وارِفَةٌ لِلطَيرِ في أَرجائِها

كَلَغَطِ الكُتّابِ في اِستِملائِها

A shelter for birds in its corners

Lush and shady, with birds filling its every corner,

Like the scribbling of writers as they fill it

Sounding like the clamor of scribes taking dictation,

أَشرَفتُها وَالشَمسُ في خِرشائِها

لَم يَبرُزِ المَقرورُ لِاِصطِلائِها

I looked over it as the sun glared in its crevices

I looked upon it while the sun was still veiled in its husk,

The sealed one did not come out to bask in it

Before the chilled man had stepped out to warm himself by it,

بِشِقَّةٍ طَولُكَ في إِبقائِها

إِذا اِنتَحى النازِعُ في اِنتِحائِها

With effort you remain to keep it

With a seasoned stave of wood—your merit lies in preserving it—

When the opponent turns away in his defeat

When the archer strains, leaning deep into the draw,

لَم يَرهَبِ الفُطورَ مِن سِبائِها

يُعزى اِبنُ عُصفورٍ إِلى بُرائِها

The breakfast did not frighten away its birds

It fears no splitting from the tension of the pull,

The son of a sparrow is blamed for his innocence

Its shaping is attributed to the master Ibn Asfur,

حَتّى تَأَنّاها إِلى اِنتِهائِها

وَاِستَوسَقَ القِشرُ عَلى لِحائِها

Until we slowed it down to its end

Who labored patiently over it until its perfection,

And the peel adhered to its smoothness

And the bark gathered firmly upon its inner wood,

وَشُمِّسَت فَيَبِسَت مِن مائِها

فَالحُسنُ وَالجودَةُ مِن أَسمائِها

And it was sunned so it dried of its water

And it was sun-cured until it dried of all its sap,

Beauty and generosity are among its names

So that beauty and excellence became its very names,

ثُمَّ اِبتَدَرنا الطَيرَ في اِعتِلائِها

بَنادِقاً تُعجِبُ لِاِستِوائِها

Then we aimed at the birds in their ascent

Then we hastened toward the birds in their high flight,

With rifles that amaze in their balance

With clay pellets that amaze the eye by their perfect symmetry,

مِن طينَةٍ لَم تَدنُ مِن غَضرائِها

وَلَم يُخالِطها نَقا مَيثائِها

Of clay that did not come near to greenness

Formed from clay that never neared soft marshy soil,

And no blemish of copper mixed into it

And with which the grit of sandy earth never mixed,

لا تُحوِجُ الرامي إِلى اِنتِقائِها

فَهيَ تُراقي الطَيرَ في اِرتِقائِها

It does not require the shooter to select

Not requiring the marksman to pick and choose among them,

For it strikes the birds in their rising

For they ascend to chase the birds in their rising,

مِثلَ تَلَظّي النارِ في اِلتِظائِها

مِن سودِ أَعجازٍ وَمِن رَهائِها

Like the blazing of fire in its kindling

Like the fierce blazing of a fire in its burning,

From blacks of backs and from greys

Striking those with black tail-feathers and spreading wings,

وَمِن شُروقاها وَمِن صَبغائِها

كُلَّ حَبَنطاةٍ عَلى اِحبِنطائِها

And from its sunrises and from its dyed

And the Shuruqa and the Sabgha birds alike,

Each earthenware on its stand

Every stout-bellied bird in its heavy fullness,

طَرّاحَةٌ لِلحوتِ مِن جَربائِها

مَرثومَةُ الخَطمِ بِطينِ مائِها

A wounding to the whale from its sores

That casts up the fish from within its crop,

Cleft-lipped from the mud of its water

Its beak smeared with the mud of its waters,

تَرفُلُ في نَعلَينِ مِن أَمعائِها

يَحُطُّها لِلأَرضِ مِن سَمائِها

It crawls in two slippers from its guts

Strutting in two sandals made of its own entrails,

Dropping it to the ground from its heights

The shot brings it crashing down from its sky to the earth.