وَما صائِبٌ مِن نابِلٍ قَذَفَت بِهِ

يَدٌ وَمُمِرُّ العُقدَتَينِ وَثيقُ

No true arrow shot by skilled hands,

Bound tight with string in practiced grip,

لَهُ مِن خَوافي النِسرِ حُمٌّ نَظائِرٌ

وَنَصلٌ كَنَصلِ الزاعِبِيِّ فَتيقُ

Has feathers like those arrows I body-pierce,

And blade as keen as swordsman’s whip,

عَلى نَبعَةٍ زَوراءَ أَمّا خِطامُها

فَمَتنٌ وَأَمّا عودُها فَعَتيقُ

Against a hunter’s mound you stood, your reins—

Old weathered leather, and your saddle old.

بِأَوشَكَ قَتلاً مِنكِ يَومَ رَمَيتِني

نَوافِذَ لَم تَظهَر لَهُنَّ خُروقُ

Near dead from my small arrows on the day

I shot you through unbroken window holes.

تَفَرَّقَ أَهلانا بُثَينٌ فَمِنهُمُ

فَريقٌ أَقاموا وَاِستَمَرَّ فَريقُ

Our tribe divided, some remained while some

Departed, journeying on their way.

فَلَو كُنتُ خَوّاراً لَقَد باحَ مُضمَري

وَلَكِنَني صُلبُ القَناةِ عَريقُ

If I were weak, my secret would be known,

But I'm too proud for that, I cannot say.

كَأَن لَم نُحارِب يا بُثَينَ لَوَ اَنَّهُ

تَكَشَّفَ غُمّاها وَأَنتِ صَديقُ

As though we'd never warred, if only you

Could know, O Buthaina, you my friend.