هَل أَنتَ يا مِصلاتُ مُب
تَكِرٌ غَداةَ غَدٍ فَزاحِل
O you who prays at dawn persistently
Will you tomorrow morn be climbing hills?
إِنّا لَدى مَلِكٍ بِشَب
وَةَ ما تَغِبَّ لَهُ النَوافِل
We live under a youthful king
Who never fails to perform supererogations
مُتَحَلِّبِ الكَفَّينِ مِث
لِ البَدرِ قَوّالٍ وَفاعِل
With hands like the full moon
A speaker and a doer so influential
الواهِبِ المِئَةَ الصَفا
يا بَينَ تالِيَةٍ وَحائِل
The giver of hundreds in charity
O you amid successive mountains and defiles
وَلَقَد شَرِبتُ الخَمرَ تَر
كُضُ حَولَنا تُركٌ وَكابُل
And indeed I have drunk wine that leaves
The Turks staggering around us, and the cables
كَدَمِ الذَبيحِ غَريبَةً
مِمّا يُعَتِّقُ أَهلُ بابِل
Like the blood of a slaughtered victim unlawfully
Of what the people of Babylon emancipate
باكَرتُها حَولي ذَوُو ال
آكالِ مِن بَكرِ بنِ وائِل
I enjoyed it around those accustomed
To eating the firstborn of the tribe of Wail
أَهلُ القِبابِ الحُمرِ وَال
نَعَمِ المُؤَبَّلِ وَالقَنابِل
The people of the red tents
Of bliss, sweetmeats, and arsenals
كَم فيهِمُ مِن شَطبَةٍ
وَمُقَلِّصٍ نَهدِ المَراكِل
How many smooth-cheeked ones among them
And clenchers of the breasts of the mares
ضَخمِ الجُزارَةِ سابِحٍ
عَبلٍ يُضَمَّرُ بِالأَصائِل
Stout-armed swimmers
Bare, their coats tied with leashes
وَهُمُ عَلى جُردٍ مَغا
ويرٍ عَلَيهِنَّ الرَحائِل
Disheveled, their hair rivaling
The flowing plumage of ostriches
شُعثٍ يُبارينَ الأَسِن
تَه كَالنَعاماتِ الجَوافِل
They come out through the thickets
Frowning, joined by nights-long shadows
يَخرُجنَ مِن خَلَلِ الغُبا
رِ عَوابِساً لُحُقَ الأَياطِل
How many torn garments have they left
Among ragged cloaks and mantles
كَم قَد تَرَكنَ مُجَدَّلاً
مِن بَينِ مُنقَصِفٍ وَجافِل
Like birds I strike them down
At night, turning away the assemblies
زَيّافَةٌ أَرمي بِها
بِاللَيلِ مَعرِضَةَ المَحافِل
As if, after perfection
It is stained red, rational, mature
وَكَأَنَّها بَعدَ الكَلا
لِ مُكَدَّمٌ مِن حُمرِ عاقِل
Spreading from it a meadow
Which heavy dew has struck
مُتَرَبِّعٌ مِنها رِيا
ضاً صابَها وَدقُ الهَواطِل
Nay, many a star of ill fortune
Does a smooth-skinned king tumble into
بَل رُبَّ مَجرٍ جَحفَلٍ
يَهوي بِهِ مَلِكٌ حُلاحِل
I left him sprawled
In the dust, ripped by the claws
غادَرتُهُ مُتَجَدِّلاً
بِالقاعِ تَنهَسُهُ الفَراعِل
And indeed he tries to stand
But strength has already deserted him
وَلَقَد يُحاوِلُ أَن يَقو
مَ وَقَد مَضَت فيهِ النَواهِل
