جثاknelt اللَيلُthe night ملتَفّاًwrapped بِبُردِin the mantle of السَرائِرِthe secrets
جثا اللَيلُ ملتَفّاً بِبُردِ السَرائِرِ
وَفيand in صَدرِهِits breast المَفؤودِheart-stricken رِعشَةُa shudder جائِرِa tyrant
وَفي صَدرِهِ المَفؤودِ رِعشَةُ جائِرِ
Night knelt, wrapped in the mantle of secrets,
The night knelt, wrapped in the mantle of secrets,
and in its stricken breast was the tremor of a tyrant.
And in its stricken breast was a tyrant's shudder.
كَأَنّيas though I بِهِwith it وَالصَمتُand silence فيin جَنَباتِهِits recesses
كَأَنّي بِهِ وَالصَمتُ في جَنَباتِهِ
مَواكِبُprocessions كُفّارٍunbelievers أَمامَbefore الضَمائِرِthe consciences
مَواكِبُ كُفّارٍ أَمامَ الضَمائِرِ
It seemed as though, with silence in all its recesses,
I picture it, with silence in its recesses,
processions of unbelievers passed before the consciences.
As processions of unbelievers before consciences.
وَفيand in القبَّةِthe dome السَوداءِblack لحفٌquilts كثيفَةٌthick
وَفي القبَّةِ السَوداءِ لحفٌ كثيفَةٌ
عَلىupon مَهدِهاtheir cradle نامَتslept عُيونُeyes الزَواهِرِthe shining stars
عَلى مَهدِها نامَت عُيونُ الزَواهِرِ
And in the black dome lay thick coverlets;
And in the black dome lie thick quilts,
upon its cradle slept the eyes of radiant stars.
Upon their cradle the eyes of shining stars have fallen asleep.
كَأَنّيas though I بِهذيwith these اللحفِthe quilts جبَّةُa robe سارِقٍa thief
كَأَنّي بِهذي اللحفِ جبَّةُ سارِقٍ
وَقدand already أُخفَيتwere hidden فيهاwithin it عُقودُnecklaces الجَواهِرِthe jewels
وَقد أُخفَيت فيها عُقودُ الجَواهِرِ
It was as though these coverlets were a thief’s robe,
I picture these quilts as a thief's robe,
with necklaces of jewels concealed within it.
With necklaces of jewels hidden within it.
هَفاfluttered شَبحُthe phantom الأَحلامِthe dreams منfrom غورِthe depths كهفِهِits cave
هَفا شَبحُ الأَحلامِ من غورِ كهفِهِ
وَقدand already عَلِقَتbecame caught أَذيالُهُits trailing hems بِالمَحاجِرِin the eye sockets
وَقد عَلِقَت أَذيالُهُ بِالمَحاجِرِ
The phantom of dreams stirred from the depths of its cave,
The phantom of dreams fluttered from the depths of its cave,
its trailing hems caught upon the eye sockets.
With its trailing hems caught in the eye sockets.
كَأَنَّas though غَطيطَthe snoring النائِمينَthe sleepers نَواسِمٌgentle breezes
كَأَنَّ غَطيطَ النائِمينَ نَواسِمٌ
يُحَرِّكُهاstirs them الصَفصافُthe willows فَوقَabove المَقابِرthe graves
يُحَرِّكُها الصَفصافُ فَوقَ المَقابِر
The sleepers’ snores seemed like gentle breezes
As though the sleepers' snoring were gentle breezes
that the willow stirred above the graves.
That the willows stir above the graves.
لَدُنwhen فَتَحتopened أُميmy mother نَوافِذَthe windows مخدعيmy bedchamber
لَدُن فَتَحت أُمي نَوافِذَ مخدعي
تمشّىstrolled إِلىto قَلبيmy heart أَريجُthe fragrance الأَزاهِرِthe blossoms
تمشّى إِلى قَلبي أَريجُ الأَزاهِرِ
Ever since my mother opened my chamber’s windows,
When my mother opened my bedchamber's windows,
the fragrance of blossoms has made its way into my heart.
The fragrance of blossoms strolled into my heart.
