خطب طرقت به أمر طروق — أبو الفرج الأصبهاني

A calamity visited me—the bitterest night visitation,

Harsh in its coming upon me, without compassion.

As though Time's misfortunes surrounded

Me, lying in wait for me on every road.

How long will its reversals assail me,

And its bereavements choke me on my own saliva?

They have carried off every companion and kinsman,

Every kindred spirit, fellow traveler, and friend.

Even a rooster whose company I used to cherish—

Handsome to my eyes, a graceful bird among roosters.

Time cast its heavy breast upon him,

Destroying mortals and scattering every company.

And struck him with the point of a barbed arrow of its own,

Fastening on the treasures of those who seek security.

Time's reversals overcame my efforts on his behalf;

Indeed, I cannot bear Time's calamities.

My grief for him endures as long as they sing—

The gray doves at forenoon on a crag's summit.

O fosterling of our home, reared in our laps,

And nourished by our hands—a cry from one who longs.

My anguish for you, Abu al-Nadhir—if only

A loving mourner's anguish could ward death off from you!

And for your graces, which had no sooner grown

Than they withered after beautiful, lofty growth.

When you matured and became a jealously cherished treasure,

And grew as one favored by fortune and dearly loved,

And every element of beauty reached perfection

In you, both the grand and evident and the delicate;

And you were clothed, like a peacock, in shining feathers,

Glittering, endowed with luster and brilliance,

Of red within yellow within green,

Imagining them alone makes close inspection needless.

An outward quality beyond all measure, and a substance

Whose qualities are too subtle for minute scrutiny.

And you strutted, draped in a mantle embroidered

With wondrous patterns by an artist's hand,

Like a pomegranate blossom, or the clarity of carnelian,

Or the gleam of fire, or flashes of lightning,

Or wine strutting proudly in a crystal cup,

Sparkling through clarification and decanting.

And the two sides of your neck seemed flowing gold,

And on your head lay a crown of carnelian.

And the channel of your voice, when voices jarred

And hoarse throats grated upon the ears,

Seemed a slender, mellow flute, accompanied

By harmoniously arranged musical notes.

He crows and claps with his wing like a tipsy man

Whose two hands join tapping with clapping.

And struts, mounting seven hens,

Like Mahri she-camels encircling a pampered camel-stallion.

So he continually supplies us with eggs from them,

A wholesome provision, never depleted.

In them are marvels of workmanship and subtleties,

Perfected through refinement and precision:

Two watery substances, never mingled despite

Being fluid and delicately harmonious in composition.

A work that shows the reality of a Maker

Of all creation, who is not Himself created.

So their whites are silver, and their yolks gold,

In an ivory casket lined with Dabiqi cloth.

The one who cooks them hastens to us with an omelet,

And comes at evening with roasted and boiled eggs.

Blessings, by your life, would be sweet if they endured!

Has sustenance ever lasted for anyone who receives it?

I weep when I see your dwelling desolate,

With longing, sorrow, and sobbing gasps.

And a crowing bird deepens my anguish at losing you,

In a house near me, close beside mine.

My heart takes fright at his crowing, as though

He announced separation or a brother's death.

So my sorrow for you is forever unbroken,

In night's blackness or sunrise's whiteness.

And when the afflicted recover through consolation,

And school themselves to patience, I remain unhealed.

I bear the pain of losing you, not from aversion to you, but as

A captive endures hardship and confinement.

May you never be far, though your journey has borne you away

In a dwelling distant in place, far removed.