دَعِ الأَطلالَ تَسفيها الجَنوبُ
وَتُبلي عَهدَ جِدَّتِها الخُطوبُ
Leave the ruins for the south wind to mock
Leave the ruins to be scattered by the southern gale,
And time to erase the covenant of its masters.
And let the passing eras wear away their ancient tale.
وَخَلِّ لِراكِبِ الوَجناءِ أَرضاً
تَخُبُّ بِها النَجيبَةُ وَالنَجيبُ
Leave the rider of the she-camel a land
Abandon to the rider of the beast that barren land,
Where the noble and the ignoble sink.
Where the she-camel and her mate trot through the sand.
بِلادٌ نَبتُها عُشَرٌ وَطَلحٌ
وَأَكثَرُ صَيدِها ضَبعٌ وَذيبُ
A land whose plants are colocynth and tamarisk,
A country where only the bitter thorn and acacia grow,
And whose game is for the most part hyena and wolf.
Where wolves and hyenas are the only game to know.
وَلا تَأخُذ عَنِ الأَعرابِ لَهواً
وَلا عَيشاً فَعَيشُهُم جَديبُ
Take no pleasure from the Bedouins,
Do not adopt the Bedouins' ways of empty mirth,
For their living is harsh.
Nor their harsh life, for theirs is a life of dearth.
دَعِ الأَلبانَ يَشرَبُها رِجالٌ
رَقيقُ العَيشِ بَينَهُمُ غَريبُ
Leave the milk for men of easy life to drink,
Leave the drinking of milk to rough desert men,
Strange among them is he of noble stock.
Among whom a gentle life is strange and alien.
إِذا رابَ الحَليبُ فَبُل عَلَيهِ
وَلا تُحرَج فَما في ذاكَ حوبُ
When the milk turns sour, pour it out
If the milk turns sour, piss on it without a care,
And feel no regret, for that is no disgrace.
And feel no guilt, for there is no sin in that affair.
فَأَطيَبُ مِنهُ صافِيَةٌ شَمولٌ
يَطوفُ بِكَأسِها ساقٍ أَديبُ
Sweeter than it is date wine brought by a slender hand,
Far sweeter is the pure wine, chilled by the northern breeze,
Borne in a goblet by one graceful and adroit.
Served by a graceful cupbearer who seeks to please.
أَقامَت حِقبَةً في قَعرِ دَنٍّ
تَفورُ وَما يُحَسُّ لَها لَهيبُ
It boiled for an age at the bottom of a vat,
A vintage that has dwelt for ages in the vessel's deep,
Seething, though no fire was lit beneath it.
Seething with spirit, though no fires within it leap.
كَأَنَّ هَديرَها في الدَنِّ يَحكي
قِراةَ القَسِّ قابَلَهُ الصَليبُ
Its bubbling in the vat sounds like
As if its murmur, bubbling in the cask, recalls
The murmur of monks faced by the crucifix.
The chanting of a priest before the Cross's walls.
تَمُدُّ بِها إِلَيكَ يَدا غُلامٍ
أَغَنُّ كَأَنَّهُ رَشَأٌ رَبيبُ
The hand of a slender lad presents it to you,
Offered to you by the hand of a slender lad,
Rich as perfumed grape-juice.
With a voice soft as a fawn's, in beauty clad.
غَذَتهُ صَنعَةُ الداياتِ حَتّى
زَها فَزَها بِهِ دَلٌّ وَطيبُ
The arts of his singing nurse nurtured him until
Nurtured by the craft of nursemaids till he grew,
He was succulent with grace and delight.
And bloomed with coquetry and scent, a vision new.
يَجُرُّ لَكَ العِنانَ إِذا حَساها
وَيَفتَحُ عَقدُ تَكَّتِهِ الدَبيبُ
He leads the halter for you when you race it
He yields the reins to you once he has sipped the wine,
And the knot of his girdle comes undone.
As the creeping stupor unknots his belt so fine.
وَإِن جَمَّشتُهُ خَلَبَتكَ مِنهُ
طَرائِفُ تُستَخَفُّ لَها القُلوبُ
When I tease him, you steal from him
And if you toy with him, he charms your very soul
Wiles to ensnare hearts and beguile minds.
With witty jests that make the heavy spirit whole.
يَنوءُ بِرِدفِهِ فَإِذا تَمَشّى
تَثَنّى في غَلائِلِهِ قَضيبُ
He sways under his saddle, and when he trots
He rises with heavy hips, but when he moves along,
His whip bends into ringlets.
A willow branch sways in his robes, lithe and strong.
يَكادُ مِنَ الدَلالِ إِذا تَثَنّى
عَلَيكَ وَمِن تَساقُطِهِ يَذوبُ
He nearly swoons from coquetry when he bends
He almost—from pure grace when he bends and sways—
Toward you, melting from the falling of his curls.
Melts upon you, dissolving in a languid haze.
وَأَحمَقَ مِن مُغَيِّبَةٍ تَراءى
إِذا ما اِختانَ لَحظَتَها مُريبُ
More foolish than a maid glimpsed from afar
Foolish as the lonely wife who flaunts her guise,
When her glances are clouded by a spy.
Catching the gaze of untrusting, prying eyes.
أَعاذِلَتي اِقصُري عَن بَعضِ لَومي
فَراجي تَوبَتي عِندي يَخيبُ
My censurers, stop blaming me in part,
O woman who scolds me, cut short your bitter blame,
For I have lost hope of repenting before you.
For he who hopes for my repentance waits in vain.
تَعيبينَ الذُنوبَ وَأَيُّ حُرٍّ
مِنَ الفِتيانِ لَيسَ لَهُ ذُنوبُ
You blame me for sins—and what free man
You find fault with sins, yet what free-born man,
Among the youths is without sins?
Among the gallant youths, is guiltless in his span?
فَهَذا العَيشُ لا خِيَمُ البَوادي
وَهَذا العَيشُ لا اللَبَنُ الحَليبُ
This life is not the tents of the desert folk
This is the life—not the tents of the wild waste,
Nor the sweet milk to drink.
This is the life—not the milk of bitter taste.
فَأَينَ البَدوُ مِن إيوانِ كِسرى
وَأَينَ مِنَ المَيادينِ الزُروبُ
Where are the Bedouins from Chosroes' palace
How far is the Bedouin from Khosrow's royal hall!
And the race-course with its flown dust?
How far the cattle-pen from the spacious city square!
غُرُرتِ بِتَوبَتي وَلَجَجتِ فيها
فَشُقّي اليَومَ جَيبَكِ لا أَتوبُ
You tricked me with talk of repenting, but plunged ahead
You were deceived by hopes of my reform, misled and blind,
And so my lot today is—I shall never repent.
So tear your robe in grief today—I will not change my mind!
