هذا الرحيقُ، فأينَ كأسُ الشَّاعِرِ
قد أوحشَ الأحبابَ ليلُ السَّامِرِ!
Where is the cup of the poet, this nectar?
The night of revelry has made the loved ones desolate!
لِمَ، يا حياةُ، وقد أحلَّكِ قَلْبَهُ
لِمَ تؤثِريهِ هَوَى المُحِبِّ الشَّاكِرِ!
Why, O life, when you have made his heart your abode,
Do you prefer the passion of the grateful lover?
أخلَيتِ منه يَدَيْكِ حين حَلاهُمَا
من ذلكَ الأدبِ الرفيعِ الباهِرِ
You have withdrawn your hands from him when they were adorned
With that sublime, brilliant courtesy.
لو عاشَ، زادَك من غرائِبِ فَنِّهِ
ما لا يُشبَّهُ حسنُه بنظائِرِ
Had he lived on, his art would have increased
Marvels that cannot be matched.
وظفِرْتِ من تمثيلِهِ وغنائِهِ
بأدقَّ مثَّالٍ وأرخَمِ طائِرِ
You would have gained from his acting and singing
The most delicate example and the richest bird.
أمَلٌ محا المقدارُ طيفَ خيالهِ
وتَخَطَّفَتْهُ يَدُ الزمانِ الجائِرِ
Hope erased the specter of his imagination,
And the hand of cruel time snatched him away.
وأصارَ فرحَتَنَاَ بمُقبلِ يومِهِ
مأساةَ مَيْتٍ في الشبابِ الباكِرِ
Our joy at his forthcoming day
Became the tragedy of one dead in early youth,
متوسِّدًا شَوْكَ الطريقِ، مُلَثَّمًا
بجراحهِ، مثلَ الشهيدِ الطَّاهِرِ
Lying with the thorns of the road in his shroud,
Like a pure martyr.
رُدُّوا المَرَاثِي، يا رفاقَ شبابِهِ،
لن تُطفِئُوا بالدَّمْعِ لوعةَ ذاكِرِ
Take back the elegies, O friends of his youth,
You will not quench with tears the agony of remembrance.
هذا فتًي نَظَمَ الشبابَ وصاغَهُ
وحيًا تَحدَّرَ من أَرَقِّ مَشَاعِرِ
This was a youth who composed and molded youth itself
As inspiration flowing from the most delicate emotions.
جعلَ الثلاثينَ القِصَارَ مَدًى لَهُ
والخلدَ غايةَ عُمرِهِ المتقاصِرِ
He made the fleeting thirties his career
And eternity the goal of his brief life.
غَنُّوهُ بالشعرِ الذي صَدَحَتْ بِهِ
أشواقُهُ لَحْنَ الحبيبِ الزائرِ
Sing to him with the poetry in which his longing throbbed
To the rhythm of the visiting beloved.
غَنَّوهُ بالشعرِ الذي خفقت بِهِ
أنفاسُهُ لَحنَ الحبيبِ الهاجِرِ
Sing to him with the poetry in which his breath pulsed
To the rhythm of the departing beloved.
تلك القوافي الشارداتُ حُشاشةً
ذابت على وَتَرِ المُغَنِّي السَّاحِرِ
Those wandering rhymes scattered in their first bloom
Melted on the lute‐string of the magic singer.
فتسمَّعُوا أصداءَها في موكبٍ
للموتِ مُحتشدِ الفَوَاجِعِ زاخِرِ
So listen to their echoes in a procession
Of death thronged with piercing laments.
مَشَتِ الطبيعةُ فيهِ بينَ جداولٍ
خُرسٍ، وأدواحٍ هناكَ حواسِرِ
Nature walked in him between silent brooks
And breakers crashing yonder.
ولو استطاعت نضَّدتْ أوراقَها
كَفَنًا لَهُ، والنعشَ غَضَّ أزاهِرِ
Had it been possible, she would have lined his bier
With her leaves, the pall cast with her flowers,
وَدَعَتْ سواجعَ طيرِهَا فتأَلَّقَتْ
أممًا تَخِفُّ إلى وداعِ الشَّاعِرِ
As her birds’ laments glittered forth
Nations crept to bid the poet farewell.
يا ابنَ الخيالِ تساءَلَتْ عنكَ الذُّرَى
والشُّهبُ بينَ خوافقٍ وزواهِرِ
O son of the imagination, the atoms asked about you
And the meteors amid the nebulae and blossoms.
