هَل إِنَّ فِكرَك من يراعِك أَسرَعُ

هَل إِنَّ فِكرَك من يراعِك أَسرَعُ

أَم إِنَّ نَثرَك من نَظيمِكَ أَبدَعُ

أَم إِنَّ نَثرَك من نَظيمِكَ أَبدَعُ

Is your thought swifter than your pen,

Is your prose swifter than your verse, or your verse more creative than your prose?

or is your prose more exquisite than your verse?

God has gifted you with talent that amazes the minds,

لِلَّهِ مَوهِبَةٌ يحارُ بِها الحجى

لِلَّهِ مَوهِبَةٌ يحارُ بِها الحجى

أَرجُ الشعورِ بِروضِها يَتَضَوَّعُ

أَرجُ الشعورِ بِروضِها يَتَضَوَّعُ

By God, what a gift that bewilders reason!

I yearn for the meadows of feeling through its fragrance.

The fragrance of feeling wafts through its garden.

O son of spring, and in spring there are flowers,

يا اِبنَ الرَبيعِ وَفي الرَبيعِ أَزاهِرٌ

يا اِبنَ الرَبيعِ وَفي الرَبيعِ أَزاهِرٌ

مِثل الكَواكِبِ في سَمائِكِ تَلمَعُ

مِثل الكَواكِبِ في سَمائِكِ تَلمَعُ

O son of spring, in spring there are blossoms

Like stars sparkling in your sky.

that shine like stars in your sky.

How did you turn away from verse, preferring

كَيفَ اِنثَنَيتَ عَن النَظيمِ مُخَيِّراً

كَيفَ اِنثَنَيتَ عَن النَظيمِ مُخَيِّراً

وَتَركتَ شعركَ في دماغِكَ يَهجَعُ

وَتَركتَ شعركَ في دماغِكَ يَهجَعُ

How did you turn away from verse by choice,

To leave your poetry sleeping in your mind?

and leave your poetry slumbering in your brain?

O son of imagination, and in imagination there is truth,

يا اِبنَ الخَيالِ وَفي الخَيالِ حَقيقَةٌ

يا اِبنَ الخَيالِ وَفي الخَيالِ حَقيقَةٌ

بصرُ الوجودِ أَمامها يَتَخَشَّعُ

بصرُ الوجودِ أَمامها يَتَخَشَّعُ

O son of imagination, in imagination lies a truth

Before which the sight of existence bows down in awe.

before which existence's gaze bows in reverence.

How often have you signed your verse with a melody,

كَم مَرَّةٍ وَقَّعتَ شِعرَكَ نغمَةً

كَم مَرَّةٍ وَقَّعتَ شِعرَكَ نغمَةً

وَاللَيلُ أَنصَتَ مُصغياً يَتَسَمَّعُ

وَاللَيلُ أَنصَتَ مُصغياً يَتَسَمَّعُ

How often you set your poetry to a melody,

And the night listened spellbound.

while the night hushed, listening, intent on hearing!

O songster of the valley, and in the valley there is passion

يا أَرغنَ الوادي وَفي الوادي هَوى

يا أَرغنَ الوادي وَفي الوادي هَوى

يَصبو إِلَيكَ فُؤادُهُ وَالأَضلُعُ

يَصبو إِلَيكَ فُؤادُهُ وَالأَضلُعُ

O organ of the valley, in the valley there is love;

That flows toward you, and ribs and breasts.

its heart and ribs yearn for you.

You taught it the song of yearning in farewell,

لَقَّنتَهُ شَدوَ الهِيامِ مودِّعاً

لَقَّنتَهُ شَدوَ الهِيامِ مودِّعاً

وَرَحلتَ عَنهُ وَالعُيونُ تودَّعُ

وَرَحلتَ عَنهُ وَالعُيونُ تودَّعُ

You taught it the song of passion, bidding farewell,

And you left it, while eyes bid farewell.

and departed from it, as the eyes were bid farewell.

A sympathetic one, not cold or aloof,

أَشفيق لا بَردى وَلا فَيحاؤُه

أَشفيق لا بَردى وَلا فَيحاؤُه

إِن كانَ بَرَدونيُّ وَحيك يدمعُ

إِن كانَ بَرَدونيُّ وَحيك يدمعُ

O Shafiq, there is neither Barada nor its Fayha,

If he is one of Baroda, and your love makes him weep.

if the Bardawni of your inspiration weeps.

Hear the moaning coming from its depths,

إِسمَع أَنيناً صادِراً من غورِهِ

إِسمَع أَنيناً صادِراً من غورِهِ

فَإِذا سَمعتَ أَنينَهُ تَتَوَجَّعُ

فَإِذا سَمعتَ أَنينَهُ تَتَوَجَّعُ

Hear a moan issuing from its depths;

When you hear its moan, you will hurt.

then, when you hear its moan, you will ache.

Do not cut the strings of a lyre

لا تَقطعِ الأَوتارَ من قيثارةٍ

لا تَقطعِ الأَوتارَ من قيثارةٍ

نَغَماتُها في الشِعرِ لا تَتَقَطَّعُ

نَغَماتُها في الشِعرِ لا تَتَقَطَّعُ

Do not sever the strings of a lyre

Whose melodies in poetry do not cease.

whose melodies never cease in poetry.