تَرَحَّلَ مِنْ وَادِي الأَرَاكَةِ بِالْوَجْدِ

فَبَاتَ سَقِيماً لا يُعِيدُ وَلا يُبْدِي

He departed from the valley of Arrakah lovesick,

And spent the night ill, unable to express or reveal.

سَقِيماً تَظَلُّ الْعَائِدَاتُ حَوَانِياً

عَلَيْهِ بِإِشْفَاقٍ وَإِنْ كَانَ لا يُجْدِي

Ill, while the returning women hover over him

With sympathy, though it will not avail.

يَخَلْنَ بِهِ مَسَّاً أَصَابَ فُؤَادَهُ

وَلَيْسَ بِهِ مَسٌّ سِوَى حُرَقِ الْوَجْدِ

They think some affliction has struck his heart,

Yet he suffers nothing but the scorching of passion.

بِهِ عِلَّةٌ إِنْ لَمْ تُصِبْهَا سَلامَةٌ

مِنَ اللهِ كَادَتْ نَفْس حَامِلِهَا تُرْدِي

He has a malady that, unless healed

By God, would have cast down the soul of its bearer.

وَمِنْ عَجَبِ الأَيَّامِ أَنِّي مُولَعٌ

بِمَنْ لَيْسَ يَعْنِيهِ بُكَائِي وَلا سُهْدِي

How strange the days, that I am obsessed

With one who cares not for my tears or ardors!

أَبِيتُ عَلِيلاً في سَرَنْدِيبَ سَاهِرَاً

أُعَالِجُ مَا أَلْقَاهُ مِنْ لَوْعَتِي وَحْدِي

I pass the night lovesick in Sarandib, awake,

Bearing alone the torment my passion has kindled.

أَدُورُ بِعَيْنِي لا أَرَى وَجْهَ صَاحِبٍ

يَرِيعُ لِصَوْتِي أَوْ يَرِقُّ لِمَا أُبْدِي

I turn my eyes, and see no friend’s face

That stirs at my voice or softens at my plaints.

وَمِمَّا شَجَانِي بَارِقٌ طَارَ مَوْهِناً

كَمَا طَارَ مُنْبَثُّ الشَّرَارِ مِنَ الزَّنْدِ

And what has pained me is a lightning bolt that flashed

And was gone, like sparks scattered from flint.

يُمَزِّقُ أَسْتَارَ الدُّجُنَّةِ ضَوْؤُهُ

فَيَنْسِلُهَا مَا بَيْنَ غَورٍ إِلَى نَجْدِ

Its glare tears apart the veils of darkness

And lays bare what lies between gorge and tract.

أَرِقْتُ لَهُ وَالشُّهْبُ حَيْرَى كَلِيلَةٌ

مِنَ السَّيْرِ وَالآفَاقُ حَالِكَةُ الْبُرْدِ

I lay sleepless for it while the meteors wandered,

Bewildered, and the horizons seethed with cold.

فَبِتُّ كَأَنِّي بَيْنَ أَنْيَابِ حَيَّةٍ

مِنَ الرُّقْطِ أَوْ في بُرْثُنَيْ أَسَدٍ وَرْدِ

I remain as if between the fangs of a serpent

Made of plaited withes, or in a lion’s den.

أُقَلِّبُ طَرْفِي وَالنُّجُومُ كَأَنَّها

قَتِيرٌ مِنَ الْيَاقُوتِ يَلْمَعُ فِي سَرْدِ

I turn over, and the stars seem

Scattered gems of ruby glowing in a necklace.

وَلا صَاحِبٌ غَيْرُ الْحُسامِ مَنُوطَةٌ

حَمَائِلُهُ مِنِّي عَلَى عَاتِقٍ صَلْدِ

I have no friend but the sword, its strap

Slung over my shoulder in the desolate waste.

إِذَا حَرَّكَتْهُ رَاحَتي لِمُلِمَّةٍ

تَطَلَّعَ نَحْوِي يَشْرَئِبُّ مِنَ الْغِمْدِ

When my hand stirs it for battle, it glares

Toward me, snarling, from its sheath.

أَشَدُّ مَضَاءً مِنْ فُؤَادِي عَلَى الْعِدا

وَأَبْطَأُ نَصْرِي عَلَى الشَّوْقِ مِنْ فِنْدِ

It shines more brightly than my heart against the foe,

Yet is slower to assuage my passion than a blade.

