لا تُطْنبنْ في بُكاءِ النُّؤي والطُّنُبِ
ولا تُحَيّ كَثيبَ الحَيّ مِنْ كَثَبِ
Do not over-lament the wailing of love songs and elegies,
Nor rouse the shifty sands that settled and stilled.
ولا تَجُدْ بغَمامٍ للغميم ولا
تَسْمَح لِسِرْبِ المَها بالواكِفِ السَّرِبِ
Find no cloud for the sad heart, allow no flock
Of restless thoughts to alight on worry’s perch.
رَبْعٌ تَعَفَّى فَأَعْفَى مِنْ جَوَىً وأَسَى
قَلْبي وكَانَ إِلى اللَّذَّاتِ مُنْقَلَبي
A quarter gone, more merciful than sweet life itself,
It turned my heart from pleasures, left it overturned.
سِيَّان بَانَ خَليطٌ أَو أَقامَ بِهِ
فَإِنَّما عَامِرُ البَيْداءِ كَالْخَرِبِ
Two alike—a muddle it remained or made its home—
The tent-dweller’s like a ruin beset with doubt.
أَبْهَى وأَجْمَلُ منْ وَصْفِ الجِمالِ ومنْ
إِدْمانِ ذِكْرِ هَوىً يَهْوي على قَتَبِ
Lovelier and more beautiful than any image of beauty,
Or constant narrative of a passion plunging deep.
مَدُّ البَنانِ إِلى كَأْسٍ على سُكْرِ
ورَفْعُ صَوْتٍ بِتَطْريبٍ على طَرَبِ
Wine-pourer, extend the cup of drunkenness,
And lift up a mellow voice in gentle song.
حَمْراءَ حِينَ جَلَتْها الكَأْسُ نَقَّطَها
مِزاجُها بِدَنانِيرٍ من الحَبَبِ
When it flushes red, the wine-cup dots it
With its color, beads of purest pearl.
كَمْ جَدَّدَتْ وهيَ لَمْ تُفضَضْ خَواتِمُها
من الدُّهورِ وكَمْ أَبْلَتْ مِنَ الحِقَبِ
How many times undefiled, its seals still unbroken,
It has lived through ages, crossed epochs.
كَانَتْ لَها أَرْجُلُ الأَعْلاجِ واتِرةً
بِالدَوْسِ فَانْتَصَفَتْ مِنْ أَرْؤُسِ العَرَبِ
It had the gait of a smooth-stepping mare, and strode
With a proud tread, surpassing horsemen’s skill.
يُسْقيكَها مِنْ بَني الكُفّارِ بَدْرُ دُجىً
أَلحاظُهُ لِلمَعاصي أَوْكَدُ السَّبَبِ
The bright moon of infidels pours you wine after wine,
Its glances for disobedience the strongest cord.
يُومي إِليْكَ بِأَطْرافٍ مُطَرَّفَةٍ
بِها خِضابانِ للعِنّابِ والعِنَبِ
It gestures to you with richly adorned fingers,
Dyed red with henna, red as grapes.
تَسْبيكَ قَامَتُهُ إِنْ قامَ يَمْزُجُها
مُوَشَّحاً بِصَليبٍ صِيغَ مِنْ ذَهَبِ
When it stands, its figure sways, dressed
In a cross of gold, exquisitely wrought.
كَمْ مَرَّةً قُلْتُ إِذ أَهْدى تَدَلُّلُهُ
إِليَّ جِدَّ الرَّدى في صُورَةِ اللَّعِبِ
How often have I said, as its flirtation proffered me
Sheer delusion masquerading as play:
يا ضَاحِكاً حِينَ أَبْكاني تَبَسُّمُهُ
حَقٌّ مِنَ الحُّبِ تُبْكيني وتَضْحَكُ بي
“Smiling as you make me weep, your smile in love
Is right to make me weep, yet smile at me.”