وشواطئٌ «محجوبةٌ» شارفتَها
فوقَ العواصِفِ والخضمِّ الهادِرِ
Were the shores you neared veiled in tempests
And seething tumult the same as when you adventured?
أيُرَى جناحُكَ في السماءِ كعَهْدِهِ
مُتَوَشِّحًا فَلَقَ الصَّبَاحِ السافِرِ
Does your wing still span the sky
As of old, cleaving the traveling dawn?
أيُرَى شراعُكَ في العُبابِ كعَهْدِهِ
مُتَقَلِّدًا حَلَقَ السحابِ الماطِرِ
Does your sail still wear in the haze
The circle of the rainy cloud?
هدأ الصِّرَاعُ وكفَّ عن غَمَرَاتِهِ
من عاشَ في الدنيا بروحِ مغامِرِ
The struggle is over for him who lived
In the world with an adventurous spirit.
وطوى البِلَى إلا قصيدةَ شاعِرٍ
أبقَى من المَثَلِ الشَّرُودِ السائِرِ
And time has folded all but the verses of a poet
More lasting than the wandering ideal.
شعرٌ تَمَثَّلَ كلَّ حِسٍّ مُرْهَفٍ
لا رصفَ ألفاظٍ ورصَّ خواطِرِ
Poetry that represented every delicate sense
Not arranging words and ordering ideas,
ودُمًى مُفضَّحَةَ الطلاءِ كَأَنَّهَا
خُشُبُ المَسَارِحِ مُوِّهَتْ بستائِرِ
And dummies whose paint is smeared
Like the boards of theaters masked with curtains
تتمثَّلُ التاريخَ في أزيائِهِ
بين المصفقِ وابتسامِ السَّاخِرِ
To represent history in its costumes
Between the applause and the mocker’s smile
من صُنْعِ نظَّامِينَ جَهدَ خَيَالِهِمْ
مَسْحُ الزجاجِ من الغبارِ الثائِرِ
Made by authors whose imagination barely sufficed
To dust the glass from the swirling dust,
مُتَخَلِّفينَ عن الزمانِ كأنهم
أشباحُ كهفٍ أو ظلالُ مسَاخِرِ
Leaving the age as if they were
Ghosts of a cave or shades of prisoners.
يا قومُ، إنَّ الشِّعرَ روحانيَّةٌ
وذكاءُ قلبٍ في تَوَقُّدِ خاطِرِ
O people, poetry is spirituality
And the intelligence of a heart in flaming thought.
نَظَرَ «الضريرُ» به فأدركَ فوقَ ما
لمست يَدُ الآسِي وعَيْنُ النَّاظِرِ
The “blind” one saw through it beyond
What the hands of the helpless or eyes of the seer touched,
مُتَعَرِّفًا صُوَرَ الخلائق سابِرًا
أعماقَ أرواحٍ وَغَورَ سرائِرِ
Recognizing the forms of creation, penetrating
The depths of souls and the secrets of minds.
هذي عروسُ الزَّنجِ ليلتهُ التي
أومَتْ بكفٍّ حُلِّيَتْ بأساورِ
Adorned with a hennaed hand heavy with bracelets,
The stars her longing, her hot desire,
والنَّجم أشواقٌ، فمهجةُ عاشقٍ،
وذراعُ مُعتنِقٍ، ووجنةُ عاصرِ
Her embracing arm and her hugging breast.
Poetry is the music of life oozing
الشِّعر موسيقَى الحياةِ موقَّعًا
مُتَدَفِّقًا من كلِّ عِرقٍ فائِرِ
From every bursting vein.
If Babylon’s lovers were given to drink its nectar
عشاقُ بابلَ لو سُقُوا برحيقِهِ
لم يذكروها بالرَّحيقِ الساكِرِ
They would not have recalled it as heady wine,
And their cups would have listened enchanted
وتَنَصَّتَتْ أقداحُهُمْ لمغرِّدٍ
مَرحٍ يُصَفِّقُ بالبيانِ السَّاحِرِ
To a joyous, magic eloquence,
Or it would have spoken to their tower in its language
أوَكانَ كلَّمَ بُرجَهَا بلسانِهِ
والقومُ شَتَّى ألسُنٍ وحناجِرِ
While the people are diverse tongues and larynxes.
We would not have doubted the twisted tongue, and the argots
لم نَشكُ من عِوَجِ اللسانِ وَوُحِّدَتْ
لهجاتُ هذا العالَمِ المتنافِرِ!
Of this discordant world would have been united!
