تحية الغيث منهلا سحائبه — Al Sari Al Raffa

May the greeting of rain, its clouds pouring down,

be upon al-Aqiq, though its playgrounds lie deserted.

No, rather upon the tribe, its howdahs fastened,

upon the suns, and with its mounts reviled,

until it restores to it a trace once traversed

by its graceful gazelles, or where its tame gazelles dwelt.

For among the women in howdahs is one shunned by a beauty,

who finds contentment in another's love, or avoids him.

And in the dwellings is a listener to whom they give no

reply, and a speaker whom they do not address,

until it offers lovers its visit instead—

a phantom whose owner shuns the lovers.

It traveled by night toward the full moon, veiled yet eclipsing the moon,

though the full moon disdains to have its virtues concealed.

When dawn appears from the radiance of its face,

its tresses show you the night, pitch-black.

And beauty is two opposites; I cannot tell, when they meet,

whether its lights bewitched me, or its dark depths.

Its ornaments, its front teeth, and its ambergris—

each betrays it, or keeps watch over it.

So I cannot tell, when it travels along a horizon,

whether that horizon's north winds are more fragrant, or its south winds.

As for poetry, its merits do not win favor

with kings as its faults do.

And sometimes the assayer wrongs a dinar,

although its minter has clothed it in many kinds of beauty.

I seem to see the finest poetry, its thoroughbreds having departed

away from them toward the highest eminence.

And were it to head toward Syria, its thunderbolts would descend

upon Iraq, just as its clouds poured forth.

Say to him whose hand fitted me with my halter,

and I used to draw near him while he pulled it:

You are safe when its speckled serpents slither

from their hiding places, or its scorpions creep.

No friend is he who gives you, face to face,

the honey of affection, but betrays you behind your back.

How many an utterance, its surface like powdered musk,

has not received its due from Abu Ishaq!

Our praises were white-blazed and white-stockinged,

praising him; now they have come to reproach him.

And what can I say to one whose origins are pure

in glory's rank, and whose ancestry shines white?

A radiant man, whose surpassing nobility adorned my praise,

as his breast adorned the pearls of a necklace.

And true in affection, whose friendship never turns

against a friend, nor does his side turn away.

I take no comfort in falsehood or lies

offered to him; the worst of speech is falsehood.

No avenue for blame can be found in him—

how could there be, when his ways are fashioned of gold?

He turned away from me; in his estrangement I cannot tell

whether my fate's fangs are sharper, or its calamities.

He is a sharp sword: to some, its blade's sheen

is a smile; to others, it offers its cutting edges.

And he is rain: if its signs flash toward me,

its showers go pouring down upon someone else.

This, though his ears never rusted in former days

from what I composed, nor were his gifts wasted.

And mine is the most fruitful part of praiseworthy literature,

ascribed to him, and virtues that befit him.

And a longing: whenever it comes appealing indirectly

to his standing, his bounties turn away from it.

And how often I struck with a keen, grooved blade of his,

sharp in its edges, sweet in its temper.

I came to one sweet of breath, bearing fruit,

whose choicest fruits were near the gatherer's hand.

You punished me with a coldness I cannot withstand;

are the consequences of your punishment praiseworthy?

And the dawns of your regard for me have turned black,

though I had known its sunsets to be white.

Poetry is the embroidery of striped mantles, which you trail

in understanding, and necklace-pearls, which you pierce.

Why, then, despite his excellence, did you deny its skilled maker

what a petitioner won from your freely offered influence?

And blooming praise, if you do it justice, is a flower

whose fragrance is sweet if its waters are sweet.

Was it just that its gardens should thirst

in your two courts, while its barren plains were watered?

I have indeed scattered word-pebbles upon some people;

had you wished, its stars would have been scattered among you.

But for you, its rags would not have been worn, nor would

its robes, though elegant, have come to be rejected.

I shall surely endure your kindness failing me,

until its returning bounty comes back as before.

Perhaps reproach will turn your displeasure into contentment;

and sometimes the seeker attains what is sought.