لا والمطايا يعتسفن البيدا — Alshaghouri

Nay, by the mounts striking through the desert wastes,

at Zarud's sand-bend, treading the sand of Zarud!

They stain the white pebbles with hoof-pads,

dark, almost shattering solid rock.

Never before these have we seen swift she-camels

carrying lions in their saddles.

For the camel-chant is remembrance, and the drivers are imams,

chanting a caravan onward, bowed and prostrate.

Midday heats have scorched them in the wastes,

so their white faces appear black.

Like aged eagles atop saddles resembling

nests, they clasped their cheeks in their palms.

They wound their turbans around their heads,

and donned striped cloaks upon their mounts.

Until, when they reached the Prophet Muhammad,

they made pebbles and earth a bed for their faces.

They sought him, gaunt men on gaunt mounts, not

looking like anything but bones and skin.

And in battle they are like keen-edged swords,

that have left their scabbards on the day of combat.

They seek blessings by kissing the earth of the best of those who

vanquished error and proclaimed God's oneness.

May God bless him as long as the darkness reveals

a star, and as long as morning raises a pillar of light.

And they are like drinkers who shared wine:

its grape-cluster—what a noble cluster!

Wine from Sarifin, for which were fashioned,

by the hand of blending, necklaces of bubbles.

From its fragrance, the cupbearer burns aloeswood,

and with his song, the singer sets a lute vibrating.

And it is as though the she-camels are urged on by praise of Izz

al-Din, as they are chanted onward and cross the desert wastes.

You have, O Usama, a hand whose back is accustomed

to kisses, and whose palm is accustomed to generosity.

And your white-handed favors ward off from the children of

hope the black fangs of calamities.

Have you built a house—tell us—or the Garden of

Refuge, through which God has granted you immortality?

Its walls are cast gold, and its water

is molten silver for whoever wishes to drink.

And it is as though the bitter oranges in its garden

offer the breasts of lovely, graceful women.

And it is as though the branches there, swaying,

make slender-waisted figures rock to and fro.

And it is as though the marble there were flowing water,

poured forth, unable to solidify.

And it is as though the bitter oranges were a kindled fire,

never dimming amid the green branches.

A house that joy has made its home; falling short

of it are palaces, and there you captured the proud chiefs.

In how many a battlefield have you left the enemy's champions

as foxes there, though they had entered it as lions!

And their heads as fruit, and the lance-points

as blossoms, and the spears' leaves as banners.

You raised a star in the sky, as though it were

Sa'd al-Su'ud; may you always be fortunate!

So whoever opposes you sees it as Sa'd al-Dhabih, the

severer of his neck-veins and jugular.

By building Ajlun you threatened the enemy,

with a threat that swiftly shatters its lands.

A fortress exalted in its rise and its fortunes,

lofty, burdening whoever defies you with a punishing climb.

Were it not for your bowls in the wilderness, what

existed in his days would have vanished.

You supported orphans and widows generously,

when no generosity could be found.

And you drove the valiant horseman away from you on

the day of battle, a frightened, trembling coward.

My lord Izz al-Din, a prayer from a devoted man

who continually offers you fresh praise.

Hear verse that, when I recite it

among people, makes Ubayd one of the slaves.

Forceful, finely woven, exquisite in eloquence,

it renders Labid dull in poetry.

You are the one to whom Sayf al-Din wa-l-

Dunya gave the reins of sovereignty and the key.

You are the one who never betrayed a sultan, nor

broke faith, nor neglected covenants.

You gave Tayba fine water, surpassing

al-Udhayb's water in sweetness and coolness.

Rejoice in drinking from the Pool, when it is served to you

by the right hand of the Commander of the Faithful, ready for you.

You left a remembrance sweet in this world, and in the

next you will bring it to the Prophet as a witness.

I swear, if the Imam sought an increase

beyond your deed, he could achieve no more.

Glory, distressed by your illness, voices its sorrow,

and God is the healer, the Originator and Restorer.

So may your Lord clothe you in a robe of health, that you may gladden

a friend through it or grieve an envier.

So when you are well for us, all are well,

and at your leg's healing we proclaim a festival.

A foot with which you strove and circumambulated in Mecca the

great—your striving has always been praiseworthy.