كَأَنَّas though مَصاريعَthe shutters الكَوىthe windows وَهيَwhile they are شُرَّعٌwide open
كَأَنَّ مَصاريعَ الكَوى وَهيَ شُرَّعٌ
جُفونُeyelids يَتيمٍan orphan موجَعِpained القَلبِthe heart حائِرِbewildered
جُفونُ يَتيمٍ موجَعِ القَلبِ حائِرِ
The casements of the windows, flung wide, seemed
As though the window shutters, standing wide open,
the eyelids of a bewildered orphan with an aching heart.
Were the eyelids of an orphan, heart-stricken and bewildered.
أَناI فيin سَريرٍa bed منof قُماشٍfabric مُطَرَّزٍembroidered
أَنا في سَريرٍ من قُماشٍ مُطَرَّزٍ
تَدَلَّتhung down عَلىon جَنبَيهِits two sides بيضُwhite السَتائِرthe curtains
تَدَلَّت عَلى جَنبَيهِ بيضُ السَتائِر
I lie upon a bed of embroidered cloth,
I am in a bed of embroidered cloth;
with white curtains drooping over either side,
White curtains hang down along its two sides.
كَأَنّيas though I ميِّتٌa dead man فيin رخامِthe marble ضَريحِهِhis tomb
كَأَنّي ميِّتٌ في رخامِ ضَريحِهِ
تكفِّنُهshrouds him شَفّافَةٌa sheer cloth منof حَرائِرِsilks
تكفِّنُه شَفّافَةٌ من حَرائِرِ
as though I lay dead within the marble of a tomb,
As though I were a dead man in the marble of his tomb,
shrouded in a diaphanous veil of silks.
Whom a sheer veil of silk enshrouds.
أَرىI see قَلَميmy pen المَظلومَwronged فيin هَدأَةِthe stillness الدُجىthe night-darkness
أَرى قَلَمي المَظلومَ في هَدأَةِ الدُجى
يَنامُsleeps مَعَwith الأَوراقِthe papers قُربَnear المحابِرِthe inkwells
يَنامُ مَعَ الأَوراقِ قُربَ المحابِرِ
I see my pen—the teacher—in the hush of night,
I see my wronged pen in the stillness of night,
sleeping with the papers beside the inkwells.
Sleeping with the papers beside the inkwells.
بِماذاof what تُراهُdo you suppose it يَحلُمُdreams الآنَnow إِنَّنيindeed I
بِماذا تُراهُ يَحلُمُ الآنَ إِنَّني
لَأَسمَعُI surely hear مِنهُfrom it مثلَlike زَفرَةِa sigh شاعِرِa poet
لَأَسمَعُ مِنهُ مثلَ زَفرَةِ شاعِرِ
What, I wonder, is it dreaming of now? Indeed, I
What do you suppose it dreams of now? Indeed, I
can hear from it something like a poet’s sigh.
Do hear from it something like a poet's sigh.
أَياO قَلَميmy pen ماwhat ضَرَّharm would it do لَوif كُنتَyou were سِكَّةًa plowshare
أَيا قَلَمي ما ضَرَّ لَو كُنتَ سِكَّةً
تَطوفُyou roam شَريفاًnobly فيin الحقولِthe fields النَواضِرِverdant
تَطوفُ شَريفاً في الحقولِ النَواضِرِ
O my pen, what harm if you were a knife,
O my pen, what harm if you were a plowshare,
roaming nobly through the verdant fields?
Roaming nobly through the verdant fields?
تحيّيكَgreet you أَسرابُflocks الطُيورِthe birds وَتَنحَنيand bow
تحيّيكَ أَسرابُ الطُيورِ وَتَنحَني
أَمامَكbefore you أَعناقُnecks الزُهورِthe flowers السَواحِرِenchanting
أَمامَك أَعناقُ الزُهورِ السَواحِرِ
Flocks of birds would greet you,
Flocks of birds would greet you, and bowing
and before you the necks of enchanting flowers would bend.
Before you would be the necks of enchanting flowers.
أَياO قَلَميmy pen ماwhat ضَرَّharm would it do لَوif كُنتَyou were سِكَّةًa plowshare
أَيا قَلَمي ما ضَرَّ لَو كُنتَ سِكَّةً
تخلِّدُyou immortalize ليfor me بَينَamong الجِبالِthe mountains مَآثِريmy noble deeds
تخلِّدُ لي بَينَ الجِبالِ مَآثِري
O my pen, what harm if you were a knife,
O my pen, what harm if you were a plowshare,
preserving my exploits for me among the mountains?
