مَائِتٌdead أَنْتَyou؟ مَاذَاwhat دَهَاكَbefell you؟ لِمَاذَاwhy
مَائِتٌ أَنْتَ؟ مَاذَا دَهَاكَ؟ لِمَاذَا
مُتَّyou died وَالعُمْرُand life فِيin أَوَانِthe season of افْتِرَارِهْits smiling
مُتَّ وَالعُمْرُ فِي أَوَانِ افْتِرَارِهْ
Are you dead? What befell you? Why
Who are you? Why are you here? Why
did you die while life was in its season of smiles?
Did you die while life was in its prime?
شَبَحُthe specter of المَوتِdeath مُرْعِبٌterrifying يَبْعَثُarouses الهَولَdread
شَبَحُ المَوتِ مُرْعِبٌ يَبْعَثُ الهَولَ
وَيَصْبُوand longs كُلٌّeveryone إلَىfor إِدْبَارِهْits retreat
وَيَصْبُو كُلٌّ إلَى إِدْبَارِهْ
The specter of death is terrifying, arousing dread,
The specter of death terrifies, evoking panic,
and everyone longs for it to turn away.
And everyone flees to hide.
كَيفَhow أَحْبَبْتَهُyou loved it، وَمَاذَاand what تَصَبَّاكَbeguiled you
كَيفَ أَحْبَبْتَهُ، وَمَاذَا تَصَبَّاكَ
فَأَسْرَعْتَso you hastened فِيin اخْتِيَارِchoosing جِوارِهْits company
فَأَسْرَعْتَ فِي اخْتِيَارِ جِوارِهْ
How did you come to love it, and what beguiled you
How did you come to love it? What drew you
so that you hastened to choose its company,
To hasten in choosing its company?
بَاسِمًاsmiling لاعْتِنَاقِهِto embrace it وَمَشَوقًاand longing
بَاسِمًا لاعْتِنَاقِهِ وَمَشَوقًا
لِلِقَاهُto meet it وَمُوجِسًاand apprehensive مِنْof فِرَارِهْits fleeing
لِلِقَاهُ وَمُوجِسًا مِنْ فِرَارِهْ
smiling to embrace it, and longing
Eagerly embracing it, yearning
to meet it, and fearing it might flee?
To meet it, dreading to flee it?
أَهِيَwas it الرُّوحُthe spirit فِيكَwithin you جَازَتْpassed إِلَىto حَدٍّa limit
أَهِيَ الرُّوحُ فِيكَ جَازَتْ إِلَى حَدٍّ
تَكِلُّfall short العُقُولُminds عَنْof إِظْهَارِهْrevealing it
تَكِلُّ العُقُولُ عَنْ إِظْهَارِهْ
Was it the spirit within you that reached a limit
Is it the soul in you that went too far
that minds fall short of revealing?
For minds to comprehend?
أَمْor هُوَit الجِسْمُthe body ضَاقَwas too narrow عَنْfor ضَمِّholding نَفْسٍa soul
أَمْ هُوَ الجِسْمُ ضَاقَ عَنْ ضَمِّ نَفْسٍ
حُرَّةٍfree حَمَّلَتْهُburdened it فَوْقَbeyond اقْتِدَارِهْits capacity
حُرَّةٍ حَمَّلَتْهُ فَوْقَ اقْتِدَارِهْ
Or was it the body, too narrow to hold a soul
Or is it the body, too confined
free, which burdened it beyond its strength?
For a free spirit it was burdened beyond its capacity?
لَسْتَyou are not مَيْتًاdead. بَلْrather أَنْتَyou حَيٌّalive وَإِنْand even if أَلْقَىcast
لَسْتَ مَيْتًا. بَلْ أَنْتَ حَيٌّ وَإِنْ أَلْقَى
عَلَيْكَupon you المَمَاتُdeath ظِلَّthe shadow of اصْفِرَارِهْits pallor
عَلَيْكَ المَمَاتُ ظِلَّ اصْفِرَارِهْ
You are not dead; rather, you are alive, though cast
You are not dead. Rather, you are alive, though
upon you is death's shadow of pallor.
