باقان باقان لا ألمت — أبو المعالي الطالوي

Baqan, Baqan, may there never descend

upon you night-clouds with their pattering rain.

Do you not see how even

the bristly gate-crasher has left you?

So he crept toward Syria, making his way,

with a trembling that gave a rustling sound.

Had not your Jalbaha contained

water and grass that he could reach,

so he might shelter in your sanctuary and graze,

where the beasts had taken refuge around you?

Jilliq has indeed complained of its suffering

from a trembling fellow with no vigor.

An ancient old man, recounting a tale

from the elder of Sasan, never stirring;

a decrepit dolt, base of soul,

a shitter of vice, whose chewing is coarse.

The gullible man imagines him, as he gulps,

a she-ghoul struck by petty wickedness.

The bow of time's turns has [bent] him into a bow,

while he feathers the arrows of hope.

By night he watches the Daughters of the Bier,

until the biers are left empty for him.

Then he makes for them, leaning on a staff

pressed against a paunch covered in scratches.

With it he always roams the wilderness,

seeking a livelihood on which to live.

My friend said when he saw him,

with a grasping scion following him,

slithering behind him like a snake,

slithering in terror, with a hiss:

[Unclear opening]—for food, sharper of fang

than the lion whenever it rages;

more attentive to the secrets of the elder of Saruj

than his son when he seeks aid.

If time's vicissitudes have nearly worn you out—

the arrows it aims never go astray—

then Abu Zayd's son, the ram of Sasa—

—n after his father, is tight-fisted and brisk.

And you, old man, how long must you endure

time's fury, with its hissing?

You have left ninety years behind your back,

whose shape the slender bow has copied.

And owls have nested atop a head

of yours, while death's onslaught reaches for you.

How long will you weary all creation,

O Luqman's vulture, how long will you live?