هذه الشمس حلت بالحمل — Ibn Khatma

هذه الشَّمسُ حَلَّتْ بالحَمَلْ

ومُحَيّا الزَّمانِ الحالي

This sun has entered Aries,

and time's adorned countenance—

قد تَجلَّى سَناهُ في كمال

فاسقِني أكؤسي واملا لي

its radiance has shone forth in all its perfection.

So serve me my cups, and fill them for me,

ولْتُدِرْها رَحِيقاً كالذَّهبْ

صِيغَ في قالَبٍ من نُورِ

and pass it round, pure wine like gold,

cast in a mold of light.

قد تحلَّت بأسلاكِ الحَبَبْ

واكتستْ حُلَّة المهْجُورِ

It has adorned itself with strings of bubbles,

and donned the robe of one forsaken:

جوهرٌ في نُضارٍ من لهبْ

قد تلاقَتْ على تَقْديرِ

a jewel in gold made of flame.

They have come together in due measure.

فاسقِنِيْها ودَعْ من قَدْ عَذَلْ

وَيْكَ مالِي وللعُذَّالِ

So give it to me to drink, and leave whoever has reproached me.

Fie on you! What have I to do with reproachers

في هوى أهيفٍ بدعِ الجَمال

بابليٍّ رخيِّ البالِ

in loving a slender one, a marvel of beauty,

a Babylonian, easy of mind?

جُمْلَةُ الأُنسِ في رَشْفِ الطِّلا

وودادِ الملاحِ الغِيْدِ

All delight lies in sipping wine,

and in loving the fair and graceful.

فاسقِني صاحِبي واشرَبْ عَلى

وُدِّ ذا الشَّادِنِ الأُملودِ

So pour me wine, my friend, and drink to

the love of this supple young gazelle,

شقُّ بدرِ الدُّجا نَجْلِ العُلا

بُغْيَتي منتهى مَقْصودي

twin of night's full moon, offspring of eminence,

my desire, the utmost of all I seek.

يالَهُ مَلْكُ حُسْنٍ لو عَدَلْ

في شَجٍ مُفرطِ البَلْبالِ

What a king of beauty—if only he were just

to one grieving, overwhelmed by anguish,

لم يَذُقْ قَطُّ طعماً للوِصال

دائم الدَّهرِ في أوْجالِ

who has never once tasted union,

forever beset by fears.

ياهِلالاً لِقلبي أشْرَفا

هَلْ سَبيلٌ إلى لُقياكا

O crescent that has risen before my heart,

is there a way to meet you?

وقَضِيباً بِعَقْلي قَدْ هَفا

هَلْ حُنُوٌّ عَلى مُضْناكا

And O bough that has swept my reason away,

is there tenderness for the one you have worn down?

ما تُراعِي مُحِبّاً مُدْنَفا

تَحْتَ ذَيْلِ الدُّجا يَرْعاكا

You do not heed a lover laid low by illness,

who, beneath the hem of darkness, watches over you,

مُغْرمَ القَلْبِ مجروحَ المُقَلْ

دَمعُ عَيْنَيْهِ في اسْتِرْسالِ

his heart love-stricken, his eyes wounded,

the tears of his eyes flowing without cease.

قد أبَى ما دَهاهُ من خَبال

أنْ يُرى عن أساهُ خالِ

The madness that has befallen him has refused

to let him be seen free of his grief.

مَن نَصيرُ المُعَنَّى المُتلفِ

لَيْتَهُ لم يكنْ لا كانا

Who will help the tormented one, ruined—

would that he had never existed, may he never have been!—

مِنْ هوى ظَبْيِ أُنسٍ أهيَفِ

لم يَدَعْ عنهُ سُلْوانا

by love of a tame, slender-waisted gazelle

who has left him no solace?

يَنْثني للصَّبا في مِطْرَفِ

قَدْ سَما حُسْنُه وازْدانا

He sways to the east wind in a bordered mantle;

his beauty has risen high and grown resplendent.

يا لِقَدٍّ عَلى ذاكَ الكَفَلْ

مِثْلِ غُصْنِ النَّقا المُنْهال

Oh, what a figure above that rump,

like a bough on a crumbling sand dune,

ولِمَرْأى تعالى عَن مِثالْ

في جمالٍ وفي إجْمالِ

and what a sight, exalted beyond compare,

in beauty and in grace!

فَقُلْتُ لمّا جَفاني واعْتَدى

في صُدودي وفي إبْعادي

So I said, when he shunned me and went too far

in rebuffing me and banishing me:

يا شِهاباً لِسَعْدي قَدْ بَدا

هَلْ لِمَرْآكَ مِنْ إسْعادِ

“O shooting star that has appeared for my good fortune,

is there any joy in seeing you?”

فانْثَنَى هازئاً بي مُنْشداً

يا لَهُ مِنْ رَخيمٍ شادِ

Then he turned, mocking me, and sang:

oh, what a mellow-voiced singer he was!

يا عَجَبْ كِفْ تِرِدْ وَصْلي سَهَلْ

وَأنا هُو السِّماك العالي

“How strange! How can you expect union with me to be easy,

when I am the lofty Simāk?

قد نُصِبْ رُمْح قَدِّي فِي اعتدالْ

نَرْمِ بِهِ كُلّ قَلْباً سَالِ

The spear of my stature has been set upright;

we hurl it at every carefree heart.”