Death cast its pallid shadow upon you.
إِنَّمَاonly المَرْءُa person خَالِدٌimmortal بِالَّذِيthrough what يُبْقِيِهhe leaves it behind
إِنَّمَا المَرْءُ خَالِدٌ بِالَّذِي يُبْقِيِه
فِيamong العَالَمِينَhumankind مِنْof آثَارِهْhis traces
فِي العَالَمِينَ مِنْ آثَارِهْ
A person is immortal only through what he leaves
A person lives on through what he leaves
among humankind as traces of himself.
Behind in both worlds - his traces.
كَمْhow many تُوارِيconceal القُبُورُthe graves حَيًّاa living person وَكَمْand how many يَمْشِيwalks
كَمْ تُوارِي القُبُورُ حَيًّا وَكَمْ يَمْشِي
عَلَىupon الأَرْضِthe earth مَيْتٌa dead person لَمْhave not تُوارِهْconcealed him
عَلَى الأَرْضِ مَيْتٌ لَمْ تُوارِهْ
How many of the living the graves conceal, and how many walk
How many graves hide the living! How many
upon the earth—the dead whom they have not concealed!
Walk the earth, dead, with no grave!
إِنَّمَاonly القَبْرُthe grave رَاحَةُthe rest of الجِسْمِthe body مِنْfrom
إِنَّمَا القَبْرُ رَاحَةُ الجِسْمِ مِنْ
آلَامِهِits pains وَالفُؤادِand the heart مِنْfrom أكْدَارِهْits troubles
آلَامِهِ وَالفُؤادِ مِنْ أكْدَارِهْ
The grave is only the body's rest from
The grave is but the body's rest from
its pains, and the heart's from its troubles.
Its pain, the heart's from its sorrows.
وَوُجُودُand the existence of الإِنْسَانِhumankind فِيin الكَوْنِthe universe سِرٌّa mystery
وَوُجُودُ الإِنْسَانِ فِي الكَوْنِ سِرٌّ
وَكَذَاكَand likewise الْخُلُودِimmortality مِنْamong أَسْرَارِهْits mysteries
وَكَذَاكَ الْخُلُودِ مِنْ أَسْرَارِهْ
And human existence in the universe is a mystery,
A person's existence in the cosmos is a mystery.
and immortality, too, is among its mysteries.
So too is eternity, one of its secrets.
كَبِّرِيproclaim God's greatness يَاO قُبُورُgraves جَاءَكِcame to you ضَيفٌa guest
كَبِّرِي يَا قُبُورُ جَاءَكِ ضَيفٌ
هُوَhe غَيْرُunlike الأَحْيَاءِthe living فِيin أَطْوَارِهْhis ways
هُوَ غَيْرُ الأَحْيَاءِ فِي أَطْوَارِهْ
Cry 'God is greatest,' O graves: a guest has come to you,
Grow larger, O graves! A guest comes
unlike the living in his ways.
Unlike the living in all aspects.
يَذْهَبُgo النَّاسُpeople مُرْغَمِينَagainst their will إِلَىto القَبْرthe grave
يَذْهَبُ النَّاسُ مُرْغَمِينَ إِلَى القَبْر
وَقَدْand indeed جَاءَhe came بِمِلْءِwith the fullness of اخْتِيِارِهْhis choice
وَقَدْ جَاءَ بِمِلْءِ اخْتِيِارِهْ
People go unwillingly to the grave,
People go to the grave against their will,
yet he came of his own free will.
While he came of his own choice.
شَاعِرٌa poet لَاnot يَرَىsees الْحَيَاةlife سِوَىother than لَيْلٍa night
شَاعِرٌ لَا يَرَى الْحَيَاة سِوَى لَيْلٍ
بَهِيمُpitch-black والمَوْتُand death مِنْamong أَسْحَارِهْits predawn hours
بَهِيمُ والمَوْتُ مِنْ أَسْحَارِهْ
A poet who sees life as nothing but a night
A poet who saw life only as a night
pitch-black, with death among its predawn hours.
Of beastliness, and death the dawn.