أَقُولُ لَهُ وَالْجَفْنُ يَكْسُو نِجَادَهُ

دُمُوعاً كَمُرْفَضِّ الْجُمَانِ مِنَ الْعِقْدِ

I say to it, as tears flood its burnished surface

Like the drip of carnelian beads from a necklace:

لَقَدْ كُنْتَ لِي عَوْنَاً عَلَى الدَّهْرِ مَرَّةً

فَمَا لِي أَرَاكَ الْيَوْمَ مُنْثَلِمَ الْحَدِّ

“Once you aided me against Fate,

Why do I see you powerless today?”

فَقَالَ إِذَا لَمْ تَسْتَطِعْ سَوْرَةَ الْهَوَى

وَأَنْتَ جَلِيدُ الْقَوْمِ مَا أَنَا بِالْجَلْدِ

It answered: “If you cannot endure the woeful state

Of passion, and you are the most stouthearted of men, I cannot be stout.

وَهَلْ أَنَا إِلَّا شِقَّةٌ مِنْ حَدِيدَةٍ

أَلَحَّ عَلَيْهَا الْقَيْنُ بِالطَّرْقِ وَالْحَدِّ

I am but a piece of hardened iron

Beaten upon by the hammer and chisel.

فَمَا كُنْتُ لَوْلا إِنَّنِي وَاهِنُ الْقُوَى

أُعَلَّقُ فِي خَيْطٍ وَأُحْبَسُ في جِلْدِ

Were I not weak in strength

I would hang myself by a thread or store myself in a sheath.

فَدُونَكَ غَيْرِي فَاسْتَعِنْهُ عَلَى الجَوَى

وَدَعْنِي مِنَ الشَّكْوَى فَدَاءُ الْهَوَى يُعْدِي

Find someone other than me to aid you against passion

And leave me be, for the cure of passion is to indulge it.

خَلِيلَيَّ هَذَا الشَوْقُ لا شَكَّ قَاتِلِي

فَمِيلا إِلَى الْمِقْيَاسِ إِنْ خِفْتُمَا فَقْدِي

My friend, this passion will surely kill me,

So turn to moderation, if you fear my loss.”

فَفِي ذَلِكَ الْوَادِي الَّذِي أَنْبَتَ الْهَوَى

شِفَائِي مِنْ سُقْمِي وَبُرْئِيَ مِنْ وَجْدِي

In that valley where passion took root

Lies my cure from my sickness and relief from my torment.

مَلاعِبُ لَهْوٍ طَالَمَا سِرْتُ بَيْنَهَا

عَلَى أَثَرِ اللَّذَّاتِ فِي عِيشَةٍ رَغْدِ

Places of merry dalliance, where often I wandered

After worldly pleasures, in a life of ease.

إِذَا ذَكَرَتْهَا النَّفْسُ سَالَتْ مِنَ الأَسَى

مَعَ الدَّمْعِ حَتَّى لا تُنَهْنَهُ بِالرَّدِّ

When the soul recalls them, it sheds tears of sorrow

Along with weeping, so it cannot check its flow.

فَيَا مَنْزِلاً زَقْرَقْتُ ماءَ شَبيبَتِي

بِأَفْنَائِهِ بَيْنَ الأَرَاكَةِ والرَّنْدِ

O dwelling where I squandered my youth

Between Arrakah and Rend, in its valleys,

سَرَتْ سَحَراً فَاسْتَقْبَلَتْكَ يَدُ الصَّبَا

بِأَنْفَاسِهَا وَانْشَقَّ فَجْرُكَ بِالْحَمْدِ

The dawn breeze stole forth toward you at daybreak,

Greeted by its breath, and your dawn shone with praise.

وَزَرَّ عَلَيْكَ الأُفْقُ طَوْقَ غَمَامَةٍ

خَضِيبَةِ كَفِّ الْبَرْقِ حَنَّانَةِ الرَّعْدِ

The horizon clothed you in a necklace of cloud,

Hands tinted like lightning’s grip, thunderous.

فَلَسْتُ بِنَاسٍ لَيْلَةً سَلَفَتْ لَنَا

بِوَادِيهِ والدُّنْيَا تَغُرُّ بِمَا تُسْدِي

I cannot forget a night we spent there,

While the world tempted with the bounty it bestows.

إِذِ الْعَيْشُ رَيَّانُ الأَمَالِيدِ وَالْهَوَى

جَدِيدٌ وَإِذْ لَمْيَاءُ صَافِيَةُ الْوُدِّ

When life was fresh, and passion new,

And the valley’s waters were limpid and loving.

مُنَعَّمَةٌ لِلْبَدْرِ مَا فِي قِنَاعِهَا

وَلِلْغُصْنِ ما دَارَتْ بِهِ عُقْدَةُ الْبَنْدِ

A refuge for the moon through its veil,

And the branch through the knot in its band.

