بلابل وادي النيل بالمشرق اسجعي — Hafez Ibrahim

Nightingales of the Nile Valley, sing in the East

With the poetry of the prince of the two states, and sing it again.

Repeat to our ears what was sung

By Shawqi's pen, from beginning to end.

The Creator shaped it for him, and its point never blunted

When the supple spear failed in a brave man's hand.

Its strokes in the East, though the East is parched,

Are like downpours of rain on every barren plain.

Before it, delegations of words advance, and behind them follow

Delegations of meanings, humbly among the humble.

When pleased, it comes with the breath of a garden;

When angered, it comes with a violent, shaking wind.

It is gentler to the exhausted than the shade of a great tree,

And kinder to a newborn than a nursing breast.

From its point flow tenderness and mercy,

Relief for the grieving and remembrance for the thoughtful.

Its master's thoughts race across the page

Like horses racing in a broad field.

Flashes of thought fly after its flashes,

Begging it, by God, not to hurry.

It would outstrip thought itself, were it not restrained

By his fingers, as a frightened runaway is held back.

Do you not know that with two treasures of genius

We can boast before the people of the East in any gathering?

We boast of our Shawqi's pen,

And take still more pride in Ali's scalpel.

The latter heals the body, though its wounds bleed;

The former heals the aching, love-stricken soul.

Broad shade and blessings brought you up,

And an easy life in summer retreat and spring pasture.

Whoever dwells in the house of kings

Is raised in comfort, playing and roaming freely.

Though they marvel that Shawqi has gone gray while still

Young in desire and heart, with abundant delight,

He has gone gray from the awe and force of his verses

And from achieving the seemingly impossible.

So the surah Hud grayed Ahmad's forelock,

And battle grayed the armored warrior's head.

They fault Shawqi for being seen without reciting;

That is neither from speechlessness nor from pride.

Nor is it shameful for him to bring a reciter

For his verses, or someone to make them heard.

The one who spoke with God had already brought

Aaron to proclaim what revelation commanded him.

In describing the Nile, you reached the utmost reach

With Pharaoh's days and his god Ra,

And with what you recounted of the country's customs and people,

And what you said of the pyramids of Khufu and Khafre.

You brought forth a Shawqian poem that, if placed

Among bright stars, would earn its own rising place.

From what age in the villages did the springs

Of this thought burst forth, or is it kin to Joshua's sister?

In 'Tut' is invention that would tax a gifted mind;

In 'A Bud in the Roses' is a creator's inspiration.

'Sala' made my heart pour out tears in recollection,

As 'Reem' scattered my tears upon the plain.

And ask Yildiz: I have seen her beauty,

A beauty that has made me forget even the veiled one's.

'Sister of Andalusia' appeared before us with all

It revealed, and became the finest spring for minds.

In the weaving of 'Saddah' you produced a marvel

Of easy style that even Ibn al-Muqaffa could not command.

You offered a splendid description of the Sphinx,

Like a garden of light, untouched before your gaze.

With it you surpassed every artist's powers,

Even one skilled in the finest workshop craft.

In 'Look at the Moons' there is a lover's sigh

And the groan of a wounded, distracted heart.

You wept for the sky's secret and purity,

And for what they profaned of its lofty seclusion:

Human devils stealing a hearing in secret,

With no fear of what awaits the eavesdropper.

And you answered al-Buhturi's ode rhyming in sin

With one that silenced every claimant.

In it, all that resisted

Every mighty, keen-minded poet came obediently to you.

Khosrow's hall saddened and stirred al-Buhturi;

The Alhambra stirred your aching grief.

You stood there weeping for its dwellings as he wept;

What two mourners you are, standing amid ruins!

Your weaving is brocade adorned by its pattern,

While other weaving yields a patched garment.

Your poetry is river water, ever flowing fresh;

Most people's poetry is water in a stagnant pool.

Has he reached time's sealed vessel and opened it

With revelation and inspiration, or is this a clever man's speech?

And 'My Heart, You Remembered Today,' so ill-fated:

Is it a magic spell, or the sighs of an ardent Aswan?

You have taken the broad expanse of poetry's kingdom

And left us, Shawqi, not an inch.

By God, leave the prose writers some means

To shelter them; fear God and be content.

You worked to gain immortality and gained it;

So say in thanks, 'My Lord, inspire me.'

