شُعثاً قَدِ اِنتَزَعَ القِيادُ بُطونَها
مِن آلِ أَعوَجَ ضُمَّرٍ وَفِحالِ
With disheveled hair they had torn out its bands,
From the family of crooked-nosed Dhummar and Fihl.
شُمُّ السَنابِكِ مُشرِفٌ أَقتارُها
وَإِذا اِنتُضينَ غَداةَ كُلَّ صِقالِ
The perfume of their litter-camels in the evening
Spread as far as the orbit of the revolving stars.
في جَحفَلٍ لَجِبٍ كَأَنَّ شَعاعَهُ
جَبَلُ الطَراةِ مُضَعضَعُ الأَميالِ
When they set forth at dawn, their radiance
Was like the mountain of Tuwa', of shifting sands.
يَعذِمنَ وَهيَ مُصِرَّةٌ آذانَها
قَصَراتِ كُلِّ نَجيبَةٍ شِملالِ
They sniff the air with nostrils quivering,
Like antelopes, wild, startled.
وَتَرى عَطِيَّةَ وَالأَتانُ أَمامَهُ
عَجِلاً يَمُرُّ بِها عَلى الأَمثالِ
You would see Atya lead the she-camel, then the beasts ahead of him
Gallop swiftly through the valley’s depths.
وَيَظَلُّ يَتبَعُهُنَّ وَهوَ مُقَرمِدٌ
مِن خَلفِهِنَّ كَأَنَّهُ بِشكالِ
He follows them, crouched on his camel’s back, bent over,
As though he were a wound sack, flat.
وَتَرى عَلى كَتِفَي عَطِيَّةَ مائِلاً
أَرباقَهُ عُدِلَت لَهُ بِسِخالِ
You would see on Atya’s shoulders as he leaned
His wide cloak, adjusted evenly for him.
وَتَراهُ مِن حَميِ الهَجيرَةِ لائِذاً
بِالظِلِّ حينَ يَزولُ كُلَّ مَزالِ
When the hot wind dies down you would see him take refuge
In the shade, shunning every open space.
تَبِعَ الحِمارَ مُكَلَّماً فَأَصابَهُ
بِنَهيقِهِ مِن خَلفِهِ بِنِكالِ
He cursed the donkey he followed behind
With his braying from behind, and pelted it with pebbles.
وَاِبنُ المَراغَةِ قَد تَحَوَّلَ راهِباً
مُتَبَرنِساً لِتَمَسكُنٍ وَسُؤالِ
The son of Mughira has now turned monk,
Begging, in humble garb with bowl in hand,
يَمشي بِها حَلِماً يُعارِضُ ثَلَّةً
قُبحاً لِتِلكَ عَطِيَّ مِن أَعدالِ
Walking self-possessedly among a band of rascals
Ugly to behold, not men but satans all.
نَظَروا إِلَيَّ بِأَعيُنٍ مَلعونَةٍ
نَظَرَ الرِجالِ وَما هُمُ بِرِجالِ
With baleful eyes they glared at me,
The staring of villains, not of men at all.
مُتَقاعِسينَ عَلى النَواهِقِ بِالضُحى
يَمرونَهُنَّ بِيابِسِ الأَجذالِ
Lounging at dawn against the tent-poles sluggishly,
They pass them with limbs like sapless twigs.
إِنَّ المَكارِمَ يا كُلَيبُ لِغَيرِكُم
وَالخَيلَ يَومَ تَنازُلِ الأَبطالِ
Virtue, Kulayb, is not for the likes of you,
Or battle steeds on the day heroes clash.
