ثِيابُ كَريمٍ ما يَصونُ حِسانَها
إِذا نُشِرَت كانَ الهِباتُ صِوانَها
Robes of a generous soul who guards not their finery; only when unfolded in gifts are they truly preserved.
Roman artisans reveal their monarchs in the weave, displaying their very selves and their singing maidens.
تُرينا صَناعُ الرومِ فيها مُلوكَها
وَتَجلو عَلَينا نَفسَها وَقِيانَها
Not satisfied to picture the steed alone, they drafted all creation within it, leaving out only the passage of time.
No skill was spared by the painter's hand, save that he could not grant his creatures the power of speech.
وَلَم يَكفِها تَصويرُها الخَيلَ وَحدَها
فَصَوَّرَتِ الأَشياءَ إِلّا زَمانَها
And a tawny spear whose slender length beguiles the knights, invoking memories of the charge and the thrust.
A Rudayni shaft so perfect, it seems its very growth set the ferrule and the spearhead in their place.
وَما اِدَّخَرَتها قُدرَةً في مُصَوِّرٍ
سِوى أَنَّها ما أَنطَقَت حَيَوانَها
And a thoroughbred mare—her sire surpassing her dam—whose beauty was so admired, the beholder struck her with the evil eye.
When she moves with the herd she lags and drifts apart; she shames her rider in the keen eye, though he graces her.
وَسَمراءُ يَستَغوي الفَوارِسَ قَدُّها
وَيُذكِرُها كَرّاتِها وَطِعانَها
So where is she whose fury no horse is safe from—nor safe from mine—who grants her submission to no one but me?
And where is she who never returns the lance disappointed, when my left hand lowers her rein for the attack?
رُدَينِيَّةٌ تَمَّت فَكادَ نَباتُها
يُرَكِّبُ فيها زُجَّها وَسِنانَها
I have no praise for which I do not see you as the proper place; have you then a bounty for which you do not see me as the proper heir?
وَأَمُّ عَتيقٍ خالُهُ دونَ عَمِّهِ
رَأى خَلقَها مَن أَعجَبَتهُ فَعانَها
إِذا سايَرَتهُ بايَنَتهُ وَبانَها
وَشانَتهُ في عَينِ البَصيرِ وَزانَها
فَأَينَ الَّتي لا تَأمَنُ الخَيلُ شَرَّها
وَشَرّي وَلا تُعطي سِوايَ أَمانَها
وَأَينَ الَّتي لا تَرجِعُ الرُمحَ خائِباً
إِذا خَفَضَت يُسرى يَدَيَّ عِنانَها
وَمالي ثَناءٌ لا أَراكَ مَكانَهُ
فَهَل لَكَ نُعمى لا تَراني مَكانَها
