goat escape by flight

وَلا نَعامٌ بِجَوٍّ يَستَريدُ بِهِ

وَلا نَعامٌ بِجَوٍّ يَستَريدُ بِهِ

وَلا حِمارٌ وَلا ظَبيٌ وَلا وَعِلُ

وَلا حِمارٌ وَلا ظَبيٌ وَلا وَعِلُ

Nor ostriches in an open plain, seeking pasture there,

He spends the night on the summits of hills

Nor a wild ass, nor a gazelle, nor an ibex,

Where even the surefooted ibex slips and stumbles

أَوفى يَبيتُ عَلى أَقذافِ شاهِقَةٍ

أَوفى يَبيتُ عَلى أَقذافِ شاهِقَةٍ

جَلسٍ يَزِلُّ بِها الخُطّافُ وَالحَجَلُ

جَلسٍ يَزِلُّ بِها الخُطّافُ وَالحَجَلُ

That climbs high and spends the night upon towering crags,

If you were killed and my legs were not weary

Rugged heights where swallows and partridges slip.

Of striding into the most intense clashes

فَلَو قُتِلتَ وَرِجلي غَيرُ كارِهَةِ الـ

فَلَو قُتِلتَ وَرِجلي غَيرُ كارِهَةِ الـ

ـإِدلاجِ فيها قَبيضُ الشَدِّ وَالنَسَلُ

ـإِدلاجِ فيها قَبيضُ الشَدِّ وَالنَسَلُ

So, had you been slain while my leg did not shrink from the

Then I would march my soul into their raids

night march, still swift in running and trotting,

Or resurrect through it a Noah having shipyards

إِذاً لَأَعمَلتُ نَفسي في غَزاتِهِمُ

إِذاً لَأَعمَلتُ نَفسي في غَزاتِهِمُ

أَو لَاِبتَعَثتُ بِهِ نَوحاً لَهُ زَجَلُ

أَو لَاِبتَعَثتُ بِهِ نَوحاً لَهُ زَجَلُ

Then I would surely have set myself to raiding them,

I say when the messengers came to inform me

Or raised for him a lament with ringing cries.

The spear, two-edged, will not fail the striding legs

أَقولُ لَمّا أَتاني الناعِيانِ بِهِ

أَقولُ لَمّا أَتاني الناعِيانِ بِهِ

لا يَبعَدِ الرُمحُ ذو النَصلَينِ وَالرَجُلُ

لا يَبعَدِ الرُمحُ ذو النَصلَينِ وَالرَجُلُ

I said, when the two death-messengers brought me word of him:

A spear we had that never bent we swore by it

"May the two-bladed spear and the man never be lost!"

War and condolences and majesty extinguished

رُمحٌ لَنا كانَ لَم يُفلَل نَنوءُ بِهِ

رُمحٌ لَنا كانَ لَم يُفلَل نَنوءُ بِهِ

توفى بِهِ الحَربُ وَالعَزّاءُ وَالجُلَلُ

توفى بِهِ الحَربُ وَالعَزّاءُ وَالجُلَلُ

A spear we had, never blunted, with which we rose;

Chieftainesses sniffing the air whom worries

With him, war, hardship and great calamities reached their height—

Only clouds and marshes and wadis appease

رَبّاءُ شَمّاءُ لا يَأوى لِقُلَّتِها

رَبّاءُ شَمّاءُ لا يَأوى لِقُلَّتِها

إِلّا السَحابُ وَإِلّا الأَوبُ وَالسَبَلُ

إِلّا السَحابُ وَإِلّا الأَوبُ وَالسَبَلُ

Towering and lofty, its summit shelters nothing

Save clouds, and bees, and falling rain.