عذولي لا تلمني في هلالي — Alshaghouri

My reproacher, do not blame me for my crescent;

and blame whoever unjustly reproaches me for him—not me.

His is the face of the sun when it appears

at midmorning, and the languor of a gazelle’s glances.

And beneath the veil is a crescent of Eid,

whose radiance I invoke protection for against perfection’s eye.

My heart is never empty of him for a day;

how could it be, when his cheek is adorned with a mole?

And I swear I shall never forget him through all time;

but I have forgotten how to forget.

Love for him enslaved me, though I had been free;

and passion cheapened me, though I had been precious.

He draws gleaming swords from his black eyelids,

so I am forever in battle with them.

I am worn away by sickness in love for him;

and love for anyone else has never crossed my mind.

His charms are the primal matter of everything,

and the magnet of men’s hearts.

He has lovely, tender skin, like

silk, translucent and gleaming with polish.

When it faces brocade, it reveals

its patterns, rendered in a flawless likeness.

As though God had gathered within him, when

He created him, every element of beauty.

You see a bow in his eyebrow; and fletched

by his glances are arrows fitted with arrowheads.

For the Turk has prowess—what prowess!—

when he nocks an arrow in the archery contest.

He sways upon the dune like a bān-tree branch,

graceful in stature, slim-waisted, well-proportioned.

And he smiles to reveal daisies above wine,

and the bubbles of winecups, and pearls.

He deems killing me, though forbidden to him, a duty,

through the beauty of his speech, that lawful magic.

My soul is a ransom for him, and everything

dear to me, of family and wealth.

His tress has melted me away with sickness,

by its length and blackness, like the nights.

And his betrayal left me a phantom,

and he denied me even his phantom.

So my passion exceeds the utmost limit of all passion,

yet there is no way to union.

So springs flow from my two eyes,

and I have a heart burning in separation’s fire.

On his cheeks and cheekbone lies the blood of the

armored warriors, and his glance cries, “To battle!”

He has long dictated the deaths of knights,

with glances whose dictations are wondrous.

My drinking companion, give me tawny wine, unmixed,

and keep it untainted by clear, sweet water.

And hurry to me with it, the cup full,

and do not mix the forbidden with the lawful.

For it creeps through the bones of the

drinking companions like the creeping of ants.

With both your palms, pass round to us the

potent wine, with your right hand and your left.

And beware of haggling when you buy it,

for even a high price for its delight is not too dear.

For sorrow’s children find their remedy for

their world’s pain in the daughter of the vines.