من لي بظبيٍ جَناه معسولُ
دَمي بِدَمْعِي عليهِ مَغْسُولُ
Who will bring me a gazelle whose fruit is honey-sweet?
Who will bring me a gazelle whose cheeks are honey sweet
Who will aid me with a fawn whose harvest is honeyed?
My blood, shed for him, is washed in my tears.
My tears have washed it while blood is my winding sheet
My blood is washed away by my tears for his sake.
أَقْرأُ فِي خَدِّهِ كتابَ هوىً
أَنَّ دمَ العاشِقينَ مَطلولُ
Upon his cheek I read a book of love:
Within its cheeks I read love's tale for lovers' blood
I read upon his cheek a scripture of passion,
the blood of lovers goes unavenged.
Is shed in sacrifice while passions fiercely beat
Declaring that the blood of lovers is shed with impunity.
حُسَامُ عينكَ من فُتُورِهما
كأنَّه مُغْمَدٌ ومَسْلُولُ
The saber of your eyes, in their languor,
Your sword-like glances in their sheaths, your eyes do rest
The sword of your eye, drawn from its languor,
seems at once sheathed and drawn.
As though a sword were sheathed and put away from heat
Appears as if sheathed, yet fully unsheathed.
اغمد وسُلَّ ليسَ لي وَزَرٌ
أنا على الحالَتْينِ مَقْتُولُ
Sheathe it or draw it—I have no refuge;
But bare your blade and strike, for I have no defense
Sheathe it or draw it—I have no sanctuary;
in either state, I am slain.
Whether you sheathe or strike, for me defeat is meet
For in either state, I am surely slain.
Sol 5.6