سُقياً لحربٍ أنا أُحييها
في جنّةٍ قد جرت سواقيها
I revive a war, being its water-bearer
A toast to a war that I bring to life,
In a garden where canals flow
In a garden where streamlets are flowing rife.
سيوفُنا وردُها ونرجسُها
وشتمُنا اللفظُ من مغنّيها
Our swords are its roses, narcissi,
Our swords are the roses and narcissus flowers,
Our insults shape its songs
Our curses, the verses the singer outpours.
ومنجنيقاتُنا المعازفُ والعيدا
نُ إذا سوّيت ملاويها
Our catapults, lutes and holidays
Our mangonels are the lutes and the lyres,
When their ends are bound tight
When their pegs are tuned to the heart's desires.
أحجارُنا نخبةٌ بباطيةٍ
يديرُها ما يخلّ ساقيها
Our stones elite troops in night clothes
Our stones are choice wines in a flagon's hold,
Spun by one who empties their canals
Passed round by a cupbearer, distinct and bold.
قائدُنا قينةٌ مخنثّةٌ
بياسمينٍ غضٍ نُحييها
Our leader an effeminate, with tender jasmine
Our general is a delicate singing-maid,
We celebrate
With fresh jasmine is our homage paid.
