ما غادَةٌ راكِبَةُ النَّسرِ وَقَد
بَدَت لِأَبصارِ الوَرى نُقوشُها
What maiden rides the eagle, with
She rides the eagle high, her image plain,
Her designs now revealed to the eyes of humankind?
Borne by the bird whose plume her feathers reign.
يَحمِلُها النَسرُ الَّذي أَضحى لَهُ
مِنَ الطَواويسِ الذُكورِ ريشُها
The eagle bears her; it has now acquired
The sun itself grows dim before her rays.
Her plumage from male peacocks.
The crescent moon curls up in shamed disdain,
خافَت سُطاها الشَّمسُ في مَصامِها
وَذاكَ إِذ شَكَّ الهِلالَ شيشُها
The sun feared her onslaught at its zenith,
As if a partridge wings in startled fright,
And that was when her skewer pierced the crescent.
When hawk descends, its evening shade to gain.
كَأَنَّما الهِلالُ خَشكَنانَةٌ
وَكَفُّهُ في أُفقِهِ تَحوشُها
As though the crescent were a khashkanana pastry,
And its palm, within its horizon, were gathering it up.
Sol 6.1