يقولونthey say جارَhas wronged عليكagainst you المشيبُgray hair
يقولون جارَ عليك المشيبُ
ومَنand who ذاthis one يُجيرُgives refuge إِذاwhen الشيبُgray hair جَارَاoppresses
ومَن ذا يُجيرُ إِذا الشيبُ جَارَا
They say gray hair has wronged you.
They say old age has come upon you
And who can give refuge when gray hair oppresses?
And who can protect when old age attacks?
وماand not كنتُI was مغتبطاًdelighted بالشّبابِwith youth
وما كنتُ مغتبطاً بالشّبابِ
وهلand whether كانit was إلاّexcept رِداءًa cloak مُعارَاborrowed
وهل كان إلاّ رِداءً مُعارَا
And I was never delighted with youth;
I was not delighted with youth
And was it anything but a borrowed cloak?
It was but a borrowed garment.
ولكنَّنيbut I ساءَنيit grieved me فَقدُهُits loss
ولكنَّني ساءَني فَقدُهُ
فواهاًso, alas لهfor it أيَّwhat همٍّanguish أثَارَاit stirred
فواهاً له أيَّ همٍّ أثَارَا
But its loss grieved me;
Yet I am saddened by its loss -
Alas for it—what anguish it stirred!
Alas! What sorrow it evoked!
وماand not سَاءَنيgrieved me أنthat أحالَturned الزّمانُtime
وما سَاءَني أن أحالَ الزّمانُ
لَيليmy night نهاراًday وجَهليand my folly وقَارَاdignity
لَيلي نهاراً وجَهلي وقَارَا
Nor did it grieve me that time turned
It is not that time has changed
My night into day and my folly into dignity.
My night to day, my ignorance to dignity.
ولكنbut يقولُونthey say عَصرُthe time of الشّبابِyouth
ولكن يقولُون عَصرُ الشّبابِ
يكونُis لكلِّfor every سرورٍjoy قَرارَاa dwelling place
يكونُ لكلِّ سرورٍ قَرارَا
But they say the time of youth
But they say the days of youth
Is a dwelling place for every joy.
Can settle every joy, establish all desires.
وماand not زلتُI ceased مُنذsince تردّيتُهُI donned it
وما زلتُ مُنذ تردّيتُهُ
كخَابِطlike one groping ليلٍnight أُعانِيI suffer العثَارَاstumbling
كخَابِط ليلٍ أُعانِي العثَارَا
And ever since I donned it, I have been
Since it slipped away, I remain
Like one groping through the night, beset by stumbles.
Like one groping in the dark, stumbling.
أكابِدُI struggle with دهراًan age يُشيبmakes gray الوليدَthe infant
أكابِدُ دهراً يُشيب الوليدَ
وهمّاand anguish يَشُبُّkindles بأحشايَin my entrails ناَرَاa fire
وهمّا يَشُبُّ بأحشايَ ناَرَا
I struggle with an age that turns an infant gray,
I endure a lifetime that turns the infant gray,
And anguish that kindles a fire in my entrails.
And turmoil that makes the young grow old.
فوجْديَso my sorrow أنِّيَthat I فارَقتُهI parted from it
فوجْديَ أنِّيَ فارَقتُه
ولمand did not أَبْلُI test ماwhat يزعُمونَthey claim اختِبَارَاby trial
ولم أَبْلُ ما يزعُمونَ اختِبَارَا
So my sorrow is that I parted from it
So I found, when it left me,
And never put what they claim to the test.
I had not realized what they claim to have discovered.
Sol 6.1