يا شيخ الإسلام الذي — أبو المعالي الطالوي — Saqi

يا شَيخَ الإِسلامِ الَّذي
إِلَيهِ أَقصى طَلَبي
O Shaykh of Islam, who
is the ultimate goal of my quest,
يا خَيرَ حَبرٍ عالمٍ
آراؤهُ كَالشُهُبِ
O finest learned scholar,
whose judgments are like shooting stars,
وَمَن ذُراهُ مَعقلٌ
مِن حادِثات النُوَبِ
and you whose heights are a stronghold
against the calamities of misfortune,
وَمَن حِماهُ حَرَمٌ
أَمنٌ لِأَهل الطَلَبِ
and you whose domain is a sanctuary,
a place of safety for seekers.
تَهوي لَهُ أَفئِدَةٌ
مِن عُجمِها وَالعَرَبِ
Hearts yearn toward him,
from non-Arabs and Arabs alike;
فَتَنثَني عَنهُ وَقَد
نالَت قُصارى الأَرَبِ
then turn back from him, having
attained the utmost of their desire,
عَن رَوضَةٍ مَطلولَةٍ
ذاتُ جَنابٍ مُخصِبِ
from a dew-moistened garden
with fertile grounds.
جيدَت رُباها وَاِنتَحَت
فيها عَزالي السحُبِ
Its hills were drenched, and down bent
over it the rain-spouts of the clouds,
حَتّى اِكتَسَت أَغصانُها
وَاِعتَمَّ هامُ القُضُبِ
until its branches were clothed
and the boughs' heads donned turbans,
وَاِبتَسَمَ النوّارُ عَن
ثَغرِ الأَقاحي الشُنُبِ
and the blossoms smiled, revealing
the daisies' cool, gleaming teeth.
إلّا فَتىً بِبابِكُم
يَبكي بِدَمعٍ سَرِبِ
Except for a youth at your door,
weeping with streaming tears;
بِهِ ظَمَأ مُبرِّح
إِلى اِرتِشاف الضَربِ
he has a tormenting thirst
to sip the white honey.
يكمِّلُ مِنهُ نُسخَة
رَثّت بِمَرِّ الحِقَبِ
From it he completes a copy
worn out by the passage of ages;
وَنقصُها كرّاسَة
يَكتبها عَن كَثَبِ
and one quire is missing from it,
which he copies from close at hand.
وَتَنثَني مُثنِيَةً
عَلى إِمام الأَدَبِ
And it returns, offering praise
for the master of letters,
القائِل الفَصلِ إِذا
اِحتَكّت ظُهورُ الركبِ
who speaks the decisive word when
kneecaps rub together,
وَالطاعِنِ القرنَ إِذا
اِشتَكَت مُتونُ العَرَبِ
and who pierces the adversary when
the Arabs' backs cry out.
لا زالَ يَرقى صاعِداً
بِالعلمِ أَسنى الرُتَبِ
May he keep rising ever upward,
through knowledge, to the loftiest ranks,
ما غَرَّدت مُفتِنة
وُرقٌ بِأَعلى قُضُبِ
as long as bewitching song rings out
from gray doves atop the boughs,
وَأَشرَق البَدرُ المُنيرُ
طالِعاً في غَيهبِ
and the luminous full moon shines,
rising in deep darkness,
وَسارَ نَجمٌ في الدُجى
يَنحو مَدارَ القُطبِ
and a star travels through the night,
heading for the circuit around the pole.