Immortalizing my noble deeds among the mountains,
فَأَرفَعُso I raise نَفسيmyself عالِياًhigh بَعدafter خَفضَةٍabasement
فَأَرفَعُ نَفسي عالِياً بَعد خَفضَةٍ
وَتُظهِرُand you reveal أَسمىthe loftiest فيin السُهولِthe plains مَفاخِريmy glories
وَتُظهِرُ أَسمى في السُهولِ مَفاخِري
Then I would raise myself high after being brought low,
So I could lift myself high after being brought low,
and my proud deeds would spread my name across the plains.
And you could reveal my loftiest glories in the plains?
وَياand O صُحُفاًpages يَجريflows مدادُthe ink عَواطِفيmy feelings
وَيا صُحُفاً يَجري مدادُ عَواطِفي
عَلَيهاover them وَيُلقيهاand casts them الرياostentation فيinto المَساخِرِmockery
عَلَيها وَيُلقيها الريا في المَساخِرِ
O pages, over which the ink of my feelings runs,
And O pages, the ink of my feelings runs
while ostentation casts you among objects of ridicule!
Over you, and ostentation casts you into ridicule.
فَقَدتُكِmay I lose you هَلّاwhy not كُنتِyou were أَرضاًearth خَصيبَةًfertile
فَقَدتُكِ هَلّا كُنتِ أَرضاً خَصيبَةً
يَسيلُflows عَلَيهاover it منfrom جباهِbrows الجَبابِرِthe mighty
يَسيلُ عَلَيها من جباهِ الجَبابِرِ
Gladly would I give you up, if only you were fertile earth
May I lose you! Would that you were fertile earth,
over which the sweat of mighty men flows,
Where sweat flows from the brows of the mighty.
يُذيبُmelts عَلَيهاupon it الفَجرُthe dawn كَوثَرKawthar (a paradisal river) طُهرِهِits purity
يُذيبُ عَلَيها الفَجرُ كَوثَر طُهرِهِ
أَرَقَّgentler وَأَصفىand purer مَنهَلاًa spring منthan كَواثِريmy bountiful streams
أَرَقَّ وَأَصفى مَنهَلاً من كَواثِري
and dawn poured upon it the Kawthar of its purity—
Upon it dawn melts the Kawthar of its purity,
a fountain finer and clearer than all my Kawthars.
A gentler, purer spring than my own Kawthars.
فَكَوثَرُهُfor its bountiful stream يُحيىgives life to الفَقيرَthe poor وَكَوثَريand my bountiful stream
فَكَوثَرُهُ يُحيى الفَقيرَ وَكَوثَري
يُثيرُstirs حَياةًlife فيin جَمادِlifeless matter الدَفاتِرِthe notebooks
يُثيرُ حَياةً في جَمادِ الدَفاتِرِ
For its Kawthar revives the poor, whereas my Kawthar
For its Kawthar gives life to the poor, while my Kawthar
stirs life in the lifeless matter of notebooks.
Stirs life in the lifeless matter of notebooks.
أَياO قَلَميmy pen نمsleep فيin الخُمولِobscurity وَلاand do not تُفِقawaken
أَيا قَلَمي نم في الخُمولِ وَلا تُفِق
وَياand O صُحُفيmy pages ناميsleep فَقَدfor already نامَhas slept خاطِريmy mind
وَيا صُحُفي نامي فَقَد نامَ خاطِري
O pen, sleep in obscurity and do not wake;
O my pen, sleep in obscurity and do not awaken,
O my pages, sleep, for my mind has fallen asleep.
And O my pages, sleep, for my mind has fallen asleep.
وَياand O فَجرُdawn لاdo not تَطلعrise عَلَيَّupon me فَفيfor in الدُجىthe darkness
وَيا فَجرُ لا تَطلع عَلَيَّ فَفي الدُجى
مَدافِنُtombs فيهاin them تَستكنُّlie hidden شَواعِريmy senses
مَدافِنُ فيها تَستكنُّ شَواعِري
O dawn, do not rise upon me, for in the darkness
And O dawn, do not rise upon me, for in the darkness
are graves wherein my feelings lie still.
Are tombs in which my senses lie hidden.
Sol 6.1