سَبَتْنِي بِعَيْنَيْهَا وَقَالَتْ لِتِرْبِهَا

أَلا مَا لِهَذا الْغِرِّ يَتْبَعُنِي قَصْدِي

She teased me with her eyes and said to the soil:

“Look at this lanky fellow following me on purpose!”

وَلَمْ تَدْرِ ذَاتُ الخَالِ وَالْحُبُّ فَاضِحٌ

بِأَنَّ الَّذِي أُخْفِيهِ غَيْرُ الَّذِي أُبْدِي

Not knowing the mole and love cannot be hidden—

What I conceal is not what I divulge.

حَنَانَيْكِ إِنَّ الرَّأْيَ حَارَ دَلِيلُهُ

فَضَلَّ وَعادَ الْهَزْلُ فِيكِ إِلَى الْجِدِّ

My gazelle, reason itself went astray as a guide

And erred, while jest in you turned serious.

فَلا تَسْأَلِي مِنِّي الزِّيَادَةَ في الْهَوَى

رُوَيْداً فَهَذَا الْوَجْدُ آخِرُ مَا عِنْدِي

Do not ask me for more passion, gently,

For this torment is the last I can bear.

وَهَأَنَا مُنْقَادٌ كَمَا حَكَمَ الْهَوَى

لأَمْرِكِ فَاخْشَيْ حُرْمَةَ اللهِ وَالْمَجْدِ

And your command. So fear God and glory!

For if you said “Arise and climb a lofty peak,

فَلَوْ قُلْتِ قُمْ فَاصْعَدْ إِلَى رَأْس شَاهِقٍ

وَأَلْقِ إِذَا أَشْرَفْتَ نَفْسَكَ لِلْوَهْدِ

And when you reach the top, hurl yourself into the abyss,”

I would cast myself in willingly, so that afterward

لأَلْقَيْتُهَا طَوْعاً لَعَلَّكِ بَعْدَها

تَقُولِينَ حَيَّا اللهُ عَهْدَكَ مِنْ عَهْدِ

You might say: “God keep the pact you made!”

A soul that does not betray its friend

سَجِيَّةُ نَفْسٍ لا تَخُونُ خَلِيلَهَا

وَلا تَرْكَبُ الأَهْوَالَ إِلَّا عَلَى عَمْدِ

And courts peril only with purposeful intent,

I am bold in the face of horror and havoc

وَإِنِّي لَمِقْدَامٌ عَلَى الْهَوْلِ وَالرَّدَى

بِنَفْسِي وَفِي الإِقْدَامِ بِالنَّفْسِ مَا يُرْدِي

With my life, and in valor with one’s life lies destruction.

I speak truly when the right way is obscured

وَإِنِّي لَقَوَّالٌ إِذَا الْتَبَسَ الْهُدَى

وَجَارَتْ حُلُومُ الْقَوْمِ عَنْ سَنَنِ الْقَصْدِ

And the people’s minds turn from the path of propriety.

If I make peace, the Quraysh mock me,

فَإِنْ صُلْتُ فَدَّانِي الْكَمِيُّ بِنَفْسِهِ

وَإِنْ قُلْتُ لَبَّانِي الْوَلِيدُ مِنَ الْمَهْدِ

And if I talk, the Banu Waleed mock me from the cradle.

Every smooth ancient ode is strange to me

وَلِي كُلُّ مَلْسَاءِ الْمُتُونِ غَرِيبَةٍ

إِذَا أُنْشِدَتْ أَفْضَتْ لِذِكْرِ بَنِي سَعْدِ

When recited, save those that tell of Banu Sa’d.

Gentler to the ears than the melody of the lute,

أَخَفُّ عَلَى الأَسْمَاعِ مِنْ نَغَمِ الْحُدَا

وَأَلْطَفُ عِنْدَ الْنَّفْسِ مِنْ زَمَنِ الْوَرْدِ

And pleasanter to the soul than the season of roses,

Effacing with its sleeves’ trails the compositions

مُخَدَّرَةٌ تَمْحُو بِأَذْيَالِ حُسْنِهَا

أَسَاطِيرَ مَنْ قَبْلِي وَتُعْجِزُ مَنْ بَعْدِي

Of those before and after me, and humbling them.

Thus am I, saying and then doing—

كَذَلِكَ إِنِّي قَائِلٌ ثُمَّ فَاعِلٌ

فِعَالِي وَغَيرِي قَدْ يُنِيرُ وَلا يُسْدِي

My actions and those of others may elucidate or obscure.