وَخَطِيبٌand an orator أَلْقَىdelivered عَلَىupon مِنْبَرِthe pulpit of الْمَوتِdeath
وَخَطِيبٌ أَلْقَى عَلَى مِنْبَرِ الْمَوتِ
دُرُوسًاlessons كَبِيرَةًgreat بِانْتِحَارِهْthrough his suicide
دُرُوسًا كَبِيرَةً بِانْتِحَارِهْ
And an orator who delivered from death's pulpit
A speaker who delivered great lessons
great lessons through his suicide.
From the pulpit of death by his suicide.
هَجَرَhe abandoned العَيْشَlife بِاحْتِقَارٍwith contempt وَهَلْand is there فِيin العَيْشِlife
هَجَرَ العَيْشَ بِاحْتِقَارٍ وَهَلْ فِي العَيْشِ
شَيْءٌanything يَدْعُوcalls لِغَيْرِfor other than احْتِقَارِهْcontempt for it
شَيْءٌ يَدْعُو لِغَيْرِ احْتِقَارِهْ
He abandoned life with contempt; and is there in life
He shunned life with disdain - is there in life
anything that calls for anything but contempt for it?
Anything that merits other than disdain?
كُلُّall مَاthat which يحْتَوِيهِcontains it هَمٌّworry فَهَمٌّand then worry
كُلُّ مَا يحْتَوِيهِ هَمٌّ فَهَمٌّ
يِنْقَضِيpasses away بَينَbetween لَيْلِهِits night وَنَهَارِهْand its day
يِنْقَضِي بَينَ لَيْلِهِ وَنَهَارِهْ
All it contains is worry after worry,
All it contains is sorrow upon sorrow
passing away between its night and its day.
Consumed between its night and day.
إِنَّindeed عُمْرَthe life of الشَّقَاءِmisery عُمْرٌa life طَوِيلٌlong
إِنَّ عُمْرَ الشَّقَاءِ عُمْرٌ طَوِيلٌ
وَمُصِيبٌand right مَنْthe one who يَعْتَنِيtakes care بِاخْتِصَارِهْto shorten it
وَمُصِيبٌ مَنْ يَعْتَنِي بِاخْتِصَارِهْ
Indeed, a life of misery is a long life,
The lifespan of misery is long.
and right is he who takes care to shorten it.
Wretched is he who busies himself shortening it.
لَيْسَthere is no عَارٌshame فِيin الانْتِحَارِsuicide مشِينٌdisgraceful
لَيْسَ عَارٌ فِي الانْتِحَارِ مشِينٌ
فهوَfor it is خيرٌbetter مِنَthan البَقَاءِliving on وَعَارِهْand its shame
فهوَ خيرٌ مِنَ البَقَاءِ وَعَارِهْ
There is no shameful stigma in suicide,
There is no shame in suicide - it is better
for it is better than living on with its shame.
Than living in humiliation and shame.
مَاno sooner دَعَوْتُI summoned البيانَeloquence حَتَّىthan عَصَانِيit defied me
مَا دَعَوْتُ البيانَ حَتَّى عَصَانِي
مُذْsince درىit learned بانقطاعِof the ending of عمرِthe life of هَزَارِهْits nightingale
مُذْ درى بانقطاعِ عمرِ هَزَارِهْ
No sooner had I summoned eloquence than it defied me,
I did not summon eloquence until it disobeyed me
since it learned that its nightingale's life had been cut short.
Once I knew my playful life was nearing its end.
يَاalas لَشعرِيfor my verse يَرْثِيmourns ضَيَاعَthe loss of قَوَافِيهِits rhymes
يَا لَشعرِي يَرْثِي ضَيَاعَ قَوَافِيهِ
وَعودِيand my lute يَبْكِيweeps عَلَىover أَوْتَارِهْits strings!
وَعودِي يَبْكِي عَلَى أَوْتَارِهْ!
Alas for my verse, mourning the loss of its rhymes,
Oh my poetry, mourning the loss of its rhymes!
and my lute, weeping over its strings!
My lute weeping for its strings!
Sol 6.1