لَوif لَمdid not يَلُحappear فيin خَدِّهِhis cheek عِذارُهُhis cheek-down
لَو لَم يَلُح في خَدِّهِ عِذارُهُ
ماnot وَضَحَتbecame clear لِعاشِقٍto a lover أَعذارُهُhis excuses
ما وَضَحَت لِعاشِقٍ أَعذارُهُ
Had his cheek-down not appeared upon his cheek,
If his cheek's pallor did not shine so bright,
a lover's excuses would not have been clear.
No lover's plight would e'er come plain in sight,
إِنَّindeed اِصفِراريmy pallor فيin الهَوىlove مِنfrom هَجرِهِhis abandonment
إِنَّ اِصفِراري في الهَوى مِن هَجرِهِ
فيin خَدِّهِhis cheek أَوجَبَهُcaused it اِحمِرارُهُhis redness
في خَدِّهِ أَوجَبَهُ اِحمِرارُهُ
Indeed, my pallor in love, from his forsaking me,
My sallow hue betrayeth my despair
was caused by the redness upon his cheek.
At severance, which his ruddy cheeks declare.
وَاعجَباoh, what wonder! لِخَدِّهِat his cheek إِذas جُمِعَwere joined الthe
وَاعجَبا لِخَدِّهِ إِذ جُمِعَ ال
ضِدانِtwo opposites فيهِwithin it ماؤُهُits water وَنارُهُand its fire
ضِدانِ فيهِ ماؤُهُ وَنارُهُ
Oh, how wondrous his cheek, for there are joined the
Amazed am I that cheek should unite
two opposites within it—its water and its fire!
Opposites, water and consuming light:
إِنّيindeed, I لَمَقتولٌsurely slain بِسَيفِby the sword of لَحظِهِhis glance
إِنّي لَمَقتولٌ بِسَيفِ لَحظِهِ
فَاِرثِso have pity لِمَقتولٍfor one slain يَضيعُis lost ثارُهُhis blood-vengeance
فَاِرثِ لِمَقتولٍ يَضيعُ ثارُهُ
I am indeed slain by the sword of his glance;
Slain am I by his eye's resistless blade,
so pity one slain, whose blood goes unavenged.
My slayer, and his due revenge gainsayed.
مَنwho ذاis it يَنالُcan exact ثارَهُhis blood-vengeance مِنfrom قَمَرٍa moon
مَن ذا يَنالُ ثارَهُ مِن قَمَرٍ
فيin تِمِّهِits fullness لَمhas not يَغشَهُshrouded it سِرارُهُits moonless phase
في تِمِّهِ لَم يَغشَهُ سِرارُهُ
Who can exact his vengeance from a moon
Who dares that moon's just vengeance undertake,
at its fullness, unshrouded by its dark phase?
When smiles have tempted sleep his eyes to break?
سَكرانُdrunk لاnot يَصحوsobers وَهَلand can يَصحوgrow sober الَّذيthe one who
سَكرانُ لا يَصحو وَهَل يَصحو الَّذي
فيin فَمِهِhis mouth رُضابُهُhis saliva عُقارُهُhis wine
في فَمِهِ رُضابُهُ عُقارُهُ
Drunk, never sober—and can one be sober whose
The sot wakes not, how shall wake the wight
saliva within his mouth is his wine?
Whose draft the cup still druggeth with delight?
فَاِعجَبso marvel لَهُat him قَضيبَa branch of بانٍa bān tree ناشِياًyoung
فَاِعجَب لَهُ قَضيبَ بانٍ ناشِياً
فَجُلُّfor most of ناريmy fire فيهِfor him جلَّنارُهُhis pomegranate blossoms
فَجُلُّ ناري فيهِ جلَّنارُهُ
So marvel at him, a young branch of the bān tree:
Strange is his rod, who when it rageth most,
for most of my fire for him comes from his pomegranate blossoms.
In flooding fire throbs glowing fever-glows!
Sol 6.1