أنتَ يا شِعْرُ فلذةٌ مِنْ فؤادي

تَتَغَنَّى وقِطْعةٌ مِنْ وُجُودي

You, oh poetry, are a piece of my heart

O Poetry, you are a fragment of my heart,

Singing, and a part of my being

A singing voice, a piece of my own being.

فيكَ مَا في جوانحي مِنْ حنينٍ

أبديٍّ إلى صميمِ الوُجُودِ

In you is what is in my wings of yearning

In you lies all the longing of my soul,

Eternal, for the core of existence

Eternal yearning for the core of life.

فيكَ مَا في خواطري مِنْ بكاءٍ

فيكَ مَا في عواطفي مِنْ نشيدِ

In you is what is in my thoughts of crying

In you is the weeping found within my thoughts,

In you is what is in my feelings of chanting

In you is the anthem rising from my passions.

فيكَ مَا في مَشَاعري مِنْ وُجُومٍ

لا يُغَنِّي ومِنْ سُرورٍ عَهيدِ

In you is what is in my emotions of stars

In you is the gloom that dwells within my feelings,

That don't sing, and fleeting happiness

That sings no more, and joy of days gone by.

فيكَ مَا في عَوَالمي مِنْ ظلامٍ

سَرْمديٍّ ومِنْ صباحٍ وَليدِ

In you is what is in my worlds of darkness

In you is the darkness found within my worlds,

Eternal, and of a nascent dawn

Eternal night, and morning newly born.

فيكَ مَا في عَوَالمي مِنْ ضبابٍ

وسرابٍ ويقظةٍ وهُجُودِ

In you is what is in my worlds of haze

In you is the mist that drifts through all my realms,

Mirage, wakefulness, and fervor

The mirage, the wakefulness, the quiet sleep.

فيكَ مَا في طفولتي مِنْ سلامٍ

وابتسامٍ وغبطةٍ وسُعودِ

In you is what is in my childhood of peace

In you is the peace that filled my childhood days,

Smiles, bliss, and joy

The smiles, the bliss, the moments of good fortune.

فيكَ مَا في شبيبتي مِنْ حنينٍ

وشجونٍ وبَهْجةٍ وجُمودِ

In you is what is in my youth of yearning

In you is the deep nostalgia of my youth,

Melancholy, rapture, and bleakness

The sorrows, the delight, the apathy.

فيكَ إن عانقَ الرَّبيعُ فؤادي

تتثنَّى سَنَابِلي وَوُرُودي

In you, if spring embraces my heart

In you, when Spring embraces my poor heart,

My stalks and roses twist

My ears of grain and roses sway and dance.

ويغنِّي الصَّباحُ أُنشودَةَ الحبِّ

على مَسْمَعِ الشَّبابِ السَّعيدِ

And the morning sings the song of love

And morning sings the anthem of its love,

To the hearing of happy youth

Within the hearing of a happy youth.

ثُمَّ أَجْني في صيفِ أَحلاميَ

السَّاحِرِ مَا لَذَّ من ثمارِ الخُلودِ

Then I reap in the magic of my dreams

Then, in the enchanting summer of my dreams,

What is most delightful from the fruits of eternity

I harvest the sweet fruits of eternity.

فيكَ يبدو خريفُ نَفْسي مَلُولاً

شاحِبَ اللَّوْنِ عاريَ الأُمْلودِ

In you my soul's autumn seems dejected

In you, the autumn of my soul looks weary,

Pale, bare and faded

Pale in its hue, and stripped of tender boughs.

حَلَّلته الحَيَاةُ بالحَزَنِ الدَّا

مي وغَشَّتْهُ بالغيومِ السُّودِ

Life has clad it with everlasting sorrow

Life has dissolved it with a bleeding grief,

And cloaked it with black clouds

And covered it with clouds of darkest hue.

فيكَ يمشي شتاءُ أَيَّاميَ البا

كي وتُرغي صَوَاعقي ورُعُودي

In you walks the winter of my days

In you there walks the weeping winter of my days,

Weeping, with my lightnings and thunders raging

While my thunders roar and lightning strikes.

وتَجِفُّ الزُّهورُ في قلبيَ الدَّا

جي وتهوي إلى قرارٍ بعيدِ

And the flowers dry up in my grieving heart

And flowers wither in my gloomy heart,

Plunging into a distant stillness

Falling down into a deep abyss.

