سهرت اهتماما بالعيون السواهر — Abdul Mohsen Al Suri

I kept vigil, concerned for sleepless eyes,

while lovers’ tales became my companion through the night.

I spoke, deluded by my safety, while Fate

turned my tongue within my mouth through its reversals.

Now I never cease remembering, though forgetful,

though I was once known for the forgetting of one who remembers.

If I do not aid them with my heart, and love’s decrees do not wrong it,

then I shall aid them with my gaze.

My heart never knew what abandonment by a faithful lover was,

for it had always been accustomed to union from one who forsakes.

My two friends, what is wrong with me, that I see every ordeal

hidden from mankind except the ordeal of a poet?

After what you both have learned, call

your friend nothing but the enemy of secrets.

Even a spacious breast once grows too narrow for a secret;

what, then, of this inescapable, incessant one?

Had it been mine apart from separation, I would have folded it away;

but through separation it is in the hands of one who unfolds it.

And a slender-waisted beauty swayed with sinuous grace,

and what she possessed within hearts sang her praise.

I excuse her unwillingly for love’s transgression,

and pardon her for its offense, powerless to do otherwise.

I unveil a face of speech concerning my blood,

and she unveils a face of dazzling beauty.

She infects others, yet no redress can be won against her—as though,

in her invincibility, she were the horsemen of ʿAwf ibn ʿĀmir.

When she rides, the clashing of spears sings

a song to the rhythm of pounding hooves.

And when she takes up her swords on a day of raiding,

nothing repels them but the staffs of sheltered women.

Lofty glories she built; then their ʿAlī undertook them

and raised them among the radiant stars ascending.

A youth whose raids make his right hand jealous over him,

as women behave toward their co-wives.

How often he bestowed magnificent bounty, and how often he inflicted

great harm upon a people of mighty kings.

Never did he seek a watering place on the day of battle

without knowing that he would not depart from it.

In those noble traits God has a blessing

by which He perpetuates a poet’s long life:

a hand and a sword—how little, when the two meet,

can secrets survive them for even a day!

Death obeys his fingertip, not the battle,

and renowned beneficence belongs to his forearm, not to sharp blades.

I see everyone who loves you meet you as a slayer,

as though you were among a pair of languid eyes.

Valor has advanced you to the fore of every army,

until you have nearly come to be called the armies’ standard.

Virtues that revive an inspired man and urge him

to journey—marvel, then, at a dead man traveling!