وَلِمَ القَوَافِي لا تَحُطُّ رِحَالَها

وتَخرّ مِنْ زَهْوٍ إِلَى الأعْنَاقِ

Why do rhymes not alight

And bow from the neck's bloom

إنْ تَأتِكُمْ صَدَرَتْ يُطَوِّقُ جِيدَهَا

دُرٌّ، وحُسْنُ مَكارمِ الأَخْلاقِ

If a pearl comes to you, circling her neck

A gem and the beauty of noble manners

يَا شِعْرُ هَلْ تَشكُو وَصَالِحُ بَيْنَنا!

يَرْوِي قَوَافِيكَ فَنِعْمَ السَّاقِي

O poetry, do you complain while Salih is between us

He quenches your rhymes, what a great cupbearer

بَلِّغْ سُليّمانَ الْحَكِيم، وجُنْدَهُ

أنْ غَاصَ صَالِحُنَا إِلَى الأعماقِ

Tell Solomon the Wise and his troops

That our Salih has dived into the depths

فَأَتَى بِكُلِّ نَفِيسةٍ مَكْنونَةٍ

في صَدْرِهِ، فَطَغَتْ عَلَى الآفَاقِ

He came with every precious hidden

In his chest, overwhelming horizons

يَا شَاعِرَاً أَتُرَاكَ تَنْظِمُ بَلْسَمَاً

أَمْ ذِيْ تَرَانِيمٌ وَرَقْيُ الرَّاقِي!

O poet, do I see you composing a balm

Or is it lyrics and the softness of the gentle

أَمْ ذِيْ تَمَائِمُكُمْ فَلَسْتُ أَخَالُهَا

إِلاّ لِصَوْنِ الشِّعْرِ مِنْ إِمْلاقِ

Or is it your amulets, I do not think so

Except to protect poetry from extinction

أَتْحَفْتُمُ جَمْعَ الْحُضُورِ بِدُرِّكُمْ

فَظَفِرْتُمُ بِالشُّكْرِ باسْتِحْقَاقِ

You have gifted the gathering with your pearls

So you have deserved thanks as your right

يَا بِئْرَ سَبُعٍ، يَا عَرِينَ أشَاوِسٍ

يَا رَايَةً دَأَبَتْ عَلَى الإِشْرَاقِ

O well of Saba, O lion's den

O banner that persisted on shining

أَفَلَسْتُمُ مَهْدَ الْخَلِيلِ، فَبِئْرُهُ

لا زَالَ يُؤْتَي مَاؤُهُ الرَّقْرَاقِ

Are you not the cradle of Al-Khalil, his well

Its cool water still flows

فَالْحُسْنُ قَدْ أَلْقَى العَصَاةَ بِأَرْضِكُمْ

وَالغِيدُ عِنْدَكُمُ، هَوَى العُشَّاقِ

Beauty has made the disobedient fall in your land

And singing is yours, the passion of lovers

وَالشِّعْرُ يَعْبقُ بِالرَّحِيقِ إِذَا جَرَى

مِنْ وَادِ شَاعِرِكُمْ عَلَى الأوْرَاقِ

And poetry smells of wine when it flows

From the valley of your poet on the leaves

أَجْزِلْ عَطَاءَكَ ‍‍! فَالقَرِيضُ بِمِحْنَةٍ

مَا عَادَ مِثْلَ الأَمْسِ عَذْبَ مَذَاقِ

Bestow your generous gifts! For poetry is in agony

No longer as sweet as yesterday

حِيَن انْبَرَى لِلْشِّعْرِ قَوْمٌ مَا رَعَوا

إِلاًّ لَهُ، أَوْ لِلدَمِ الْمِهْرَاقِ(1)

When people set out for it who cared

Only for it or for spilled blood

قُمْ يَا ابْنَ رَهَطٍ وَانْثَنِي مُتَصَدِّيَاً

دَاوِيْ جِرَاحَ الشِّعْرِ بِالتِرْيَاقِ

Arise O son of kin and incline addressing

Healing the wounds of poetry with first aid

وَأَرِيهُمُ أَنَّ القَرِيضَ مَشَاعِرٌ

وَمَكَارِمٌ، وَمَهَارَةُ الْحُذَّاقِ

Show them that poetry is feelings

And virtues, and the skill of the proficient

لا فُضَّ فُوكَ، وَلا انْطَوَى لَكَ مِنْبَرٌ

يَا مُتْعَةَ الآذَانِ، وَالأحْدَاقِ

No eloquence of yours is wasted or a pulpit closed for you

O delight of ears and sights