تُرىI wonder لِحَنينيfor my longing أَوor حَنينِthe plaintive cooing of الحَمائِمِthe doves
تُرى لِحَنيني أَو حَنينِ الحَمائِمِ
جَرَتflowed فَحَكَتand so mimicked دَمعيmy tears دُموعُthe tears of الغَمائِمِthe clouds
جَرَت فَحَكَت دَمعي دُموعُ الغَمائِمِ
I wonder: was it for my longing or the doves' plaintive cooing
My friend, your sadness echoes through the verses.
that the clouds' tears flowed and mimicked my tears?
The doves' yearning, or my own, tears flow like rain.
وَهَلand did مِنfrom دُموعٍtears أَوor رُبوعٍdwellings تَرَحَّلواthey depart
وَهَل مِن دُموعٍ أَو رُبوعٍ تَرَحَّلوا
فَكُلٌّfor all of them أَراهاI see them دارِساتِeffaced المَعالِمِin their traces
فَكُلٌّ أَراها دارِساتِ المَعالِمِ
And was it from tears or dwellings that they departed?
Have the clouds wept too? Have breezes wept and wandered?
For I see them all with their traces effaced.
Each landmark here reminds me of our pain.
لَقَدindeed ضَعُفَتgrew weak ريحُthe wind الصِباthe east breeze فَوَصَلتُهاso I joined it
لَقَد ضَعُفَت ريحُ الصِبا فَوَصَلتُها
فَمِنّيthus from me لاnot مِنهاfrom it هُبوبُthe blowing of السَمائِمِscorching winds
فَمِنّي لا مِنها هُبوبُ السَمائِمِ
The east wind had indeed grown weak, so I joined it;
The morning breeze once stirred me, now I stir it.
thus the scorching blasts come from me, not from it.
The sighing comes from me, not heaven's breath.
دَعواlet نَفسَthe breath of المَقروحِthe wounded man تَحمِلُهُcarry it الصِباthe east wind
دَعوا نَفسَ المَقروحِ تَحمِلُهُ الصِبا
وَإِنeven if كانَit is يَهفوblowing gently بِالغُصونِthrough the boughs النَواعِمِthe tender ones
وَإِن كانَ يَهفو بِالغُصونِ النَواعِمِ
Let the east wind carry the wounded man's breath,
Let the torn soul bear this, though branches tremble.
even if it blows gently through the tender boughs.
My message to you delayed by grief and death.
تَأَخَّرتُI delayed فيin حَملِconveying السَلامِgreetings عَلَيكُمُto you
تَأَخَّرتُ في حَملِ السَلامِ عَلَيكُمُ
لَدَيهاwith it لِماbecause of what قَدalready حُمِّلَتit was made to carry مِنof سَمائِمِscorching winds
لَدَيها لِما قَد حُمِّلَت مِن سَمائِمِ
I delayed sending my greetings to you
Hear only words that flow like pouring tears
with it, because of the scorching blasts it had been made to bear.
As my heart speaks of one beyond compare -
فَلاso do not تَسمَعواlisten إِلّاexcept حَديثاًto a tale لِناظِريof my eye
فَلا تَسمَعوا إِلّا حَديثاً لِناظِري
يُعادُis retold بِأَلفاظِin the words of الدُموعِthe tears السَواجِمِthe streaming ones
يُعادُ بِأَلفاظِ الدُموعِ السَواجِمِ
So hear nothing but the tale of my eye,
The son of she who calms my restless fears.
retold in the words of streaming tears.
فَإِنَّfor indeed فُؤاديmy heart بَعدَكُمafter your departure قدindeed فَطَمتُهُI have weaned it
فَإِنَّ فُؤادي بَعدَكُم قد فَطَمتُهُ
عَنِfrom الشِعرِpoetry إِلّاexcept مِدحَةًa panegyric لِاِبنِfor the son of فاطِمِFatim
عَنِ الشِعرِ إِلّا مِدحَةً لِاِبنِ فاطِمِ
For, since your departure, I have weaned my heart
from poetry, save a panegyric for Ibn Fatim.
Partial English translation: 11 of 14 Arabic lines translated.