لا تلمني فلات حين ملام — Abn Alsaati

Do not blame me: this is no time for blame.

Anguish has silenced the tongues of pens.

So often the daughters of rhyme yielded freely;

for a grave reason I have been struck dumb.

He has died who came first, while

the rest of mankind followed—what a leader he was!

Death's ambition grew mighty, having reached

him, and death's stature became immense.

On the day he was lost, it shot deadly arrows

at one who shot back and stood against it.

Its hand won from al-Isfahani,

one evening, the fullest share:

a son of battle's blackness—dust and

ink—and of white swords and banners.

Champion of the fearsome pulpit, master of an utterance

decisive in the assembly on a day of dispute.

Master of prose that baffled mankind, and of

verse that pearls upon a string imitated.

Its fragrance spread, till pale camels almost recited it,

and the darkness and wastelands sang of it.

When he dusted the lines with ink—what wondrous

ranks marched beneath a cloud of dust!

Muhammad's kindnesses were praised;

after them, the clouds' generosity met reproach.

A guardian of prudence, while time squandered it,

his resolve awake amid mankind's sleep.

How much weeping for the wealth he spent so lavishly,

beneath the cheer and smile upon his face!

And tales of his pure bounty, through his standing

bestowed upon visitors, and through honour,

danced lightly among the branches

and heavily, to the singing of doves.

He was a servant of honour and wealth, and of the

visitors, yet his honour was free of every detractor.

They revelled in the fragrance of his praise,

when they sought shelter in his judgment's Shamam.

What summons tears—though he was

worthy of every streaming tear—

is kinship in love and virtue; the ignorant

man weeps for intertwined ties of blood.

My king of kings has died—oh, my sorrow!

And after him, the prince of speech.

A king whose honour was not open to violation—

no, nor was his treasury forbidden.

His death did not spare him for his majesty,

though he protected the sons of Shem and Ham.

For this, ink blackens upon the pages, and from

this the sword's cheek tarnishes.

Darkness lives on: no dawn has come since

the forenoon sun and full moon were folded away.

Two causes of anguish, two roots of yearning,

two buried stores of sorrow, two torments of love.

The shield of patience was torn by what

entered my heart—those penetrating arrows.

Each day, a blessing is mingled with my misery,

and a building we raise is destined to collapse.

And trust in a bond, though death before it

had struck every bond asunder.

It is the stallion of stallions: no difference between

roses and saltwort in what it grazes.

So look with insight for guidance; the waking moments of

life are only like deceptive dreams.

Calamities admonished us through him; I do not

marvel except at how little people understand.

We all—as the discerning know—are moving

while still, and travelling while remaining in place.

Ah, how short is hope, and how

long my grief for that generous, great-hearted man!

What two houses of judgment and excellence stood

between a breach that befell them and extinction!

I cannot forget him, proclaiming my merit

in a gathering surpassing every gathering,

and vaunting it before men, while lofty

stood the place of glory among the peoples.

He drew from that praise to adorn al-Dhayl and al-Kharida

with a peerless pearl, like his name, and a twin.

It is more desirable to the lover than union,

and sweeter to an eye than sleep.

How often a letter of his praise came to me—

a blessing surpassing all benefaction!

With meanings tender and delightful, lacking

none of the miraculous qualities of wine.

They are beauty shining through a veil;

the letter is musk wafting scent beneath a seal.

Clouds I never unfolded amid drought

to find them there clouds without rain.

Time cut the bond of union between us;

who can grant me that meeting?

My fair maidens did not become widows after him,

but they became orphans.

Who will gather the scattered remnants of

excellence, and disperse the press on the day of crowds?

And bring sustenance, while raising people's standing

in a year of obscurity and destitution?

Going straight to the heart of needs and

purposes, through his subtle kindness, as arrows pierce.

If the swords of India could have defended him,

they would have been among his servants.

Death carried away eloquence and legal counsel,

the text of the Book and its rulings,

taking the penitent, ever-returning, humble,

devoutly sighing man, who fasted and stood long in prayer.

What joy has it left in the liver of

sovereignty, and what sickness in Islam's heart?

After his death, the splendour of

the world was folded away, and the days' cheer departed.

From men who are my people's close friends,

both middle-aged leaders and young men.

They suckled the cups of mutual affection among themselves,

and cups of reverence and great esteem.

A bond whose beauty put blood kinship to shame,

and a covenant—how noble a covenant it is!

And a blending, truly like water and wine—

rather, like souls and bodies.

They donned time's robe while it was still unworn,

and time had not passed the threshold of puberty.

They rode upon the back of lofty rank, and trampled

the cheeks of months and years.

Stars, when heaven was bare of stars,

dispelling shadows and the wing of darkness.

And seas of generosity; if fear stirred,

then mountains of intellect and forbearance.

And when they unsheathed the reed-pen in peril,

the meaning of lions in thickets stood revealed.

Every open-handed man outran the clouds

and flung dust in the faces of the generous.

And when a quiver of pride was emptied

at audience time or the morning salutation,

they gloried in their own selves, precious as they were,

and refrained from boasting of mighty bones.

With mighty deeds, with fingers moist

in drought, and with handsome faces,

they tethered unruly time without a fetter

and led the world without a rein.

May God water his grave with every thick-fringed cloud

that drifts with a downpour from its piled masses.

Lightning flashes rent its robe—marvel

at weeping and smiling in the same instant!

It kindles a fire from lightning, yet meets

it with coolness and peace held within itself.

Like a lover's heart concealing longing,

and like the tears of a love-enslaved, distraught man.

It spreads wondrous brocade and unveils

the faces of blossoms casting off their sheaths,

opening the breast of wastelands with what it brought forth,

and with the turbans it wrapped round the heads of hills.

What green carpets of plants it adorned

with patterns of buttercups and nammam herbs!

It slew drought not by shooting mere showers,

but by shooting arrows fashioned from its drops.

May God bring radiance to his face beneath the

soil—that face which so often brightened a year's beginning!

Through him, every hard and stern thing softened,

and every difficult aim became easy.

The waters of my tears made me thirsty; never have I heard

of water that kindles the fire of thirst.

Do not blame me: I cried out as I sought the rainclouds,

for my cheek is drenched, but my heart is parched.

Embers beneath the tears within my

entrails—and embers beneath the blaze.

Sickness sprouted with tears, and nothing grows

from the water of tears but sickness.

The blaze of thirst swelled; the coolness of

clear water cannot quench the heat of passion.

The nights have weaned me from him; how harsh,

while still suckling, is the taste of weaning!

And my yearning is for al-Sham; nothing equals my

yearning, now that he rests in al-Sham.

And though youth deserted him and time betrayed him,

time makes even the pyramids grow old.

Peace from me be upon him; can speech reach

one who lies beneath the stones?

And if I live, then visit the tomb of

excellence, I shall silence the tongues of my reprovers.

And offer my tears as a sacrifice, as

the duties of greeting and Islam require.

And sorrow is that for which I lavished treasures of

tears, or for which I cast away the earring of reproach.