رواقك ذا لا بل وليجةُ خادرٍ

رواقك ذا لا بل وليجةُ خادرٍ

بل الليثُ يخطو دونه خطوَ قاصر

بل الليثُ يخطو دونه خطوَ قاصر

This pavilion of yours—no, rather a lion's inner lair;

Your porches though unpeopled now have been

Nay, before it even the lion strides like one outmatched.

The lion's wonted walk; he scarce could stray

لكَ العسكرُ الجرَّار والهيبة التي

لكَ العسكرُ الجرَّار والهيبة التي

مخافتُها تكفيكَ جرَّ العساكر

مخافتُها تكفيكَ جرَّ العساكر

Yours are the mighty host and the majesty whose

Beyond their grounds. Yours is the mighty host,

Dread spares you the need to march armies forth.

The fear of which suffices, saving all

خطبتَ الوغى بالرمح والسيف شاغلاً

خطبتَ الوغى بالرمح والسيف شاغلاً

لسانيهما بين الكلى والمغافر

لسانيهما بين الكلى والمغافر

You addressed battle with spear and sword, keeping

The toil of war. With lance and sword you challenged

Their two tongues busy among kidneys and helmets.

And set them wielding speech 'twixt flank and neck.

فسيفُكَ فيها ناثرٌ غير ناظمِ

فسيفُكَ فيها ناثرٌ غير ناظمِ

ورمحُك فيها ناظمٌ غير ناثر

ورمحُك فيها ناظمٌ غير ناثر

So your sword there scatters, rather than strings together,

Your sword therein confused, no pattern set,

And your spear there strings together, rather than scatters.

Your lance therein a pattern formed, naught strewn.

وكم من عدوٍّ قد خلقتَ لقلبه

وكم من عدوٍّ قد خلقتَ لقلبه

جناحين من ذعرٍ ورعبٍ مخامر

جناحين من ذعرٍ ورعبٍ مخامر

And for many an enemy's heart you have fashioned

What swarms of foes your valour has created

Two wings of panic and pervading terror.

For hearts with wings of panic and dismay!

فهابكَ حتَّى ساعة السلم لم يكن

فهابكَ حتَّى ساعة السلم لم يكن

ليلقاكَ إلاَّ في حشاً منكَ طائر

ليلقاكَ إلاَّ في حشاً منكَ طائر

So he feared you: even in the hour of peace, he would not

E'en in peace were you met with but in lands

Meet you save with a heart taking flight in fear of you.

You had despoiled, where you were free to haste.

وخافكَ حتَّى ليس يخلو بسرِّه

وخافكَ حتَّى ليس يخلو بسرِّه

كأَنَّ رقيباً منك خلفَ السرائر

كأَنَّ رقيباً منك خلفَ السرائر

And he feared you so much he could not be alone with his secrets,

And so they feared you that no secret could

As though a watcher of yours stood behind his inmost thoughts.

Be breathed unless yourself stood not behind.

طلعتَ ثنيَّات التجارب كلّها

طلعتَ ثنيَّات التجارب كلّها

فصرتَ ترى في الورد ما في المصادر

فصرتَ ترى في الورد ما في المصادر

You have climbed all the winding passes of experience,

You culled all fruits that ripen with experience

So, on the approach to water, you see what the return will bring.

So that you spy what's hid from common eyes.

رويدَ الأعادي إنَّ حزمك عودُه

رويدَ الأعادي إنَّ حزمك عودُه

على الغمز يوماً لا يلينُ لهاصر

على الغمز يوماً لا يلينُ لهاصر

Give your enemies respite: the wood of your resolve

Gently, my rivals! His resolve is like

Will never yield under pressure to one who would bend it.

His sword's first stroke, it never will be bent.

وإن جهلتْ يوماً حسامكَ فلتسلْ

وإن جهلتْ يوماً حسامكَ فلتسلْ

بها هامَها عن عهدها بالمغافر

بها هامَها عن عهدها بالمغافر

And if they ever fail to recognize your blade, then question

And if his sword should once forget its cunning,

Their heads with it about their acquaintance with helmets.

With its first stroke let it lop off his head.

لك القلمُ النفَّاث في عقد النهى

لك القلمُ النفَّاث في عقد النهى

بديعَ بيانٍ من معانٍ سواحر

بديعَ بيانٍ من معانٍ سواحر

Yours is the pen that blows into the knots of reason

Yours is the rapid pen in the decree

Wondrous eloquence from enchanting meanings.

That parts and knits again things far apart,

فوالله ما أدري أهلْ نثرُ ساحر

فوالله ما أدري أهلْ نثرُ ساحر

على الطرس يبدو منه أو سحر ناثر

على الطرس يبدو منه أو سحر ناثر

So, by God, I cannot tell: is it a sorcerer's prose

So artfully no skill can separate

That appears from it upon the page, or a prose writer's sorcery?

The prose it writes from poetry it embellishes.

وفكرُكَ يوحي أيّ نظمٍ وإنَّها

وفكرُكَ يوحي أيّ نظمٍ وإنَّها

لقولُ كريم جلَّ لا قولُ شاعر

لقولُ كريم جلَّ لا قولُ شاعر

And your thought inspires—what verse!—and indeed it

Your thought seems verse; and yet - I know not how -

Is the speech of a noble, exalted one, not a poet's speech.

'Tis noble speech, no speech that poets utter.