ما هاج شوقك من رسوم ديار — Jarir

What stirred your longing at the traces of dwellings

at the sand-bend of ‘Unayyiq, or on the hard ground of Matar?

The tempests left, among the markings of their ruins,

fragments of tents and the tethering-place of foals.

Did parting make you lovesick that day at ‘Unayzah,

as your passion did the day at Shaqa’iq al-Ahfar?

And I saw your fire when its fuel blazed,

and saw the finest folk warming themselves, and the finest fire.

As for al-Ba‘ith, it has become clear that he is

a slave—yet perhaps you dispute this about al-Ba‘ith.

Baseness has bridled al-Ba‘ith, and she lowed—

al-Farazdaq’s mother—beside the vilest camel-calf.

Indeed, al-Farazdaq, al-Ba‘ith, and his mother,

and al-Ba‘ith’s father, are the very worst foursome.

Al-Farazdaq fell in the race, overwhelmed

by one mighty in the first dash, proven on the course.

You hope for leniency, Farazdaq, after

putting out your own fire and warming yourself at mine.

Indeed, whoever I aim to revile is burned

by my fire, and my blaze catches up with the wayward.

Damn your misguided boasting! Always have

your father’s two robes been stained with disgrace.

What can you say, now that I have risen above you,

and the Muslims bear witness to what I say?

And if you ask, the judges rule against you;

and if you boast, my glory towers above you.

For I am the day, risen above you with its light,

while night contracts the reach of sight.

Indeed, we take the chief’s fourth from the host—you see its

dust—and strike the tyrant’s helmet-crown,

when Mujashi‘ does not jealously guard its daughters

on the day honor must be defended, nor keeps faith with a protected neighbor.

How could your people match the charge of our horses

in the pass, on the day of Mujazzal al-Amrar?

My people are those whose mention makes my hearing

keener; it was by their light that I saw.

And they lead full-grown steeds to drink at spear-points,

with reddened bits—not mere foals.

Do you thank those who rescued your captives,

while the women riding pillion tilted the camel-saddles?

My horsemen are indeed known on the frontiers,

and disperse the dark haze of every dust-cloud.

We are builders of buttresses and pillars,

towering above all buttresses and pillars.

Rabi‘ah calls out, in a full-length shirt of mail,

beneath the sword-baldric, fastened with buttons.

Indeed, al-Ba‘ith and the slave of the house of Muqa‘is

do not recite the chapter of the rabbis.

Tell the sons of Waqban that their women

are lowing cows, daughters of a scarred, bellowing bull.

You were sons of a slave-woman, so shut before you

was the gate of noble deeds, you sons of the snorting bull.

O sons of Qufayrah, there has knelt beside you,

on the day of apportionment, the baseness of Nizar’s house.

Indeed, the base, the sons of the base, are Mujashi‘,

and the foulest where each loincloth lies.

The poems have traveled and ravaged Mujashi‘,

from Egypt to the south of Wabar.

They blame one another, though their sanctuary was laid open

by a blacksmith who lodged them in a house of ruin.

Do not boast when you hear Mujashi‘

bellowing to one another as bulls bellow.

Are you angry with me because Qufayrah resembled

him where the collar and the cheek-strap sit?

Al-Farazdaq said, when word of her reached him:

“Nawar of Mujashi‘ is no chaste woman.”

She calls for Daris of Banu al-Hutat when she gets tipsy,

and says, “Alas for you! Who has seen my bracelet?”

Indeed, the poems will never cease to roam

with tales of Ji‘thin, as long as a night-traveler sings.

When al-Khatafa built, I was content with what he built,

while al-Farazdaq’s father was a blower of bellows.

And you spend the night drinking with every cropped-haired man,

his fingertips damp, his wine-press dripping.

Never boast, for the religion of Mujashi‘

is the religion of the Magians; you circle around Duwar.