بِنا مِنكَ فَوقَ الرَملِ ما بِكَ في الرَملِ
وَهَذا الَّذي يُضني كَذاكَ الَّذي يُبلي
Above the sands we feel a pain from you, matched by your state beneath the sands,
A grief that wastes the living frame, as decay consumes the dead.
كَأَنَّكَ أَبصَرتَ الَّذي بي وَخِفتَهُ
إِذا عِشتَ فَاِختَرتَ الحِمامَ عَلى الثُكلِ
It is as if you saw my suffering and, fearing what you saw,
Had you lived on, you chose the grave instead of bereavement's pain.
تَرَكتَ خُدودَ الغانِياتِ وَفَوقَها
دُموعٌ تُذيبُ الحُسنَ في الأَعيُنِ النُجلِ
You left the cheeks of singing girls stained with tracks of woe,
With tears that melt the beauty held within their wide, dark eyes.
تَبُلُّ الثَرى سوداً مِنَ المِسكِ وَحدَهُ
وَقَد قَطَرَت حُمراً عَلى الشَعَرِ الجَثلِ
They dampen the earth with blackness, dark with musk alone,
While dripping crimson red upon their thick and matted hair.
فَإِن تَكُ في قَبرٍ فَإِنَّكَ في الحَشى
وَإِن تَكُ طِفلاً فَالأَسى لَيسَ بِالطِفلِ
If you lie within a grave, you lie as well within our hearts;
And though you were but a child, this sorrow is no child at all.
وَمِثلُكَ لا يُبكي عَلى قَدرِ سِنِّهِ
وَلَكِن عَلى قَدرِ المَخيلَةِ وَالأَصلِ
One such as you is never mourned by measure of his years,
But by the measure of high hope and noble origin.
أَلَستَ مِنَ القَومِ الأُلى مِن رِماحِهِم
نَداهُم وَمِن قَتلاهُمُ مُهجَةُ البُخلِ
Are you not of that clan whose very spears bestow their gifts?
Their bounty flows from lances; their victims are the souls of greed.
بِمَولودِهِم صَمتُ اللِسانِ كَغَيرِهِ
وَلَكِنَّ في أَعطافِهِ مَنطِقَ الفَضلِ
Their newborn enters silent, tongue-tied just like any other,
Yet in his very bearing lies the eloquence of grace.
تُسَلّيهِمُ عَلياؤهُم عَن مُصابِهِم
وَيَشغَلُهُم كَسبُ الثَناءِ عَنِ الشُغلِ
Their lofty station comforts them when tragedy strikes hard,
And earning praise distracts them from the burden of their cares.
أَقَلُّ بِلاءً بِالرَزايا مِنَ القَنا
وَأَقدَمُ بَينَ الجَحفَلَينِ مِنَ النَبلِ
They are less worn by sorrows than their lances are by war,
And bolder 'twixt the armies than the arrows in their flight.
عَزاءَكَ سَيفَ الدَولَةِ المُقتَدى بِهِ
فَإِنَّكَ نَصلٌ وَالشَدائِدُ لِلنَصلِ
Take comfort, Sayf al-Dawla, you whom all men seek to emulate;
For you are the blade itself—and trials are meant to test the steel.
مُقيمٌ مِنَ الهَيجاءِ في كُلِّ مَنزِلٍ
كَأَنَّكَ مِن كُلِّ الصَوارِمِ في أَهلِ
At home in every station of the ravages of war,
As if, among the sharpest swords, you dwelt among your kin.
وَلَم أَرَ أَعصى مِنكَ لِلحُزنِ عَبرَةً
وَأَثبَتَ عَقلاً وَالقُلوبُ بِلا عَقلِ
I have seen none more stubborn against grief with holding back a tear,
Nor steadier in reason when all hearts have lost their minds.
تَخونُ المَنايا عَهدَهُ في سَليلِهِ
وَتَنصُرُهُ بَينَ الفَوارِسِ وَالرَجلِ
The Fates betray his covenant by taking of his son,
Yet aid him still amidst the knights and infantry of war.
وَيَبقى عَلى مَرِّ الحَوادِثِ صَبرُهُ
وَيَبدو كَما يَبدو الفِرِندُ عَلى الصَقلِ
His patience stands unshaken as misfortunes pass him by,
Revealed as clearly as the grain upon a polished sword.
وَمَن كانَ ذا نَفسٍ كَنَفسِكَ حُرَّةٍ
فَفيهِ لَها مُغنٍ وَفيها لَهُ مُسلي
And he who bears a spirit free and noble as your own,
Finds in himself a wealth sufficient, and solace in his soul.
