قَد زَيَّلَت عَظيمَةٌ فَشَمِّري

وَاِرضي بِما جَرَّ القَضاءُ وَاِصبِري

A great ordeal has scattered all—so gird yourself.

Accept what fate has brought, and be patient.

يا نَفسِ قَد عَنَّ المُرادُ فَخُذي

إِن كُنتِ يَوماً تَأخُذينَ أَو ذَري

O soul, the desired end has offered itself—seize it,

if ever you would seize it; otherwise, let it go.

نُهزَةُ مَجدٍ كُنتُ في طِلابِها

لِمِثلِها يَنصُفُ ساقي مِئزَري

A prize of glory I have long pursued;

for its sake my waistcloth rides halfway up my shank.

عِشرونَ أَعجَلَنَ الصِبا وَجُزنَ بي

غاياتِهِ وَما قَضَينَ وَطري

Twenty years hurried youth away and carried me

through its utmost bounds, yet never fulfilled my desire.

فَكَيفَ بِالعَيشِ الرَطيبِ بَعدَما

حَطَّ المَشيبُ رَحلَهُ في شَعَري

What sweetness can life hold after

gray age has set its baggage in my hair?

سَوادُ رَأسٍ أَم سَوادُ ناظِرٍ

فَإِنَّهُ مُذ زالَ أَقذى بَصَري

Is it the blackness of a head, or the blackness of an eye?

Since that blackness vanished, it has vexed my sight more sharply.

ما كانَ أَضوى ذَلِكَ اللَيلَ عَلى

سَوادِ عِطفَيهِ وَلَمّا يُقمِرِ

How radiant that night once was upon

the blackness of its flanks, though no moon had risen.

عُمرُ الفَتى شَبابُهُ وَإِنَّما

آوِنَةُ الشَيبِ اِنقِضاءُ العُمُرِ

A young man’s lifetime is his youth;

the season of gray hair is life’s ending.

أَلا صَديقٌ في الزَمانِ ماجِدٌ

أَشكو إِلَيهِ عُجَري وَبُجَري

Is there no noble friend in all this age

to whom I may disclose my every hidden trouble—

يُعتِقُ مِن رِقِّ الهَوانِ عاتِقاً

عَجَّ مِنَ الضَيمِ عَجيجَ الموقَرِ

one who would free from humiliation’s bondage a neck

groaning beneath oppression like a heavily burdened beast?

حَسبِيَ مِن رَعيِ الهَشيمِ المُجتَوى

حَسبِيَ مِن وِردِ الأُجاجِ الكَدِرِ

Enough of grazing on distasteful, withered scrub;

enough of drinking bitter, turbid water.

فَما أَرى إِلّا سَواماً هُمَّلاً

أَو صَوَراً مَذمومَةً كَالصَوَرِ

I see nothing but neglected herds,

or shapes as contemptible as mere images.

ما أَنا إِلّا النَصلُ مَغموداً وَلَو

جَرَّدَني الرَوعُ لَبانَ جَوهَري

I am nothing but a blade while sheathed; but if

terror unsheathes me, my true steel will show.

لا بُدَّ أَن يَظهَرَ مَعروفي فَقَد

طالَ عَلى مَرِّ الزَمانِ مُنكَري

My true worth must inevitably appear, for

the passing age has denied me far too long.

لا بُدَّ أَن أَصدُرَ بَعدَ مَورِدي

فَرُبَّ قَومٍ يَرقُبونَ صَدري

I must come forth again after reaching my watering place;

many a people are watching for my emergence.

لا بُدَّ أَن أُشعِرَ وَجهي جُرأَةً

فَطالَما ذَلَّلَ عُنقي خَفَري

I must clothe my face in boldness;

long enough has modesty bowed my neck.

لا بُدَّ أَن أَحمِلَ أَبناءَ الوَغى

عَلى خِفافٍ في الطِرادِ ضُمَّرِ

I must carry the sons of battle

upon swift, lean horses in the charge.

يَطلُعُ لِلناظِرِ هادي نَقعِها

طُلوعَ قَيدومِ السَحابِ الأَغبَرِ

Before the watcher rises the leading edge of their dust,

like the prow of a gray cloud.

حَوامِلاً إِلى العِدى خَطِّيَّةً

تُعيرُ طَرفَ البَطَلِ المُقَطَّرِ

They bear against the foe Khattian lances

that lend the felled champion a sidelong gaze—

مِن كُلِّ أَظمى ناهِلٍ سِنانُهُ

أَو حَسَنِ الإِثرِ قَبيحِ الأَثَرِ

each a thirsting lance whose point drinks deep,

handsome in its course, hideous in its effect.

يَنطَحنَ بِالأَقرانِ بَينَ مُعلَمٍ

بِالدَمِ أَو مُعَلَّمٍ بِالعِثيَرِ

They crash against their peers, some marked

with blood and others marked with dust.

كُلُّ جَرِيِّ القَلبِ في مُقتَحَمٍ

لِلرَوعِ مَغرورٍ بِهِ مُغَرِّرِ

Each one bold of heart, charging into

terror—heedless of it and courting peril.

