أضلني وهم شعر كنت أنسجه

أضلني وهم شعر كنت أنسجه

سحراً يحول قلب الصخر ألحانا

سحراً يحول قلب الصخر ألحانا

The illusion of poetry led me astray: I used to weave it

Illusions of poetry I wove

into magic that turns the heart of stone into melodies.

Bewitched, turning rock hearts into melodies

وهالني شؤم ما استكشفت من جثث

وهالني شؤم ما استكشفت من جثث

قد كنت احسبها منقبل تيجانا

قد كنت احسبها منقبل تيجانا

And the ill omen of the corpses I uncovered appalled me;

Horrified by omens I discovered in corpses

I had once taken them for crowns.

I thought were crowns before

فرحت أشعل بالقيثار مقبرة

فرحت أشعل بالقيثار مقبرة

الموتى وانفض اغلالاً وأكفانا

الموتى وانفض اغلالاً وأكفانا

So with the lyre I began kindling the graveyard

I rejoiced, kindling the guitar of the graveyard

of the dead, and shaking off shackles and shrouds.

With the dead, shaking off shackles and shrouds

أصبو الى أمتي حباً وأبعثها

أصبو الى أمتي حباً وأبعثها

بعثاً وأبني ذلها بالشعر بنيانا

بعثاً وأبني ذلها بالشعر بنيانا

I yearn for my nation in love and raise her

I yearn for my nation with love, reviving it

to life, and with poetry build her abasement into an edifice.

With a revival, building its humiliation with poetry a structure

أصوغ للعمى منه أعيناً نزعت

أصوغ للعمى منه أعيناً نزعت

عنهم وانسجه للصم آذانا

عنهم وانسجه للصم آذانا

I fashion from it, for the blind, eyes that were taken

Forming for the blind from it eyes I snatched from them

from them, and weave it into ears for the deaf.

And weaving for the deaf ears

وما حملت يراعي خالقاً بيدي

وما حملت يراعي خالقاً بيدي

إلا ليصنع أجيالاً وأوطانا

إلا ليصنع أجيالاً وأوطانا

And I have held my reed pen—a creator—in my hand

I did not carry worshipping a Creator in my hands

only so that it might fashion generations and homelands.

Except to make generations and homelands

يخاله الملك السفاح مقصلة

يخاله الملك السفاح مقصلة

في عنقه ويراه الشعب ميزانا

في عنقه ويراه الشعب ميزانا

The bloodthirsty king imagines it a guillotine

The tyrannical king sees it as a knife at his neck

at his neck, while the people see it as a balance.

And the people see it as a scale

فهاك يا أمتي روحاً مدلهة

فهاك يا أمتي روحاً مدلهة

عصرتها لخطاك الطهر قربانا

عصرتها لخطاك الطهر قربانا

So take, O my nation, a soul distraught with love,

So here my nation, a sagging soul

which I wrung out as an offering to your pure footsteps:

I squeezed for your pure path an offering

كأساً من الشعر لو تسقى الشموس بها

كأساً من الشعر لو تسقى الشموس بها

ترنحت ومشى التاريخ سكرانا

ترنحت ومشى التاريخ سكرانا

a cup of poetry—were the suns given a drink from it,

A cup of poetry, if suns drank from it

they would reel, and history would walk drunk.

They would stumble and history would walk drunk