حَظُّ قَلبي في هَواهُ الوَلَهُ
فَعذولي فيهِ مالي وَلَهُ
My heart’s lot in loving him is rapturous madness;
as for my reproacher over him—what have I to do with such a man?
باسمٌ عن بَردٍ مُنتَظِمٍ
لَم يَفُز إِلاَّ فَتىً قَبَّلَهُ
A smiling one, revealing smiling hailstones,
no youth has won him save one who kissed him.
جائِرُ الأَلحاظِ يثني قامَةً
قَدُّهُ المائِلُ ما أَعدلَهُ
Tyrannous of glance, he bends my frame;
his own swaying figure—how perfectly straight it is!
شاهرٌ صارمَ جفنٍ لم يزَل
في فُؤادي غَامِداً مُنصُلهث
My eyelid is wakeful; a keen sword has never ceased
to keep its blade sheathed within my heart.
يا قَضيباً حامِلاً بدرَ الدُّجى
رَبُّهُ بالحُسنِ قَد كَمَّلهُ
O two supple boughs bearing the full moon of night,
his Lord has perfected him in beauty.
عندَهُ باللَّحظِ سَهمٌ كلُّ مَن
رشتَهُ صابَ لَهُ مَقتَلَه
He has an arrow in his glance: everyone
it shoots, it strikes in his mortal spot.
ذو غَرامٍ لَم يُطِع فيكَ الجَوَى
والهَوَى حتَّى عَصى عُذَّلَهُ
A man possessed by passion would not yield, for you, to inward longing
or desire, until he defied his reproachers.
كُلَّما طالَت عَليهِ ليلَةٌ
صاحَ من فَرطِ جَوىً أَشغَلَهُ
Whenever a night stretched long over him,
he cried out, so fiercely had his inward passion consumed him.
هذه اللَّيلةُ لا يَومَ لَها
مِثلُ يَومِ الحَشرِ لا لَيلَ لَهُ
This night has no day,
like the Day of Resurrection, which has no night.
وَكذا كُلُّ كَئيبٍ لَم يَزَل
لَيلُهُ آخِرهُ أَوَّلَهُ
And so with every sorrowing man: ever
his night’s end is its beginning.
خَصرُكَ النَّاحِلُ من أَضناهُ بَل
صُدغُكَ الُمرسَلُ من سَلسَلَهُ
Whom has your slender waist made waste away? No—
whom has your flowing side-lock bound in chains?
والذي خَصَّكَ بالحُسنِ الذي
أَحداً غيرَكَ ما سَربَلَهُ
By Him who singled you out for that beauty
in which He has robed no one but you:
ما عَرَفتُ النَّومَ مُذ فارقَني
نُورُ وَجهٍ مِنكَ ما أَجمَلَهُ
I have not known sleep since there departed from me
the radiance of a face of yours—how beautiful it is!
كَم أُداري فيكَ لُوَّامي وَمَن
يَعذِلُ الُمشتاقَ ما أَجهَلَهُ
How often I humor my reproachers over you! Whoever
reproaches the yearning lover—how ignorant he is!
Sol 5.6