عَمائِمٌ مِنَ التَريكِ وُضَّحٌ

عَلى جَلابيبٍ مِنَ السَنَوَّرِ

White Turkish turbans

over tunics of chain mail.

كَأَنَّما فَوقَ قَطا جِيادِها

أُسودُ خَفّانٍ وَجِنُّ عَبقَرِ

As though upon the backs of their steeds rode

lions of Khuffan and the jinn of Abqar—

مِن كُلِّ مَمشوقٍ يُجاري ظِلَّهُ

كَالطائِرِ الزائِفِ في التَمَطُّرِ

each a long-limbed horse racing its own shadow,

like a bird sweeping through the rain,

مُرَوَّعٍ مِن حَولِهِ كَأَنَّهُ

صالٍ يَقي البُردَ نَوازي الشَرَرِ

startled by everything around it, as though

it were one warming at a fire, fending off the cold from leaping sparks.

دونَكَ فَانظُرني فَإِن جَهِلتَني

فَرُبَّما دَلَّ عَلَيَّ مَنظَري

Here I am—look at me, if you do not know me;

often my appearance alone has made me known.

كَيفَ وَقَد طابَت أُصولُ دَوحَتي

تُمِرُّ لِلجانينَ يَوماً ثَمَري

How could it not, when the roots of my great tree are sound

and one day will offer their fruit to those who gather?

أَوائِلي مَن قَد عَلِمتَ في العُلى

وَمَعشَري عَلى القَديمِ مَعشَري

My forebears are those whose eminence you know,

and from of old my clan has been the clan you know as mine:

ذَوائِبُ المَجدِ المُنيفاتُ عَلى

جَماجِمٍ مُنيفَةٍ في مُضَرِ

the lofty forelocks of glory resting upon

lofty heads among Mudar;

ذَوُو البِطاحِ الفيحِ وَالبَيتِ الَّذي

يَعلو الوَرى وَالعَدَدِ المُجَمهَرِ

lords of the broad valley floors and of the House that

rises above mankind and the massed multitude;

كُلُّ عُذَيقٍ في العُلى مُرَجَّبٍ

عِزاً وَعودٍ في العُلى مُجَرجِرِ

every little palm in glory propped and honored,

and every seasoned trunk rumbling in the heights.

كَم يَومِ مَجدٍ ظاهِرٍ فَخارُهُ

عَنهُم ظُهورَ الأَبلَقِ المُشَهَّرِ

How many a day of glory, its pride manifest,

rose through them like a famous piebald charger!

يا قَدَمي دونَكِ مَسعاةَ العُلى

قَد ضَمِنَ الإِقبالُ أَن لا تَعثِري

O my foot, before you lies the pursuit of eminence;

success has pledged that you shall never stumble.

لِيَكثُرَن خَطوُكِ أَو تَنتَعِلي

سَريرَ مُلكٍ أَو مَراقي مِنبَرِ

Your steps shall surely multiply, until you tread

a royal throne or the stairs of a pulpit.

لا بُدَّ مِن يَومٍ أُعِزَّ نَصرُهُ

يُقِرُّ عَينَ الواجِدِ المُستَعبِرِ

There must be a day whose victory I make glorious,

delighting the grieving, tearful eye.

فَإِن نُصِرتِ فَالنَعيمُ مُدَّةً

وَالمَضجَعُ العاذِرُ إِن لَم تُنصَري

If you are victorious, there will be bliss for a time;

if not, the final resting place will excuse you.

كَم مَطلَبٍ مُنتَظَرٍ خَدَمتُهُ

وَمَطلَبٍ جاءَ وَلَم أَنتَظِرِ

How many a long-awaited aim have I served,

and how many an aim arrived though I never waited!

عِلَّةُ مِثلي السَيفُ لا مُمرِضَةٌ

أَضُجُّ مِنها كَضَجيجِ الأَدبَرِ

The fitting malady for one like me is the sword—not an illness

that makes me cry out like a sore-backed beast.

لا بُدَّ مِن تَعفيرِهِ في تُربِها

بِالداءِ أَو بِالقاطِعِ المُذَكَّرِ

One like me must at last be laid in the earth,

whether by disease or by the keen, manly blade.

فَبِالسَقامِ ذِلَّةٌ لِمَن قَضى

وَبِالظُبى أَعَزُّ لِلمُغَفَّرِ

In sickness there is humiliation for whoever dies;

death by blades better honors the helmeted warrior.

فَإِن أَمُت مِن دونِها يَمضي الرَدى

بِمُعذِرٍ في السَعيِ لا بِمُعذَرِ

If I die in pursuit of it, death will depart

with one whose striving is a valid excuse—not one merely excused.

وَإِن أَعِش هُنَيهَةً فَرُبَّما

شَقَّ عَلى أُذنِ العَدُوِّ خَبَري

But if I live a little while, perhaps

the news of me will split my enemy’s ear.