أفق من سكرة الأمل المحال — Al Sari Al Raffa

Awake from the intoxication of impossible hope,

and from the brocade of fleeting worldly wealth.

And do not despair at fortune's tilt, for I

hope that it will return to balance.

I have found repose in departure; how could I dwell

in a land that was no resting place for saddles?

I visit its dwelling warily, and encounter

the visitation of gray hair in the mountains' locks.

The hills glittered when it covered them,

as though robes of mirage lay upon the hills.

As though the branch-tops, clad in its

camphor ornaments, were ladies of bridal chambers.

The eye roams through it, and within the eye it is

like gray horses gone forth without caparisons.

And the army of bitter cold is routed only

by an army that never tires of battle,

and by lions from the lions of wine, whose

qualities overpower the lions of the north wind.

So its horses gallop, bay and chestnut,

in its racecourse, upon the hands of men.

And a cupbearer like a crescent moon passes round a sun

among the drinking companions, in a cup like a crescent.

A polo mallet is traced for him in musk,

then it blazes above his cheek with a beauty spot.

You see the cups, some white and light,

which he passes round, and others red and heavy.

O Abu al-Abbas, you are equal to every calamity

whose face is grim and whose deeds are blameworthy.

I have draped you in the brocade of praise, for I

have seen you buy praise with wealth.

Wine has indeed grown angry with me,

and the beloved turned away after union.

So if you adorn my cup with tawny wine,

I shall clothe your eminence in the ornaments of speech.