وَما المَوتُ إِلّا سارِقٍ دَقَّ شَخصُهُ
يَصولُ بِلا كَفٍّ وَيَسعى بِلا رِجلِ
For Death is nothing but a thief whose form remains unseen,
Who strikes without a hand to hold, and runs without a leg.
يَرُدُّ أَبو الشِبلِ الخَميسَ عَنِ اِبنِهِ
وَيُسلِمُهُ عِندَ الوِلادَةِ لِلنَملِ
The Lion-Father turns the mighty army from his cub,
Yet at the moment of his birth, surrenders him to ants.
بِنَفسي وَليدٌ عادَ مِن بَعدِ حَملِهِ
إِلى بَطنِ أُمٍّ لا تُطَرِّقُ بِالحَملِ
My soul be ransomed for a child who, borne within the womb,
Returned into a mother's belly that never swells with life.
بَدا وَلَهُ وَعدُ السَحابَةِ بِالرَوى
وَصَدَّ وَفينا غُلَّةُ البَلَدِ المَحلِ
He shone with all the promise of a rain-cloud bringing life,
Then turned away, while leaving us the thirst of barren lands.
وَقَد مَدَّتِ الخَيلُ العِتاقُ عُيونَها
إِلى وَقتِ تَبديلِ الرِكابِ مِنَ النَعلِ
The noble steeds had turned their eyes and gazed in expectation
Toward the day his sandal would serve to tread the stirrup.
وَريعَ لَهُ جَيشُ العَدُوِّ وَما مَشى
وَجاشَت لَهُ الحَربُ الضَروسُ وَما تَغلي
The enemy was terrified of him before he walked,
And fierce war raged within his name before the cauldrons boiled.
أَيَفطِمُهُ التَورابُ قَبلَ فِطامِهِ
وَيَأكُلُهُ قَبلَ البُلوغِ إِلى الأَكلِ
Does dust then wean the infant son before his time to wean?
And does it eat his flesh before he eats of solid food?
وَقَبلَ يَرى مِن جودِهِ ما رَأَيتَهُ
وَيَسمَعَ فيهِ ما سَمِعتَ مِنَ العَذلِ
Before he sees the bounty that your own eyes have beheld,
Or hears the blame for lavish gifts that you have heard before?
وَيَلقى كَما تَلقي مِنَ السِلمِ وَالوَغى
وَيُمسي كَما تُمسي مَليكاً بِلا مِثلِ
Before he faces peace and war as you have faced them both,
Or grows to be, as you have grown, a king without a peer?
تُوَلّيهِ أَوساطَ البِلادِ رِماحُهُ
وَتَمنَعُهُ أَطرافُهُنَّ مِنَ العَزلِ
His lances would have granted him the heart of every land,
Their pointed tips protecting him from exile or defeat.
نُبَكّي لِمَوتانا عَلى غَيرِ رَغبَةٍ
تَفوتُ مِنَ الدُنيا وَلا مَوهِبٍ جَزلِ
We weep for our departed dead with no desire for gain,
For what is lost of worldly goods, or gifts of heavy price.
إِذا ما تَأَمَّلتَ الزَمانَ وَصَرفَهُ
تَيَقَّنتَ أَنَّ المَوتَ ضَربٌ مِنَ القَتلِ
If you contemplate the nature of the age and how it turns,
You know for certain natural death is but a kind of murder.
هَلِ الوَلَدُ المَحبوبُ إِلّا تَعِلَّةٌ
وَهَل خَلوَةُ الحَسناءِ إِلّا أَذى البَعلِ
Is the beloved child aught but a fleeting consolation?
And is the beauty’s bridal room but sorrow for the groom?
وَقَد ذُقتُ حَلواءَ البَنينَ عَلى الصِبا
فَلا تَحسَبَنّي قُلتُ ما قُلتُ عَن جَهلِ
For I have tasted, in my youth, the sweetness sons bestow,
So do not think I speak these words from ignorance of loss.
وَما تَسَعُ الأَزمانُ عِلمي بِأَمرِها
وَلا تُحسِنُ الأَيّامُ تَكتُبُ ما أُملي
The ages are too narrow to contain what I have known,
Nor have the days the skill to write the wisdom I dictate.
وَما الدَهرُ أَهلٌ أَن تُؤَمَّلَ عِندَهُ
حَياةٌ وَأَن يُشتاقَ فيهِ إِلى النَسلِ
This Time is not a worthy place to cast our hopes upon,
For life, or to desire within its span a lineage.
