إِذا عَبّا أَبو الهَيجا

ءِ لِلهَيجاءِ فُرسانا

When Abu Al-Hayja

When the Father of Battle marshals his ranks,

Brought knights to Al-Hayja

Gathering horsemen for the fray,

وَسارَت رايَةُ المَوتِ

أَمامَ الشَيخِ إِعلانا

And the banner of death

And the banner of death advances forth,

Marched ahead of the Sheikh as a declaration

Before the Elder, a grim proclamation;

وَشَبَّت حَربُها وَاِشتَ

عَلَت تُلهِبُ نيرانا

And its war flared up flaming fires

When the fires of war are fully stoked,

Baring ferocious fangs and teeth

And blaze with high and scorching flames,

وَأَبدَت لَوعَةَ الوَق

عَةِ أَضراساً وَأَسنانا

We made bows our hands

When the clash reveals its cruel anguish,

And arrows of bows our amusement

Baring its molars and grinding teeth;

جَعَلنا القَوسَ أَيدينا

وَنَبلَ القَوسِ سَوسانا

And offered instead of arrows and spears

We make our very hands the bows,

Basil and thyme

And make the arrows lilies white;

وَقَدَّمنا مَكانَ النَب

لِ وَالمِطرَدِ رَيحانا

So our war became intimacy

And where the sharpest darts should be,

And we became boon companions

We offer basil and sweet herbs;

فَعادَت حَربُنا أُنساً

وَعُدنا نَحنُ خِلّانا

With lads who see killing

Thus our war becomes pure intimacy,

As a sacrifice of pleasure

And we turn back into close companions.

بِفِتيانٍ يَرَونَ القَت

لَ في اللَذَّةِ قُربانا

When they beat the drum

With youths who view the act of slaughter,

We beat the flutes

In the throes of pleasure as an offering.

إِذا ما ضَرَبوا الطَبلَ

ضَرَبنا نَحنُ عيدانا

And set up tents

Whenever they beat the drums of war,

Of various colors

We strike the strings of the singing lute;

وَأَنشَأنا كَراديساً

مِنَ الخَيرِيِّ أَلوانا

And stones of catapults

And we deploy our dense battalions,

Are apples of Lebanon to us

Of wallflowers in painted hues;

وَأَحجارُ المَجانيقِ

لَنا تُفّاحُ لُبنانا

And the carrier of our war is one who pours

And the heavy stones of mangonels,

Wine making us drink

Are, for us, the apples of Lebanon.

وَمَنشا حَربِنا ساقٍ

سَبا خَمراً فَسَقّانا

Urging the cup to connect

The instigator of our war is a cupbearer,

Our latter to our former

Who poured the vintage wine for us;

يَحُثُّ الكَأسَ كَي تَلحَ

قَ أُخرانا بِأولانا

You see this one slain

He urges on the passing cup,

And that one dragging drunk

That the last of us may catch the first.

تَرى هَذاكَ مَصروعاً

وَذا يَنجَرُّ سَكرانا

So this is no war

You see one warrior struck to the ground,

That grieves people out of aggression

Another dragging himself in stupor;

فَهَذي الحَربُ لا حَربٌ

تَغُمُّ الناسَ عُدوانا

With it we kill them, then

This is the war—not a war of blood,

With it we publish our killing

That grieves mankind with aggression;

بِها نَقتُلُهُم ثُمَّ

بِها نَنشُرُ قَتلانا

With wine we slay them, and then,

With wine we resurrect our slain.