وَأَلزَمتُهُ حُكمَ الهَوى فَاِلتَقى بِهِ

وَأَلزَمتُهُ حُكمَ الهَوى فَاِلتَقى بِهِ

وَبي أَلِفٌ عِندَ العِناقِ وَلامُ

وَبي أَلِفٌ عِندَ العِناقِ وَلامُ

And I bound him to love’s rule; so there met in him

And I bound him to the rule of passion, so he met with it

And in me, at the embrace, an alif and a lam.

While between us there are a thousand intimacies and conjunctions

وَبِتنا خَليطَي ضَمَّةٍ وَاِعتِناقَةٍ

وَبِتنا خَليطَي ضَمَّةٍ وَاِعتِناقَةٍ

كَما خالَطَت ماءَ الغَمامِ مُدامُ

كَما خالَطَت ماءَ الغَمامِ مُدامُ

And we spent the night mingled in a clasp and an embrace,

And we spent together a mixture of meeting and embracing

As wine mingled with water from the clouds.

As water of clouds mixed with wine

تَشُفُّ بِيَ الشَكوى إِلَيهِ وَتَرتَقي

تَشُفُّ بِيَ الشَكوى إِلَيهِ وَتَرتَقي

وَأَسهَرُ فيهِ لَوعَةً وَيَنامُ

وَأَسهَرُ فيهِ لَوعَةً وَيَنامُ

My plaint to him wears me thin and mounts,

My complaints rise to him and climb

And I lie awake in anguish over him, while he sleeps.

While I stay up for him in agony and he sleeps

وَأَستَكتِمُ الشِعرَ اِسمَهُ خَوفَ كاشِحٍ

وَأَستَكتِمُ الشِعرَ اِسمَهُ خَوفَ كاشِحٍ

فَبَيني وَبَينَ الشِعرِ فيهِ ذِمامُ

فَبَيني وَبَينَ الشِعرِ فيهِ ذِمامُ

And I ask poetry to conceal his name, for fear of a spiteful foe;

And I conceal the name of the poetry from him, fearing a slanderer

So between me and poetry is a pledge of honor concerning him.

So between me and poetry for him is a bridle

فَلا أُنسَ إِلّا في عُيونِ قَصائِدٍ

فَلا أُنسَ إِلّا في عُيونِ قَصائِدٍ

تُنَبِّهُ بِالإِنشادِ وَهيَ نِيامُ

تُنَبِّهُ بِالإِنشادِ وَهيَ نِيامُ

So there is no solace except in the eyes of poems

So I am not comforted except in the eyes of poems

That rouse the listener through recitation, while they themselves sleep.

That alert me to recite while asleep

وَلَم يَطوِ شِعرٌ قَبلَهُ مِن سَريرَةٍ

وَلَم يَطوِ شِعرٌ قَبلَهُ مِن سَريرَةٍ

وَلَكِن أَشعارَ الكِرامِ كِرامُ

وَلَكِن أَشعارَ الكِرامِ كِرامُ

And no verse before it had folded away a secret,

And no poetry before it flowed from a secret

And yet the poems of the noble are noble.

But the poetry of the generous is generous