وبَاتَتand she spent the night كَمَاjust as بَاتَتspent the night مَهَاهُan oryx حَميلَةًḤamīlah
وبَاتَت كَمَا بَاتَت مَهَاهُ حَميلَةً
لَهَاshe had جُؤذَرٌan oryx calf عِنَدًَbeside الصَّرَاةِal-Ṣarāh عَقِيرُslain
لَهَا جُؤذَرٌ عِنَدًَ الصَّرَاةِ عَقِيرُ
And she spent the night as did an oryx of Ḥamīlah,
She spent the night as she spent it, pregnant,
Whose calf lay slain beside al-Ṣarāh.
Having a small bag by the saddle cloth,
وقَدand already أُكِلَتwere devoured أَشلاَؤُهُhis limbs فَكَأَنَّهَاso as though they were
وقَد أُكِلَت أَشلاَؤُهُ فَكَأَنَّهَا
مُقَسَّمَةٌportioned out عِندَat القِدَاحِthe gaming arrows جَزُورُa slaughter-camel
مُقَسَّمَةٌ عِندَ القِدَاحِ جَزُورُ
His limbs had been devoured, as though they were
Her limbs were eaten away as if
A slaughtered camel portioned out by gaming arrows.
She was divided at the drinking bowls.
كَمَاjust as بَغَمَتshe lowed مِنfrom شَجوِهَاher grief أُمُّthe mother of وَاحِدٍa single calf
كَمَا بَغَمَت مِن شَجوِهَا أُمُّ وَاحِدٍ
أُتِيحَwas fated لَهَاfor her مِثلَlike الزُّجَاجِglass طَرِيرُa keen blade
أُتِيحَ لَهَا مِثلَ الزُّجَاجِ طَرِيرُ
As the mother of an only calf lowed in her grief,
Like the weeping of a mother for her only child,
For whom a keen blade like glass had been fated,
Her howl was like that of glass shards.
لَدُنfrom غُدوَةُearly morning حَتَّىuntil صَغَتinclined شَمسُthe sun of يَومِهَاher day
لَدُن غُدوَةُ حَتَّى صَغَت شَمسُ يَومِهَا
وَفِيand in أبهَرَيهَاher two heart-veins رَنَّةٌa plaintive cry وَزَفِيرُand a deep sigh
وَفِي أبهَرَيهَا رَنَّةٌ وَزَفِيرُ
From early morning until her day's sun declined,
From dawn until the sun of her day set,
And in her two heart-veins, a plaintive cry and a deep sigh.
With a ringing and a pant in her eyes.
تَسُوفُshe sniffs ثَرَاهُhis earth عَنaround مَشَقِّthe gash in إِهَابِهِhis hide
تَسُوفُ ثَرَاهُ عَن مَشَقِّ إِهَابِهِ
كَأَنَّas though أَسَابِيَّthe streaks of الدِّمَاءِthe blood عَتيرُa sacrificial victim
كَأَنَّ أَسَابِيَّ الدِّمَاءِ عَتيرُ
She sniffs his earth around the gash in his hide,
She pushes away his mane from the effort of his galloping,
As though the streaks of blood were those of a sacrificial victim.
As if the bloody wounds were a perfume pouch.
Sol 6.1