وَرَاقِصَةٍand a dancer بِالسحرِwith magic فيin حَرَكاتِهاher movements
وَرَاقِصَةٍ بِالسحرِ في حَرَكاتِها
تُقيمُshe keeps steady بِهِwith it وَزْنَthe rhythm of الغِناءِsinging عَلىat حَدّa limit
تُقيمُ بِهِ وَزْنَ الغِناءِ عَلى حَدّ
And a dancer, with magic in her movements,
And a dancer at dawn with her movements
by which she keeps the song’s rhythm exact;
Sets the rhythm of song to a measure
مُنَغّمَةٌintoning melodiously أَلفاظَهَاher words بِتَرنُّمٍwith trilling
مُنَغّمَةٌ أَلفاظَهَا بِتَرنُّمٍ
كَساclothed مَعبِداًMaʿbad مِنfrom عِزِّهِhis glory ذِلَّةَthe abasement of العَبدِthe slave
كَسا مَعبِداً مِن عِزِّهِ ذِلَّةَ العَبدِ
she sets her words to melody with a trill
Her words sung with a chant
that clothed Maʿbad, despite his glory, in a slave’s abasement.
Like a robe worn with pride brought low by a slave
تَدوسُshe treads upon قُلوبَthe hearts of السامِعينَthe listeners برخْصَةٍwith a supple foot
تَدوسُ قُلوبَ السامِعينَ برخْصَةٍ
بهاwith it لَقَطَتْshe picked out ماwhat لِلُّحونbelongs to the melodies مِنَof العَدِّthe count
بها لَقَطَتْ ما لِلُّحون مِنَ العَدِّ
She treads upon the listeners’ hearts with a supple foot,
She treads on listeners' hearts with ease
with which she has picked out every beat of the melodies.
Catching whatever songs hold of count
بِقدٍّwith a figure يموتُdies الغُصْنُthe bough منfrom حَرَكاتِهِits movements
بِقدٍّ يموتُ الغُصْنُ من حَرَكاتِهِ
سكوناًinto stillness وأينand where is الغُصْنُthe bough منcompared with بَرَهِthe grace of القدّthe figure
سكوناً وأين الغُصْنُ من بَرَهِ القدّ
Her figure’s movements make the bough die
With a nape that would slay the branch with its motions
into stillness—and how can a bough rival her figure’s grace?
Still while the branch is far from the nape’s grace
وَتَحسَبُهاand you think it عمَّاfrom what تُشيرُshe indicates بِأَنمُلٍwith fingertips
وَتَحسَبُها عمَّا تُشيرُ بِأَنمُلٍ
إِلىtoward ماwhat يُلاقيbefalls كُلَّevery عُضوٍlimb مِنَof الوَجدُpassion
إِلى ما يُلاقي كُلَّ عُضوٍ مِنَ الوَجدُ
And you would think, from her fingertip gestures
You’d think her fingers’ hints and signs
toward the passion that touches every limb,
To what each limb feels of rapturous joy
بِناin us لاnot بِهاin her ماwhat تَشتَكيshe laments مِنof جَوَىthe anguish of الهَوىlove
بِنا لا بِها ما تَشتَكي مِن جَوَى الهَوى
وأَدمُعِand tears of أَشواقٍlongings مُخَدِّدَةِfurrowing الخَدّthe cheek
وأَدمُعِ أَشواقٍ مُخَدِّدَةِ الخَدّ
that the anguish of love she laments is in us, not her,
But not her, what she complains of love’s ardour
as are the tears of longing that furrow the cheek.
And tears of yearning hollowing the cheek