زعم الغراب منبئ الأنباء — Albohtry

The crow, teller of tidings, claimed

that the beloved had given notice of separation.

So cool, with the chill of tears, a seething breast

and ribs ablaze with scorching heat.

Do not bid me find consolation when you see

the companions' traces: this is no time for consolation.

Separation has cut short my resolve to forget

and prolonged my weeping over those deserted traces.

Increase my longing with wine, and sing to me:

'How grievous to me is the parting of companions!'

Perhaps I shall meet death, and it will relieve me

before long of the burning ache of anguish.

The uplands of al-Salihiyya have taken on an adornment

wondrous in its yellow and red.

Spring wove a brocade for its grounds

from the jewels of blossoms, through seasonal rains.

The sky wept there a drizzle of its tears,

and it awoke smiling, revealing stars of a heaven,

in a green robe whose brocade was finely patterned

by spring's weaving, and in a yellow robe.

So drink among garden blossoms, mingled with

the blossoms of cheeks and the bloom of golden-red wine,

of a wine that banishes cares and awakens the

longing that had gone astray within the breast.

Its color conceals the glass, as though it

stood in the hand without a vessel.

And it has a fragrance like gardens breathing

into the faces of breezes and dews,

and bubbles like tears that have coursed

across the cheek of a fair, nubile maiden.

A fawn pours it for you, almost sending it back

drunk with the languor of an eye of lustrous black and white.

He passes with it, and with its like from his glance,

repeatedly and afresh among the drinking companions.

What ails al-Jazira and al-Sham, that they have exchanged

light for darkness because of you, O son of Yusuf?

The Euphrates has dried up, once a surging sea,

and the face of white Raqqa has turned black.

Indeed, once, through Abu Sa'id, it was seen as

a place to set down saddles and a gathering-place for poets,

when its summer heat was like spring, and its night

like day, seeming the early light of forenoon.

Prince Muhammad departed, and with him departed

from it the flourishing abundance of these blessings.

Time has turns of fortune that pass among mankind,

their days shifting as shadows shift.

Prince Muhammad is indeed refined in his

deeds, in prosperity and adversity.

A king who, when he faces swords with his own face,

faces death with the souls of his foes.

His two hands, through valor and generosity, have apportioned

among people the two shares of hardship and ease.

The hearts of all people were filled, through his

praiseworthy conduct, with fear of him and hope.

He made the people of Tayyi independent of what

their ancient fathers had built for their sons.

When they boast of him, they do not vaunt

the ancient eminence they inherited.

They climbed mountains of your greatness, resembling

the heights of Quds, Yadhbul, and Hira.

And in drought they sought a rain of virtues from you,

purer and sweeter than limpid water.

You pledged to avenge Muhammad for them, despite

the enemies' fury and the clans' failure to give support.

Your sword never ceased, morning or evening,

reaping heads and spilling blood,

until you handled for them what they asked you to handle

concerning their foes—and how fully you kept faith!

You kept knocking at Babak's gate with spears

and visiting him in a sweeping raid,

until, with your sword's blade, you seized by force

from him what had defied the caliphs.

You emptied al-Badhdh of him, his settled abode,

and set him up as a sign at Samarra.

Fear of your might left no morsel of him

for birds, on a return visit or a first arrival.

You see him ranged along his wooden poles

as the stars of Orion are ranged,

gazing up at the sun, erect before it,

at the top of the trunk, like a chameleon.

You frequented Byzantine lands as Kuthayyir frequented

Azza's deserted dwellings in the winding sands of Tayma.

Each day you brought forth a death

for its defenders from your war, a she-camel heavy with young.

You made every rugged stretch of its land easy

and filled the breadth of every open space

with horses carrying every disheveled warrior in armor,

linking early-night marches with journeys through the night,

and with bands that plunge headlong when

the battle-din hurls them into the depths of combat,

like fireflies to whom a flame appears, while

the darkness of a pitch-dark night enfolds them.

They walk in mail whose surfaces seem

in every battle like the surfaces of pools.

White, its trailing folds flow over armored champions

as a mirage flows across a barren waste.

When spearheads mingle with it, you would think them

within it the reflections of stars in water.

Sons of death, they cast their souls

beneath deadly fates on every day of battle,

in a storm-cloud raining death, which you set ablaze

with the thunderbolts of resolve and counsel.

It unleashed the spearpoints against Manuel,

and he escaped, the freedman of a sleek, highbred mare.

And had he lingered for them a little while,

they would have come away from him no longer thirsty.

Though fate has spared him until his appointed time,

you have enveloped his troops in annihilation.

You bereaved him of his followers and left him

awaiting death morning and evening,

so that even if he sipped iron, he would melt it

with the burning heat of his long, sighing breaths.