قَد أَغتَدي قَبلَ الصَباحِ الأَبلَجِ
وَقَبلَ نَقناقِ الدَجاجِ الدُجُجِ
I venture out before the bright morning breaks,
And before the clucking of the brooding hens,
بِسَهرِدازِ اللَونِ أَو إِسبَهرَجِ
يوفي عَلى الكَفِّ اِنتِصابَ الزُمُّجِ
With a falcon of dust-colored hue or variegated beauty,
Standing erect upon the hand like the upright Zummuj,
مُشَمِّرٌ ثِيابَهُ عَن مُؤزِجِ
كَأَنَّما عُلَّ بِصَبغِ النيلَجِ
Tucking up his feathered raiment from his talons,
As though he were dipped in indigo dye.
كَأَنَّ وَشيَ ريشِهِ المُدَرَّجِ
في قائِمٍ مِنهُ وَمِن مُعَرَّجِ
It is as if the embroidery of his layered plumage,
In its straight lines and its curved deviations,
باقي حُروفِ السَطَرِ المُخَرفَجِ
أَبرَشُ أَوتارِ الجَناحِ الأَخرَجِ
Were the fading characters of a scribbled script.
Speckled are the chords of his black-and-white wing,
بَينَ خَوافيهِ إِلى الدَهبَرَّجِ
Amidst hidden feathers gleaming like gold brocade.
يَنهَسُ سَيرَ المِقوَدِ المُحَملَجِ
مِن نَهَمِ الحِرصِ وَإِن لَم يُملِجِ
He bites at the strap of the twisted leather leash,
Out of ravenous greed, though he has not yet fed.
يَنحازُ جَولانَ القَذى المُنَجنَجِ
عِندَ اِمتِدادِ النَظَرِ المُحَمَّجِ
He shifts about like a roving speck in a watering eye,
When he stretches his gaze, narrowing his focus,
مِن مُقلَةٍ واسِعَةِ المُحَجَّجِ
كَأَنَّما تَطرِفُ عَن فَيروزَجِ
From a wide eye-socket, deep and bony,
As though he blinks revealing a turquoise stone,
في هامَةٍ مِثلَ الصَلا المُدَمَّجِ
Set in a head smooth as a compact rock.
وَمِنسَرٍ أَقنى رُحابِ المَضرَجِ
حَتّى قَضَينا كُلَّ حاجِ مُحتَجِ
And a beak, aquiline, with a wide gape for blood.
Until we satisfied every need of the hunter,
مِن دَيزَجِ اللَونِ وَعِزُّ الدَيزَجِ
مِن كُلِّ مَحبوكِ القَرا مُدَمَّجِ
Catching the ash-colored birds, the pride of their kind,
From every bird with a compact, tightly-knit back,
ذاكَ إِلى أَخشَنِ سارٍ أَثبَجِ
مُبَرنَسِ الهامَةِ أَو مُتَوَّجِ
To the roughest night-traveler, broad of chest,
Hooded upon the head, or wearing a crest,
مُكَحَّلِ الآماقِ أَو مُزَجَّجِ
يَصفُرُ أَحياناً إِذا لَم يَهزِجِ
With kohl-lined eyelids or arched brows,
Whistling at times when not trilling a song,
مِن مِثلِ حَرفِ المِجدَحِ المُعَبَّجِ
فَظَلَّ أَصحابي بِعَيشٍ سَجسَجِ
Like the scraping sound of a carved mixing-stick.
So my companions remained in a life of ease,
مِن زَهَمِ الصَيدِ وَشُربِ النَجنَجِ
تَراهُمُ مِن مُعجِلٍ وَمُنضِجِ
With the savory fat of the hunt and the swigging of wine,
You see them: one hastening to cook, one roasting thoroughly,
وَقادِحٍ أَورى وَلَم يُؤَجِّجِ
And one striking flint who sparks a light but has not yet fanned the flame.
