عصر الشبيبة أنفس — Alshaghouri — Saqi

The season of youth is more precious
than every other season, and wiser.
In it I cast off my bridle,
and revelry is my garment there.
For only over a cup
of wine do I breathe,
from the palm of a dusky, guileless youth,
with sweet, dark-hued lips.
His cheeks have flushed rose-red,
and his eyes are like narcissus blossoms.
He sways like a bough; indeed, his
slender figure sways more gracefully.
He passes round a cup of strong wine,
of pure nectar mellowed by the sun.
Rise and pour me drink until you see me
say, "Enough for me! Enough, enough!"
Red wine—"Akh!" came the cry as
the drinking companion tasted it and frowned.
As though musk pods
were split open and crushed, their scent rising from it.
For fire from it, whenever
water pours over its head, is kindled.
Almost there rises the sun of
morning, when night grows dark.
As though it had shone forth from
the radiance of Jaharkas's face.
More forceful in battle's onslaught than
Amr ibn Maʿdi, and a finer horseman.
Rain amid drought, and a lion
mighty in war.
If Sahban sought to recount
his qualities, he would turn back speechless.
More resolute than the valiant in the
arena of battle, and fiercer still.
He harvested ripe glories
from a planting ground that never dries.
And how should he not reap
praise, he who has glory for a seedbed?
He never fears war
when the army masses together.
But into its blaze plunges
a fierce-eyed lion embodied in him.
From him flee the defenders,
the unyielding, when he struts like a lion.
And how could the lion of
the lair be matched by a fleet-footed wolf?
Does the tawny lion fear
the dusky wolf?