AL-KHANSA

Time has gnawed at me

Time has gnawed at me, bit me and has cut me.

Time has harmed, wounded and injured me,

and has destroyed my men who have died together.

This has made me restless.

They were not a harbour for the cruel

Just like the sun which is no shelter for the people.

We saw horses galloping

and flying dust.

And riders, having lustrous, broad swords and grey spears;

Whose swords turn faces deathly white, whose spears cut bodies.

We defeated those who thought

they would never be defeated.

And whoever thinks that they will not be harmed

thinks of the impossible.

We avoid dishonourable deeds and honour our guests.

And we store the praise (of people).

We wear armour in war

And silk, wool and cotton during peace.

Be generous, my eyes

Be generous, my eyes, and shed your tears

in copious weeping like a running stream!

Cry for your brother and forget not what is due to his merits.

Cry for your brave brother, for he was never faint of heart.

Cry for your brother, for he left behind orphans and a widow.

Cry for your brother, for he honoured every guest and neighbour,

Animated with unbounded benevolence

how a new moon never fails to shine.

translated by Salma Harland

Sleepless I kept the night vigil

Sleepless I kept the night vigil,

Eyes khol-blackened ruts.

I watched the stars, though no watchman,

Me, wrapped in wragged robes.

For I had heard news- and no news for joy-

Word of you:

'Here is Sakhr,

hurled to the ground, skirted by stones.'

Go then, to God's care,

You whose heart quickened at wrong,

You like the spear-tip

Whose bright shape lit the night,

You, bitterly resolved, free-born,

and the son of the free- Go!

I will weep for you

So long as the ring-dove wails

And stars brighten

The road for the traveller.

And I will not make peace with a people you were at war with,

not till the good host's black pot whitens.


Could I have only died from sadness

My long night refused to give me

the slightest sleep after the terrible news.

'The son of Amir is dead!' the messenger cried.

'Murdered!' Could I only have died of sadness!

This cruel age has broken me with him!

Sorrows are good for destroying a life.

A hero like my beloved makes the dryest eye weep,

and touches the soul of the heartless.

I had a brother, loyal to all his companions,

who fed the caravan when it was starving.

He shone in war, fighting in the arena,

like the shining sharp edge of the sword.

What have I done to this age, fertile in sorrows?

Have all the ills then fallen to our share?


Lament for a brother

What have we done to you death

that you treat us so, with always another catch

one day a warrior

the next a head of state

charmed by the loyal

you choose the best

iniquitous, unequalling death

I would not complain

if you were just

but you take the worthy

leaving fools for us.