رَفَلْتُ بها في حُلَّةٍ عَلَمِيَّةٍ
خِلالُكَ فيها أَعجزَتَْ كُلَّ راقِمِ
I strode proudly in it—a robe figured with ornament,
your graces upon it outdoing every embroiderer’s art.
وَتَفصيلةٌ كادَتْ تكونُ لِرِقَّةٍ
وَلِينٍ أَراها من ثِيابٍ الأَراقِمِ
Its tailoring, so exquisitely delicate, almost seems
to me, in its softness, made from serpents’ sloughed skins.
وَيانِعُ أَترُجٍّ كأَنَّ نَسِيمَهُ
ثَناؤكَ إذْ لا يُسْتطاعُ لِكاتِمِ
And ripe citrons, whose wafted perfume seems
the praise of you—for no one can keep it concealed:
جسوُمُ لُجينٍ في غلائِلَ عَسْجِدٍ
وأَنمُلُ حُسَّابٍ بِغيرِ مَعَاصِم
silver bodies within sheer shifts of gold,
the fingertips of reckoners, yet without wrists.
وَقالوا لَقَد جَاءَتْ إليكَ هَنيئَةً
فَقُلتُ كَذا تَأْتي هَدِيَّةُ حَاتِمِ
They said, “It has come to you—may you enjoy it!”
I replied, “Thus does a gift from Hātim come.”
Sol 5.6