His poetry displayed to people a mirror of his age

And a mirror of poetry's ages since the time of Tubba.

At times he brings Ahmad before us in living form,

And at others, the ornate al-Buhturi.

He surpasses Hugo's enchantments, and his love verse brings us

Four nights from Alfred's nights.

And when the memory of Persia's master poets arises,

With all the satisfying verse they left behind,

He brings us a flowering garden from their gardens,

Where their Hafiz sings and roams.

So tell anyone seeking to rival his reach:

By God's life, you covet what cannot be won.

He is a sharp sword drawn by God;

Whenever it strikes, it splits armor and cuts through.

Can stout armor turn aside a keen blade

With which fate strikes in a fierce hand?

You were exiled, yet neither panicked nor humbled;

One whom the days cast out usually panics and pleads.

You flourished in exile, though you were never barren;

In banishment, the brilliant genius finds fertility.

Hugo's gift grew more fertile there,

And he returned to his homelands richly flourishing.

Sami, too, reached on the island a height

To which the kings of verse had not aspired.

You remembered the Nile's sweet water, your soul longing

For a draught from a sparkling cup.

You sent to Egypt's people asking for a drink,

And tore my heart and set my ribs aflame.

Shall we drink our fill while you cannot, when you most deserve

To be refreshed? O heart of genius, break!

And if you wish, sky, hold back from us;

And you, its water, cease; and earth, swallow it.

It is forbidden for us to enjoy a draught

While you call to us and we can hear.

God willed to bring you safely back;

Whoever He guards comes home safe and rewarded.

You returned, and Egypt's eyes were comforted,

And poetry's gardens entered a patterned spring.

You attained what you sought and raised a splendid work

On the western bank, in the finest setting.

A garden surrounds it and greets its full moons

At dawn with its spreading fragrance.

A haven beneath whose shade the Nile moves gracefully

Like a young woman in a striped robe.

Yesterday you hoped for a single drop from it;

Now it is yours: cool your thirst and drink deeply.

Prince of poetry, I have come to pledge allegiance,

And these delegations of the East pledge with me.

Sing of the Nile's lands, and turn your gaze

To those by the two rivers; sing out and create.

Do not forget Najd, the birthplace of desire

And pasture of the gazelles that wander and graze.

Greet Lebanon's heights, and give Tunisia

A share of comfort; apportion and distribute.

Poetry can urge the ambitious toward greatness,

And poetry can voice the devout ascetic's renunciation.

Poetry's force can serve in place of a sword,

As a verse by Ashja frightened enemies.

Poetry revives and refreshes souls,

And you are the sweetest spring to refresh the soul.

Wake minds that have slept so long

And hearts bound to them with cords.

Calamity upon calamity has overwhelmed them;

You are there for them, poet of the East, so defend them.

By God's grace you remain able

To help: rouse your eloquence and quench their thirst.

Take the people's reins and lead them

Toward glory and eminence by the noblest course.

We have stood on the straight path, for we

Have taken a road toward guidance that is not broad.

We have filled the earth with longing and anguish

For Hind, Da'd, Rabab, and Bawza'.

Poetry's daughters have grown weary of our halting

At Siqt al-Liwa, the two Raqmas, and La'la'.

Our peoples in the East have slept too long,

And no one expected poetry to sleep as well.

The world has changed, though its people once

Thought camel backs the softest beds.

Knowledge once traveled by donkey and camel;

When hard driving tired them in the desert, they limped.

Now it finds even steam too slow a mount,

And even the wire with its surging current.

Once the whole matter was aiming an arrow;

Now part of it is aiming a cannon.

Yet we still sing, as the ancients sang,

Of spears, bright swords, and shields.

We have learned the extent of the old; is there an extent

To the useful, rewarding new?

Every people has equipment for times of trouble;

Our equipment is lamenting lost heritage.

What a waste of pens if we do not use them

To support the East's tottering foundation!

Shall its enemies walk there with noses held high

While the land's own master walks with a mutilated nose?

It pains him, children of the East, to see

Its stars in its sky no longer rising,

Its banners overhead no longer fluttering,

And its pens beneath them no longer poised.

How can it ward off evil or attain its hopes

With its unity so fractured before our eyes?

If you are an eloquent speaker of noble words,

Then speak for the Nile and the East, or leave off.