ما لَذَّةُ العَيشِ إِلّا شُربُ صافِيَةٍ
في بَيتِ خَمّارَةٍ أَو ظِلُّ بُستانِ
The only joy in life is to drink clear wine
The pleasure of life is naught but drinking clear wine, within a tavern's walls or under a garden's shade.
In a tavern or in the shade of an orchard.
Golden wine of Karkh that turns red when mixed, resembling a frightened soul across whom two colors flush.
صَفراءُ كَرخِيَّةٌ حَمراءُ إِذ مُزِجَت
كَأَنَّها وَجِلٌ يَعلوهُ لَونانِ
A blonde, reddish when mixed,
It is served by a soft youth in the guise of a maiden, his sidelocks fragrant with the oil of the ben-tree.
As if it were a cheek marked with two colors.
He greeted my drinking companions with kisses as he circulated, bearing the cup with spirited vigor, never languid.
يَسعى بِها خَنِثٌ في زِيِّ جارِيَةٍ
مُطَيَّبٌ صُدغُهُ في طَيِّبِ البانِ
Served by an effeminate in the garb of a maid,
At times he is a training field where we tame lean, veteran steeds that are no second-rate mounts.
His cheek scented with the best perfume.
And at times he is our cupbearer and our narcissus—may my soul be ransomed for you, o cupbearer and field alike!
حَيّا نَدامايَ بِالتَقبيلِ حينَ سَعى
بِالكَأسِ يَحبو نَشيطاً غَيرَ كَسلانِ
Greetings to Nadim when he came forward to kiss
Eagerly sipping from the cup, lively and tireless.
فَتارَةً هُوَ مَيدانٌ نَروضُ بِهِ
ضَوامِراً قُرَّحاً لَيسَت بِثُنيانِ
At times it is our racecourse where we train
Spirited steeds that are not lazy.
وَتارَةً هُوَ ساقينا وَنَرجِسُنا
نَفسي فِداأُكَ مِن ساقٍ وَمَيدانِ
And at times it is our cupbearer and narcissus,
My soul is ransom for you, O cupbearer and racecourse.