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ قصَّةٌ عن حياتي

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ صورةٌ مِنْ وُجودي

You, oh poetry, are a tale of my life

O Poetry, you are the story of my life,

You, oh poetry, are a portrait of my being

O Poetry, you are the image of my being.

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ إنْ فَرِحْتُ أغاريدي

وإنْ غنَّتِ الكآبَةُ عُودي

You, oh poetry, are my trills of joy

O Poetry, if I rejoice, you are my songs,

And my oud's song when sadness strums

And if depression sings, you are my lute.

أَنْتَ يا شِعْرُ كأسُ خمرٍ عجيبٍ

أَتلهَّى به خلالَ اللُّحودِ

You, oh poetry, are a cup of wondrous wine

O Poetry, you are a cup of wondrous wine,

I am entertained with through times of solitude

With which I find distraction 'midst the graves.

أتحسَّاهُ في الصبَّاحِ لأنسى

مَا تقضَّى في أمسيَ المَفْقودِ

I sip it in the morn, to forget

I sip from it at dawn so I forget,

What was decreed in my lost yesterday

What passed away in yesterday's lost hours.

وأُناجيه في المساءِ ليُلْهِيني

مَرْآهُ عن الصَّباحِ السَّعيدِ

And whisper to it at night, to distract me

I confide in it at eve to turn my gaze,

From tomorrow's happy dawn

Away from the sight of the happy morn.

أَنْتَ مَا نلتُ من كهوفِ اللَّيالي

وتصفَّحتُ مِنْ كتابِ الخلودِ

You are what I attained from the caves of nights

You are what I won from the caves of the nights,

And perused from the book of eternity

And what I read within the book of time.

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ حَلَكٍ دا

جٍ وما فيه مِنْ ضياءٍ بعيدِ

In you is what exists in being of dark fervor

In you is all the pitch-black dark of being,

And what is in it of distant light

And all it holds of light that shines afar.

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ نَغَمٍ

حُلْوٍ وما فيه من ضجيجٍ شَديدِ

In you is what exists in being of sweet melody

In you is all the melody of life,

And what is in it of loud clamor

The sweet, and all its harsh and heavy noise.

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ جَبَلٍ وَعْ

رٍ وما فيه مِنْ حَضيضٍ وهِيدِ

In you is what exists in being of mountain and plain

In you is every rugged mountain peak,

And what is in it of low and lofty

And every deep ravine and hollow pit.

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ مِنْ حَسَكٍ يُدْ

مِي وما فيه مِنْ غَضيضِ الوُرودِ

In you is what exists in being of tender affection

In you are all the thorns that tear the flesh,

And what is in it of withering roses

And all the tender roses of the world.

فيكَ مَا في الوُجُودِ حَبَّ بنو الأَر

ضِ قصيدي أَمْ لَمْ يُحبُّوا قَصيدي

In you is what exists in being, did earth's people love

In you is all existence, whether the sons of earth

My poem or did they not love my poem

Love my poem, or cherish not my song.

فسواءٌ على الطُّيورِ إِذا غنَّ

تْ هُتافُ السَّؤُوم والمُسْتَعيدِ

It matters not to the birds if the dirge of gloom sang

It is the same to birds, when they sing out,

Or the cry of joy

The bored one's shout, the plea to sing again.

وسواءٌ على النُّجومِ إِذا لاحتْ

سكونُ الدُّجى وقَصْفُ الرُّعودِ

It matters not to the stars if the stillness of night shone

It is the same to stars when they appear,

Or the lashing of thunder

The dark's repose, the thunder's crashing sound.

وسواءٌ على النَّسيمِ أَفي القف

رِ تُغَنِّي أَمْ بَيْنَ غَضِّ الوُرودِ

It matters not to the breeze, does it sing in the grave

It matters not to the breeze, whether in the waste

Or amidst the blowing roses

It sings, or amidst the tender blooms.

وسواءٌ على الوُرودِ أَفي الغيرانِ

فاحَتْ أَمْ بَيْنَ نَهْدٍ وَجِيدِ

It matters not to the roses if they bloomed in passion

It matters not to roses, whether in the caves

Or between a bosom and hand

They waft their scent, or on a breast and neck.