تَرَنَّمْ بِأَشْعَارِي وَدَعْ كُلَّ مَنْطِقٍ
فَمَا بَعْدَ قَوْلِي مِنْ بَلاغٍ لِمُفْلِقِ
Sing my verses, and leave all logic behind;
for after my utterance, no eloquence is left to the master orator.
هُوَ الْعَسَلُ الْمَاذِيُّ طَوْرَاً وَتَارَةً
يَثُورُ الشَّجَا مِنْهُ مَكَانَ الْمُخَنَّقِ
It is smooth-flowing honey at one moment; at another,
choking sorrow wells from it in the throat.
يُغَنِّي بِهِ شَادٍ وَيَحْدُو رِكَابَهُ
بِهِ كُلُّ حَادٍ بَيْنَ بَيْدَاءَ سَمْلَقِ
A singer sings it; and the caravan is urged onward
by it—each cameleer amid a barren wilderness.
فَطَوْرَاً تَرَاهُ زَهْرَةً بَيْنَ مَجْلِسٍ
وَطَوْرَاً تَرَاهُ لَهْذَماً بَيْنَ فَيْلَقِ
Now you see it as a blossom amid a gathering,
and now as a keen, long spear amid an army.
وَمَا كَلَفِي بِالشِّعْرِ إِلَّا لأَنَّهُ
مَنَارٌ لِسَارٍ أَوْ نَكَالٌ لأَحْمَقِ
My passion for poetry is only because it is
a beacon for the traveler, or a scourge for the fool.
عَلِقْتُ بِهِ طِفْلاً وَشِبْتُ وَلَمْ يَزَلْ
شَدِيدَاً بِأَهْدَابِ الْكَلامِ تَعَلُّقِي
I clung to it as a child and grew gray, yet never has
my attachment to the fringes of language ceased to be intense.
إِذَا قُلْتُ بَيْتَاً سَارَ فِي الدَّهْرِ ذِكْرُهُ
مَسِيرَ الْحَيَا مَا بَيْنَ غَرْبٍ وَمَشْرِقِ
Whenever I compose a verse, its renown travels through the ages,
like life-giving rain journeying from west to east.
يَهِيمُ بِهِ رَبُّ الْحُسَامِ حَمَاسَةً
وَتَلْهُو بِهِ ذَاتُ الْوِشَاحِ الْمُنَمَّقِ
The wielder of the sword is transported by it, fired with valor,
and the lady of the embroidered sash delights in it.
بَلَغْتُ بِشِعْرِي مَا أَرَدْتُ فَلَمْ أَدَعْ
بَدَائِعَ فِي أَكْمَامِهَا لَمْ تُفَتَّقِ
Through poetry I attained all I desired, leaving
no marvel in its calyx still unopened.
فَهَذَا نَمِيرُ الشِّعْرِ فَاقْصِدْ حِيَاضَهُ
لِتَرْوَى وَهَذَا مُرْتَقَى الْفَضْلِ فَارْتَقِ
Here, then, is poetry’s sweet water—make for its pools,
that you may drink your fill; and here is the ascent to excellence—climb.
Sol 5.6