Expressions of Sorrow and Darkness
By the poet Hayfa bint Sabeih Al-Qudaiya:
I weep and weep in the brightness of dawn and in the shadow of night,
for a young man of noble lineage, a brave heart.
My lament for him brings no relief,
it only stirs the courage of knights and tribes.
Say to the one of lowly lineage, cursed be the man,
who bears the disgrace of all the people.
Does your son fall by Ali’s hand, O son of Fatima,
while he drinks the water of scattered dreams?
By God, I shall continue to weep for him and mourn,
until my uncles and maternal relatives visit you,
each of them strong, erect and well-proportioned,
and with every fair one, pure in lineage.
Distance from his Nearness
By the poet Ibn Sanaa Al-Malik:
He compensated me for his absence with distance,
and kept me awake during our nights together.
For I, in his memories, dwell in a paradise,
and my tears after him flow like a river.
Between My Sorrow and the Beauty of Yousuf
By the poet Ibn Al-Sa’ati:
Between my sorrow and the beauty akin to Yousuf,
there’s a lineage as pure as the morning light.
This treacherous glance did not spare the loyal hearts,
who remain steadfast, even when burdened by love.
My Babylonian eyes soak in my longing,
from just a sip of his fleeting presence.
Does not the weak complain of the strong’s oppression,
who is left with nothing but his laughter to bear?
And amongst those who are joyous and generous,
there is also a poor lover who lacks benevolence.
Seek not a reply from anyone but the beauty of the sky,
for they nurture the dew of dawn’s freshness.
Let the humble praise be offered to our noble heritage,
which shines like the tall palm trees of Medina.
The Party of Sorrow
By the poet Nizar Qabbani:
If the homeland is exiled like me,
and reflects on his mother’s white tunics, just like I do,
and on the black dot of the house, like I do,
if the homeland is forbidden from expressing thoughts like me,
and from advocating for culture, like me,
then why not let it enter the asylum we reside in?
Why not make it a member of the Party of Sorrow,
which encompasses a hundred million Arabs?
When the Heart Exiles Itself
By the poet Abdul Rahman Al-Ashmawi:
You departed? No, rather it was my heart that exiled itself.
So who shall exclaim if you arrive? Welcome?
And who travels within my heart finds hope,
sweet and bright, in its distant corners?
And who styles the hair of night, as if its stars
celebrated after our departure, having not danced?
And who conveys to the light of the moon a tune,
that we once concealed out of shame?
And who soothes my soul’s loneliness,
and dries my tears after they have poured?
And who returns dignity to my patience,
after it was troubled by my wounds, beyond bearing?
You departed? No, it was my smile that left,
and all that brought me joy has gone.
How Much Sadness Resides in My Heart for You
By the poet Ibn Alawi Al-Haddad:
How much sorrow resides in my heart for you,
O life of my soul and body!
What passed today in silence, amongst the ruins,
and the estrangement of the soul in its homeland?
Naught but my yearning and my desire!
With you, O spirit of mine, and O blossom,
my mind is lost in you like a fool.
And time twists with grief,
You have disappeared, O my boundless hope.
So my heart is filled with dread,
and my tears flow from my eyes,
like rain pouring from clouds.
O sweet words and fragrant essence,
you offer no solace to the despondent,
who fades from the fire’s heat.
You, O beautiful adornment and attire,
are my antidote to troubles
,
and the afflictions of calamity.
O gazelle of the thicket and tents,
on the right path for the lost and the peaceful,
will the perpetual ache ever cease?
Yearning from afar has taken me away,
proximity is my utmost desire,
and the meeting is full of sorrow.
Between Groans and the Pain of Memories
By the poet Mustafa Al-Tal:
Between groans and the pain of memories,
do we exist far beyond a fleeting moment?
And shake off life when your heart can bear it,
what value is this world and its embellishments,
if your heart remains as solid as rock?
It fades when I greet a dame,
but returns when you glance aside.
And its ribs are empty and lonely,
they heave with discontent and betrayal.
So it appears, as if a specter,
gnawing in a cemetery of despair.
Did the doe of Wadi Al-Sir flee,
from the they who walked through their shadows?
