رد جفني بسافح الدمع يندى — Al Sari Al Raffa

He made my eyelid moist with streaming tears

when I greeted him; he made a fine reply.

The curtains granted me sight of him; he did not turn

aside from my gaze while the mounts were urged onward by song.

A moon: whenever we granted him a glance,

he granted the gaze pomegranate blossoms and roses.

He is like a white gazelle whenever he turns his neck,

and like a branch whenever his figure sways.

If he leaves at evening or morning to part, I am

amid death's evening and morning visits.

O lightning, if you find a cloud,

water Najd with it, and whoever dwells in Najd.

And tend those tents, for within them

are gazelles who deliberately slay the lovesick.

With a fresh downpour that makes

the garden's worn garment lush and new,

and a lingering cloud concealing bright benefactions

while displaying dusky traits to us.

It is as though the lightning spreads light

in its heights, or lets a striped cloak slip away.

The sea of joy has ebbed with gray hair,

after being a flood tide in youth.

And time treated us badly in this,

giving little of it, then ceasing to give.

It was like lightning: it wholly died out

before it fully blazed before the eye.

We have no need of clouds, even if they were

pure wine among cupbearers, and honey.

The palm of Emir Abu al-Hayja' has become

sweeter in fruit and fresher as a drinking place.

A lord who destroys wealth and builds

eminence and glory in the stars' protected domain.

Outpourings of his gifts have flooded us,

like outpourings from clouds; he has been lavish indeed.

Thanks fall short of repaying what he bestowed

through them, and what he granted and conferred.

And when watering places are counted,

his hand is an inexhaustible spring of kindness.

With it he barred calamities' advance, becoming

a barrier against whatever one fears from time.

He spared the envoys the need to urge their mounts,

with bounty that comes each morning to the envoys as a delegation itself.

You are the fortune of those seeking gifts, O son of Sa'id;

it suffices them that you rival Sa'd.

A pouring cloud flashes lightning when it smiles,

and its loud laughter amid calamities is thunder.

All night it brought me longing for your cheerful

countenance, rejoicing as it was brought toward the garden.

Slow in its passage, yet swift in its flashes,

as fingertips hurry when counting.

So I recalled the earnestness of your bounty when

the rain frolicked in the gardens, then grew earnest.

I am steadfast against calamities, but

amid them I am not steadfast against your coldness.

I lavish blame on time since you took offense,

after once lavishing praise on time.

It is as though I see joy as an enemy

that I shun, and wine as an adversary.

Even if I sipped a beloved's lips,

cool with saliva, I would find no coolness in them.

Bitter coldness—though I have committed no sin

to be repaid for with distance and rejection,

and abandonment that all night wears out patience

within my entrails, or renews longing?

When time's upheavals wronged me,

they took no straight course with me when you traveled.

Calamities that, had they risen above Radwa's peaks,

would all but have brought those peaks crashing down.

They exposed me to the sword, so that

each limb of mine became a sheath for its two edges.

And they clothed my crown in a turban of blows,

its trailing ends purple and wet,

and an ample cloak made by the wind—

whenever a naked man dons it, he falls to ruin.

When I compare your bitter abandonment with time

and what it has wrought, yours is harsher.

I am freeborn by descent, yet

your benefactions have made me your slave.

I do not say clouds resemble your favors,

nor a sword your resolve in sharpness.

You are keener than the sword, and purer

than cloud-rain in drought, and more bountiful.