أُحاجي رِجالاً ما مَلابِسُ سودُ
جَدائِدُ لا يَبقى لَهُنَّ جَديدُ
I put this riddle to men: What black garments
are newly made, yet not one of them stays new?
سَحائِبُ تَمضي بِالفَتى فَصَواعِقٌ
وَغَيثُ وَهَيفٌ زَعزَعٌ وَبُرودُ
Clouds cross the open desert—then thunderbolts,
and life-giving rain, fierce parching winds, and cold.
كَذَلِكَ وَالأَيّامُ نُعمى وَأَبؤُسٌ
لِكُلِّ هُبوبٍ يا أُمَيمَ رُكودُ
So too are the days: blessings and afflictions;
Every rising wind, O Umaym, has its lull.
Sol 5.6