أَبَابِلُ رَأْيَ الْعَيْنِ أَمْ هَذِهِ مِصْرُ
فَإِنِّي أَرَى فيها عُيُوناً هِيَ السِّحْرُ
Is this Babylon that dazzles my eyes, or is it Egypt?
For I see eyes here that are sheer magic.
نَوَاعِس أَيْقَظْنَ الْهَوَى بِلَوَاحِظٍ
تَدِينُ لَهَا بِالْفَتْكَةِ الْبِيضُ وَالسُّمْرُ
Sleepy-eyed charmers awakened desire with a glance,
And the fair and the dark submit to their bewitching.
فَلَيْسَ لِعَقْلٍ دُونَ سُلْطَانِها حِمىً
وَلا لِفُؤادٍ دُونَ غِشْيَانِهَا سِتْرُ
No mind can find safety from their dominion,
Nor any heart concealment from their swooning.
فَإِنْ يَكُ مُوسَى أَبْطَلَ السِّحْرَ مَرَّةً
فَذَلِكَ عَصْرُ الْمُعْجِزَاتِ وَذَا عَصْرُ
If Moses once foiled magic, that was an age
Of miracles - but this is an age of magic.
فَأَيُّ فُؤادٍ لا يَذُوبُ صَبَابَةً
وَمُزْنَةِ عَيْنٍ لا يَصُوبُ لَهَا قَطْرُ
What heart could fail to melt, flow down in drops,
At a languishing gaze that rains its sorcery?
بِنَفْسِي وَإِنْ عَزَّتْ عَلَيَّ رَبِيبَةٌ
مِنَ الْعينِ في أَجْفَانِ مُقْلَتِهَا فَتْرُ
A damsel over whom the moon's radiance trembles
And in whose tresses stirs a verdant bough,
فَتَاةٌ يَرِفُّ الْبَدْرُ تَحْتَ قِناعِهَا
وَيَخْطِرُ فِي أَبْرَادِهَا الْغُصنُ النَّضْرُ
Offers you the wine of dew in a snare -
A cleft-lipped one they call "Temptation's Lip."
تُرِيكَ جُمَانَ الْقَطْرِ في أُقْحُوانَةٍ
مُفَلَّجَةِ الأَطْرَافِ قِيلَ لَهَا ثَغْرُ
The enchanters of Babylon bow down before her eyes
And reel drunken from the nectar of her spittle.
تَدِينُ لِعَيْنَيْهَا سَوَاحِرُ بَابِلٍ
وَتَسْكَرُ مِنْ صَهْبَاءِ رِيقَتِهَا الْخَمْرُ
O queen of the tent that was guarded from strangers
By a darkness of lances now vanished into night!
فَيَا رَبَّةَ الْخِدْرِ الَّذِي حَالَ دُونَهُ
ضَرَاغِمُ حَرْبٍ غَابُهَا الأَسَلُ السُّمْرُ
Is there no reunion I can beg, to revive
A life made barren by the dearth of your presence?
أَمَا مِنْ وِصَالٍ أَسْتَعِيذُ بِأُنْسِهِ
نَضَارَةَ عَيْشٍ كَانَ أَفْسَدَهُ الْهَجْرُ
I found the world's sum in your love, though aware
My craze for you was the best proof of my merit.
رَضِيتُ مِنَ الدُّنْيَا بِحُبِّكِ عَالِمَاً
بِأَنَّ جُنُونِي فِي هَوَاكِ هُوَ الْفَخْرُ
Think not my longing a jest. It is fire
Unquenchable, or less than unquenchable fire.
فَلا تَحْسَبِي شَوْقِي فُكَاهَةَ مَازحٍ
فَمَا هُوَ إِلَّا الْجَمْرُ أَوْ دُونَهُ الْجَمْرُ
A passion, like the soul of heated steel. If my tears
Held back from feeding it, my breast would ignite.
