أَقَيسَ بنَ مَسعودِ بنِ قَيسِ بنِ خالِدٍ

وَأَنتَ اِمرُؤٌ تَرجو شَبابَكَ وائِلُ

Aqiys, the son of Mas'ud, the son of Qays, the son of Khalid,

While you are a man who hopes for the prime of his youth to endure,

أَطَورَينِ في عامٍ غَزاةٌ وَرِحلَةٌ

أَلا لَيتَ قَيساً غَرَّقَتهُ القَوابِلُ

In one year, two raids and a migration!

Oh, would that Qays had drowned at the hands of the executioners,

وَلَيتَكَ حالَ البَحرُ دونَكَ كُلُّهُ

وَكُنتَ لَقىً تَجري عَلَيهِ السَوائِلُ

And would that the sea had stood between you, all of it,

And you were flotsam, borne on its currents,

كَأَنَّكَ لَم تَشهَد قَرابينَ جَمَّةً

تَعيثُ ضِباعٌ فيهِمُ وَعَواسِلُ

As if you had never witnessed the sacrificial offerings of Jammal,

Wild beasts savaging them, and noble camels,

تَرَكتَهُمُ صَرعى لَدى كُلِّ مَنهَلٍ

وَأَقبَلتَ تَبغي الصُلحَ أُمُّكَ هابِلُ

You left them lying dead at every watering place,

And went to seek reconciliation while your mother mourned.

أَمِن جَبَلِ الأَمرارِ صُرَّت خِيامُكُم

عَلى نَبَإٍ أَنَّ الأَشافِيَّ سائِلُ

As if your tents had not removed from Mount Marar,

On news that the cavalry of Al-Shafi was pursuing you,

فَهانَ عَلَينا أَن تَجِفَّ وِطابُكُم

إِذا حُنِيَت فيها لَدَيكَ الزَواجِلُ

We scorn that your cooking-pots should go cold

When the cooking-stands are bent over them.

لَقَد كانَ في شَيبانَ لَو كُنتَ راضِياً

قِبابٌ وَحَيٌّ حِلَّةٍ وَقَنابِلُ

Indeed there were in Shi'bān, had you been content,

Tent soaring aloft with fine garments and clear wineskins within,

وَرَجراجَةٌ تُعشي النَواظِرَ فَخمَةٌ

وَجُردٌ عَلى أَكنافِهِنَّ الرَواحِلُ

And smooth-cheeked gazelles to dazzle the eyes, haughty,

And, around their flanks, does who have shed their coats.

تَرَكتَهُمُ جَهلاً وَكُنتَ عَميدَهُم

فَلا يَبلُغَنّي عَنكَ ما أَنتَ فاعِلُ

You abandoned them in ignorance though you were their chieftain,

So let no report of what you do reach me.

وَعُرّيتَ مِن وَفرٍ وَمالٍ جَمَعتَهُ

كَما عُرِّيَت مِمّا تُسِرُّ المَغازِلُ

You stripped yourself of wealth and possessions you had gathered

As you were stripped of what delights the amorous.

شَفى النَفسَ قَتلى لَم تُوَسَّد خُدودُها

وِساداً وَلَم تُعضَض عَلَيها الأَنامِلُ

It was balm to the soul to kill those whose cheeks

Were not pillowed, whose ankles were not bitten by sandals.

بِعَينَيكَ يَومَ الحِنوِ إِذ صَبَّحَتهُمُ

كَتائِبُ مَوتٍ لَم تَعُقها العَواذِلُ

On that day of sorrow, when at dawn they surprised them,

Squadrons of death they could not escape.