بُكاهُ عَلى ما في الضَميرِ دَليلُ

بُكاهُ عَلى ما في الضَميرِ دَليلُ

وَلَكِنَّ مَولاهُ عَلَيهِ بَخيلُ

وَلَكِنَّ مَولاهُ عَلَيهِ بَخيلُ

His weeping is a sign of what lies within the heart,

His tears bespeak the secrets held within

Yet its owner is sparing with it.

Though to his lord he's ever kith and kin

وَلَي كَبِدٌ أَمسى يُقَطِّعُهُ الهَوى

وَلَي كَبِدٌ أَمسى يُقَطِّعُهُ الهَوى

وَدَمعٌ عَصى الأَجفانَ وَهُوَ يَسيلُ

وَدَمعٌ عَصى الأَجفانَ وَهُوَ يَسيلُ

And I have a liver that passion now tears apart,

A heart is torn by yearning's jagged shards

And tears that have defied the eyelids as they flow.

As tears disobey the lids that tightly pin

فَيا عاذِلي لا تُحزِنَنّي بِغادَتي

فَيا عاذِلي لا تُحزِنَنّي بِغادَتي

فَما ذاكَ بَينَ العاشِقَينَ جَميلُ

فَما ذاكَ بَينَ العاشِقَينَ جَميلُ

So, my reproacher, do not grieve me over my graceful maiden;

So chide me not for loving her, my friend

For that is not seemly between two lovers.

For among lovers, that is no great sin

فَهَل لِيَ إِلّا أَن أَموتَ بِحُبِّها

فَهَل لِيَ إِلّا أَن أَموتَ بِحُبِّها

ضَياعاً وَلا يَدري بِذاكَ خَليلُ

ضَياعاً وَلا يَدري بِذاكَ خَليلُ

So what can I do but die of love for her,

Shall I but die in ardor for her sake

In vain, while no dear friend knows of it?

While my companion stays oblivious in?

إِلَيكَ اِمتَطَينا العيسَ تَنفُخُ في السُرى

إِلَيكَ اِمتَطَينا العيسَ تَنفُخُ في السُرى

وَلِلَّيلِ طَرفٌ بِالصَباحِ كَحيلُ

وَلِلَّيلِ طَرفٌ بِالصَباحِ كَحيلُ

Toward you we rode the pale camels, panting through the night journey,

To you we spur the stallions, breathing gusts

And night had an eye lined with dawn as kohl.

As night's eyelash is lined with kohl pencil thin

وَفِتيانِ هَيجٍ باذِلينَ نُفوسَهُم

وَفِتيانِ هَيجٍ باذِلينَ نُفوسَهُم

كَأَنَّهُمُ تَحتَ الرِماحِ وُعولُ

كَأَنَّهُمُ تَحتَ الرِماحِ وُعولُ

And young men of battle, offering up their lives,

Brave boys made heedless by their passion's heat

As though, beneath the spears, they were ibex.

As though beneath the spearheads they had been

وَجَرَّدتُ مِن أَغمادِهِ كُلَّ مُرهَفٍ

وَجَرَّدتُ مِن أَغمادِهِ كُلَّ مُرهَفٍ

إِذا ما اِنتَضَتهُ الكَفُّ كادَ يَسيلُ

إِذا ما اِنتَضَتهُ الكَفُّ كادَ يَسيلُ

And I unsheathed each keen blade from its scabbard,

I bared the blades from each embroidered sheath

Which, when the hand draws it, almost flows.

That drips, once drawn by grasping hands, blood-red within

تَرى فَوقَ مِتنَيهِ الفِرِندَ كَأَنَّما

تَرى فَوقَ مِتنَيهِ الفِرِندَ كَأَنَّما

تَنَفَّسَ فيهِ القَينُ وَهُوَ ثَقيلُ

تَنَفَّسَ فيهِ القَينُ وَهُوَ ثَقيلُ

You see the watered pattern on its two faces, as though

Atop his saddle sits the lance, as though

The smith had breathed upon it with a heavy breath.

The heavy spear's exhaled its breath therein

فَأَعلَمتُهُ كَيفَ التَصافُحُ بِالقَنا

فَأَعلَمتُهُ كَيفَ التَصافُحُ بِالقَنا

وَكَيفَ تُرَوّى البيضُ وَهيَ مُحولُ

وَكَيفَ تُرَوّى البيضُ وَهيَ مُحولُ

So I taught it how to shake hands with spears,

I taught him how to grasp the spear's smooth shaft

And how white blades are watered when parched.

And wet the blade with death-dew harsh and grim

سَريعٌ إِلى الأَعداءِ أَمّا جَنانُهُ

سَريعٌ إِلى الأَعداءِ أَمّا جَنانُهُ

فَماضٍ وَأَمّا وَجهُهُ فَجَميلُ

فَماضٍ وَأَمّا وَجهُهُ فَجَميلُ

Swift toward the enemies—as for its heart,

Swift he is to make enemies expire

It is keen; and as for its face, it is fair.

Though his visage stays gentle, pure and keen