هَوىً كَضَمِيرِ الزَّنْدِ لَوْ أَنَّ مَدْمَعِي
تَأَخَّرَ عَنْ سُقْيَاهُ لاحْتَرَقَ الصَّدْرُ
When I come to the quarter, men's hearts fill with rage -
Hearts stuffed with perfidy, guile, and treason.
إِذَا مَا أَتَيْتُ الْحَيَّ فَارَتْ بِغَيظِهَا
قُلُوبُ رِجَالٍ حَشْوُ آماقِهَا الْغَدْرُ
They think ill of me, though I merit it not;
For a man to think, lacking proof, is sin's burden.
يَظُّنُّونَ بِي شَرَّاً وَلَسْتُ بِأَهْلِهِ
وَظَنُّ الْفَتَى مِنْ غَيْرِ بَيِّنَةٍ وِزْرُ
What fault is it of theirs if a poet intones
A verse without flaw or defect?
وَمَاذَا عَلَيْهِمْ إِنْ تَرَنَّمَ شَاعِرٌ
بِقَافِيَةٍ لا عَيْبَ فِيهَا وَلا نُكْرُ
Is it not natural for turtledoves to moan their love,
While the stallion, though cut, does not weep for himself?
أَفِي الْحَقِّ أَنْ تَبْكِي الْحَمَائِمُ شَجْوَها
ويُبْلَى فَلا يَبْكِي عَلَى نَفْسِهِ حُرُّ
What shame in a passion my brother poet's fervor
Betrayed in his verse that decency spurned?
وَأَيُّ نَكِيرٍ فِي هَوىً شَبَّ وَقْدُهُ
بِقَلْبِ أَخِي شَوْقٍ فَبَاحَ بِهِ الشِّعْرُ
So let no critic reproach me. For love, to the smitten,
Is always a valid defense.
فَلا يَبْتَدِرْنِي بِالْمَلامَةِ عَاذِلٌ
فَإِنَّ الْهَوَى فِيهِ لِمُعْتَذِرٍ عُذْرُ
Were love not nobler than censure, never would
Anyone pine for love or acknowledge its rights.
إِذَا لَمْ يَكُنْ لِلْحُبِّ فَضْلٌ عَلَى النُّهَى
لَمَا ذَلَّ حَيٌّ لِلْهَوَى وَلَهُ قَدْرُ
How bridle my heart with patience toward passion
When nothing of heart or of patience to me now pertains?
وَكَيْفَ أَسُومُ الْقَلْبَ صَبْراً عَلَى الْهَوى
وَلَمْ يَبْقَ لِي فِي الْحُبِّ قَلْبٌ وَلا صَبْرُ
To tame my desire, I yield to its rule,
Though mine were the nays and the yea.
لِيَهْنَ الْهَوَى إِنِّي خَضَعْتُ لِحُكْمِهِ
وَإِنْ كَانَ لِي فِي غَيْرِهِ النَّهْيُ وَالأَمْرُ
I am a man whose nature brooks insult reluctantly,
One apt to draw blood wherever swords clash.
وَإِنِّي امْرُؤٌ تَأْبَى لِيَ الضَّيْمَ صَوْلَةٌ
مَوَاقِعُهَا فِي كُلِّ مُعْتَرَكٍ حُمْرُ
No fledgling, I, to take umbrage at some trifle,
No coward to seek refuge behind my ramparts.
أَبِيٌّ عَلَى الْحِدْثَانِ لا يَسْتَفِزُّنِي
عَظِيمٌ وَلا يَأْوِي إِلَى سَاحَتِي ذُعْرُ
When I bare my blade for carnage, terror bolts
From its lair, though verse from my lips softly purls.
إِذَا صُلْتُ صَالَ الْمَوْتُ مِنْ وَكَرَاتِهِ
وَإِنْ قُلْتُ أَرْخَى مِنْ أَعِنَّتِهِ الشِّعْرُ
