تلثم بالعقيق على اللآلي — Abn Matouk

He drew a carnelian veil over pearls,

and shrouded dawn in the twilight glow of beauty.

He veiled the sun of his face with darkness,

and masked the night at the back of his head with morning light.

He swayed his figure, bending a slender branch

to which the dominion of lofty spears had passed.

His cheek-down crept forth, and toward us sped

death's vipers in the shapes of ants.

He appeared, and the hearts of beauties broke,

while men's eyes plunged into him.

Ringed with carnelian, he made lovely in my eyes

the jewels of delay on the wrist of his promise.

His eyes have indeed wounded my heart;

so what have you to do with me, O their keen swords, or I with you?

You cut me short and lowered within me

the seat of affliction, then raised my state.

My soul would ransom his form, like a wild-ox calf,

that hunts lions while acting as a gazelle.

Turn aside from his tent: there is a sun there,

around which the dawn of blades has broken.

Turn from his cheeks: there is a rose there,

guarded by lashes made of the thorns of arrows.

How long shall I be blamed for him? I do not shy away,

though death watches me, and I do not care.

I conceal my love for him beneath love for Layla,

yet he is the subject of my love songs and my preoccupation.

And on a night like violets, he stayed

making me breathe the fragrant herbs of union.

I entered his presence while the darkness let fall

its tresses upon the bare crescent.

He offered me carnelian as a feast for my eye,

and hung precious pearls as earrings upon my hearing.

The lion in me spent the night as his bedfellow,

while the gazelle of curtained chambers in him shared my bed.

An admonisher arose beside him from my piety,

teaching me the unlawful from the lawful.

Whenever my soul's right hand reached toward him,

I drew back its reins with my left hand.

I am a youth whose eye's glance inclines

toward the one I love, while my mind looks away from him.

And if one day toward indecency I am lifted

by desires, my virtues set me down.

I love falsehood playfully in similes,

and cherish truth in serious discourse.

Mine is admonition firmer than rooted mountains,

and mine is love poetry gentler than the north wind.

I am the guide when poets wander

through poetry's valley in the night of error.

Foremost among those who race toward meanings,

and the champion of their inquiry on the day of debate.

At recitation, the daughters of my thought play coy

with my ear and make me forget my deeds.

My closeness attests my claim to excellence

with Barakat, the discerning critic of meanings.

Love of him possessed me, and I grew in excellence;

a servant's excellence comes from the nobility of his masters.

The beauty of excellence, the focus of its twin luminaries,

the perfection of the full moons of perfection's sons.

Lofty in glory, to the crown of the Pleiades

he rose on ladders of high aspiration.

His honor kept safe on the path of virtues,

he exhausts wealth by racing to bestow gifts.

Brave: through him death spreads wide

when he charges in a narrow field.

When he appears in armor amid the darkness of battle-dust,

he shows us the sun in the crescent's robe.

He is justice itself, before whose portrayal bows

the eminent figure renowned for majesty.

Through him, how many of his foes' fortresses are

towers emptied of their stars!

The subtleties of his thought resemble brilliant stars,

and the fragrance of his praise makes precious perfumes seem cheap.

He sees the world, though great and exalted,

as worth less to him than a sandal strap.

Through him generosity was freed, though it had been held hostage,

and miserliness became bound fast with a hobble.

Rhymes adorn their bare forms with him,

as fair, bejeweled women deck themselves.

Had he touched the hard, mute rocks one day,

he would have made them gush with sweet, limpid water.

An armored warrior whom foes cannot fight

with anything keener than the swords of supplication.

When his keen swords have drunk their fill of gore,

they kindle with their edges the fire of destruction.

As though the blood of champions were their lamp-oil,

and their red edges were wick-flames.

He is of the people who rose high and ruled

over Arabs, both later and earlier.

Kings like angels in encounters,

demons whose steeds are she-ghouls.

Of ancient glory, he is victorious over them,

and honor has cast wide-reaching shadows.

I discerned reason and generosity in him,

and the light of glory even before weaning.

Through him I needed none of the generous men,

and spared my face the indignity of begging.

Should I seek rain from clouds far away,

when this sea lies spread before me?

I laid down my weapons—what need have I,

when he is my armor and the spear I hold?

O hero in whom hope is placed

to repel the battalions of grievous calamities,

O sword of death and both her arms,

and carver of her bow on the day of archery combat,

O moon of the age—I use no veiled expression—

and morning sun of kings—I do not exaggerate—

High glory was indeed envied for a lion-cub's circumcision,

whose father is you, O lion of combat.

A brother to right guidance in name and omen,

a scion of glory, of the finest father and family.

He grew, and from him there grew for us a joy

that almost shook the flanks of mountains.

The steeds neighed, proclaiming God's oneness,

and he charged, proclaiming God's greatness, on the day of battle.

The eyes of keen white swords were gladdened,

and the flanks of long, brown spears swayed proudly.

He is the son through whose father was won

everlasting safety for the hearts of men.

May he endure, and you endure, as long as radiance is gained

by the stars of night from the sun of bounty.

May the days never cease to pray for you,

and may the nights never stop congratulating you.