إِذا فاضَ دَمعي وَاِستَهَلَّ عَلى خَدّي
وَجاذَبَني شَوقي إِلى العَلَمِ السَعدي
When my tears overflow and stream down my cheeks,
And my longing pulls me towards the happy world,
أُذَكِّرُ قَومي ظُلمَهُم لي وَبَغيَهُم
وَقِلَّةَ إِنصافي عَلى القُربِ وَالبُعدِ
I remind my people of their injustice towards me and their enmity,
And how little I was treated fairly, both near and far.
بَنَيتُ لَهُم بِالسَيفِ مَجداً مُشَيَّداً
فَلَمّا تَناهى مَجدُهُم هَدَموا مَجدي
I built them glory with the sword, erect and towering,
But when their glory reached its peak, they demolished mine.
يَعيبونَ لَوني بِالسَوادِ وَإِنَّما
فِعالُهُمُ بِالخُبثِ أَسوَدُ مِن جِلدي
They fault my complexion for its blackness, yet
Their own wicked deeds are blacker than my skin.
فَوا ذُلَّ جيراني إِذا غِبتُ عَنهُمُ
وَطالَ المَدى ماذا يُلاقونَ مِن بَعدي
Woe to my neighbors when I’m absent from them
And the distance grows long - what will they face after me?
أَتَحسِبُ قَيسٌ أَنَّني بَعدَ طَردِهِم
أَخافُ الأَعادي أَو أَذِلُّ مِنَ الطَردِ
Do you think, O Qais, that after their rejection
I fear the enemies or accept humiliation from rejection?
وَكَيفَ يَحُلُّ الذُلُّ قَلبي وَصارِمي
إِذا اِهتَزَّ قَلبُ الضِدِّ يَخفُقُ كَالرَعدِ
How can humiliation touch my heart and my sword
When the heart of the foe trembles, throbbing like thunder?
مَتى سُلَّ في كَفّي بِيَومِ كَريهَةٍ
فَلا فَرقَ ما بَينَ المَشايِخِ وَالمُردِ
When has the sword been drawn in my hands on an evil day
That I made no distinction between old and young?
وَما الفَخرُ إِلّا أَن تَكونَ عِمامَتي
مُكَوَّرَةَ الأَطرافِ بِالصارِمِ الهِندي
Glory lies only in my turban being wound
At its edges by an Indian blade, sharp and keen.
نَديمَيَّ إِمّا غِبتُما بَعدَ سَكرَةٍ
فَلا تَذكُرا أَطلالَ سَلمى وَلا هِندِ
My two friends - when you are drunk after our revelry
Speak not of the ruins of Salma or of Hind;
وَلا تَذكُرا لي غَيرَ خَيلٍ مُغيرَةٍ
وَنَقعَ غُبارٍ حالِكِ اللَونِ مُسوَدِّ
Speak to me only of raiding steeds
And clouds of choking dust, gloomy and blackened;
فَإِنَّ غُبارَ الصافِناتِ إِذا عَلا
نَشِقتُ لَهُ ريحاً أَلَذَّ مِنَ النَدِّ
For when the dust of war rises high
I cleave it with a wind sweeter than moisture.
وَرَيحانَتي رُمحي وَكاساتُ مَجلِسي
جَماجِمُ ساداتٍ حِراصٍ عَلى المَجدِ
My oregano is my spear, and the cups of my drinking spot
Are the skulls of proud chiefs, greedy for glory.
وَلي مِن حُسامي كُلَّ يَومٍ عَلى الثَرى
نُقوشُ دَمٍ تُغني النَدامى عَنِ الوَردِ
My swords scratch on the ground each day
Tracings of blood that spare the regretful their roses.
وَلَيسَ يَعيبُ السَيفَ إِخلاقُ غِمدِهِ
إِذا كانَ في يَومِ الوَغى قاطِعَ الحَدِّ
A sword's sheath cannot shame the blade
If on the day of battle it severs strongly.
فَلِلَّهِ دَرّي كَم غُبارٍ قَطَعتُهُ
عَلى ضامِرِ الجَنبَينِ مُعتَدِلِ القَدِّ
By God, countless is the dust I have cut through
On a steed firm-flanked, evenly built.
وَطاعَنتُ عَنهُ الخَيلَ حَتّى تَبَدَّدَت
هِزاماً كَأَسرابِ القَطاءِ إِلى الوِردِ
I have charged through, driving off the horses
Till they fled like herds of wild cows to pasture.
فَزارَةُ قَد هَيَّجتُمُ لَيثَ غابَةٍ
وَلَم تُفرِقوا بَينَ الضَلالَةِ وَالرُشدِ
You, ministers, have provoked a lion of the thicket
And did not distinguish falsehood from truth.
فَقولوا لِحِصنٍ إِن تَعانى عَداوَتي
يَبيتُ عَلى نارٍ مِنَ الحُزنِ وَالوَجدِ
Say to a fortress, if it fears my enmity,
It will spend the night consumed by grief and passion.
