ماء الحياة بشعري ثَمَّ منبعه

ماء الحياة بشعري ثَمَّ منبعه

ما الشعر لم يَتَمثَّلْ كائنا حيا؟

ما الشعر لم يَتَمثَّلْ كائنا حيا؟

In my poetry lies the spring of the Water of Life.

The water of life has its wellspring there, in my verse.

What is poetry if it does not take form as a living being?

What is poetry if it does not take shape as a living being?

على محياه يبدو وجْهُ صاحبه

على محياه يبدو وجْهُ صاحبه

إن اختفى وجه ذا فالشعر لا شيَّا

إن اختفى وجه ذا فالشعر لا شيَّا

Upon its countenance appears the face of its poet.

Upon its countenance, its author's face appears.

If this face of his is hidden, poetry is nothing.

If his face disappears, then poetry is nothing.

كن شاعرا يتمرأى في قصيدته

كن شاعرا يتمرأى في قصيدته

يراه قارئه يمشي بها مشيا

يراه قارئه يمشي بها مشيا

Be a poet mirrored in his poem,

Be a poet who sees himself reflected in his poem;

whom its reader sees walking through it—truly walking.

His reader sees him walking through it—truly walking.

يجني القوافي من الإلهام يانعة

يجني القوافي من الإلهام يانعة

خيل القريض له تجري و لا تعيا

خيل القريض له تجري و لا تعيا

He harvests rhymes from inspiration, fresh and ripe;

He harvests ripe rhymes from inspiration;

the steeds of verse run for him and never tire.

The steeds of verse run for him and do not tire.

يسقيه من نبضه صدقا و يترعه

يسقيه من نبضه صدقا و يترعه

شدوا و معنى جميلا يوقظ الوعيا

شدوا و معنى جميلا يوقظ الوعيا

From his pulse he gives it truth to drink, and fills it

He waters it with sincerity from his pulse and fills it to the brim

with song and a beautiful meaning that awakens awareness.

With song and a beautiful meaning that awakens awareness.

لا يشبع المتلقي من فواكهه

لا يشبع المتلقي من فواكهه

و عنه ليس يطيق البعد و النأيا

و عنه ليس يطيق البعد و النأيا

Its recipient never has enough of its fruits,

The reader never gets his fill of its fruits,

nor can they bear distance or remoteness from it.

And cannot bear being apart from it or far away.

هذا هو الشعر في أنقى معادنه

هذا هو الشعر في أنقى معادنه

فاحذرْ به الشوْبَ يا ذا الذوقِ و الليّا

فاحذرْ به الشوْبَ يا ذا الذوقِ و الليّا

This is poetry in the purest of its ores;

This is poetry, its metal at its purest;

so guard it from admixture, O you of discerning taste, and from distortion.

So beware of impurity and distortion in it, O you of taste.