For she wrote her letters in my love narrative,
marking her verses like a divine sign.
And I wandered, asking each captivating beauty,
for generosity’s glance with a quick gaze.
And I let loose my dreams, saying to her,
“For your sake, oh, rejoice in your joy.”
She Wept as I Weep, and Her Tears Overflowed
By the poet Al-Qadi Al-Fadhil:
She wept as I weep and her tears overflowed,
not revealing secrets as my tears do.
A gesture of the oppressed and a sob of a lover,
and a haunting color of terror.
She rose to the sea of darkness, carrying poles,
and encountered not but the shedding of armors.
I marveled at her, while night lamented in pain,
and it pours like life flowing together.
How Can Sorrow Come to Me?
By the poet Al-Khansa:
How can sorrow and sleeplessness take their toll on me?
For the tears of my eyes are like pearls.
I weep for Sakhr, as time has turned against him,
when the days and fate conspired against him.
He was a generous companion, full of gifts,
known for his loyalty among betrayers.
He was the refuge for the distressed and all widows,
in the face of the turmoil when the winds rise.
No generation has ever faced a battle without him,
except for the day when he was to rise in victory.
What Grieving Comes from the Ruins
By the poet Al-A’sha:
What grieving from the ruins of the past,
and will you respond to my question?
A barren remnant where despair settles,
carried by two winds, from the south and north.
Will he not remember the memory of Jubeirah,
or anyone who witnessed those calamities?
My people dwelt over the soul’s refreshment,
as they settled on the embankment of the valley.
They grazed the slopes and into the thicket of love,
where the quails rested among the morning blooms.
With a tear that silences the dawn,
and movements leading to my journeys.
With a pilgrimage after sleep and rest,
and a call of remembrance with windblown soil.
And a grave that yearns, like the echo of longing,
for our region’s experiences filled in memory’s vale.
For if the wanderings of the mind ever part,
it surely leaves me with small sorrows hidden.
Reproach and Threat
By the poet Abdullah Al-Bardouni:
Why must I suffer hunger while you devour?
Hunger calls me to ask you,
and dig my field for your harvest,
then drink deeply from my sweat.
Why, when in your hands the gains are bleached?
Oh presumptuous one, reaching for my bread;
and you feed off my hunger while claiming innocence.
Has the thief ever claimed the crown’s right?
Why do you lord over my affliction?
Answer my question, even if it shames you,
and if you don’t speak, silence will echo back…
newly aware of your shameful manner.
Why do you crush my wounded heart—
the one filled with tenderness that once cared for you,
and my tears filled your chalice with nectar?
Do you recall, coward, how you severed my fate,
and how, in turning the tables, I learned of misfortune?
Tomorrow you shall see who I am,
and your nobility will turn against your traditions.
For in my veins, as anger swells,
when I unleash it, it extinguishes your torch.
Tomorrow memory shall curse you,
and your past shall hide from your future.
Your humbled self will grovel in your sins,
and the inquiry of vice will ask, “Where is the villain?”
And by what path did he wander and err?
Stop saying, “I repented,” No excuses allowed,
for regret must mend the past!
And do not ask, “Where is my tomorrow?”
Your hands have intertwined with the cosmos.
Tomorrow I shan’t applaud the riders of darkness,
I shall proclaim, “Oh dawn! How beautiful you are!”
Hurt Upon Hearing of Her Arrival
By the poet Al-Wasani:
I grieved when I heard she was coming,
in the autumn nights I lost my fortune.
She spent her night awake,
praying to the Merciful to mend my state.
And we met at our appointment,
like shadows in the dark, familiar shadows.
We shared our grievances; when she learned
that despair was but a fleeting thought in my mind.
She took the necklace from her neck and said,
“Take it and sell it dear or let it be so.”
And tears streamed down upon its pearls,
like beads melting into each other.
Woe to my heart, how many darts it has borne,
from love’s arrows, raining down from above!
O Thuraya, take your jewelry away,
for my anguish in love is boundless.
O Thura, whenever you were by my side,
I was the richest among all men.
Return the necklace to my neck, for my eyes;
they do not cling to adornment except in pain.
If you wish to sever ties between me and your autumn,
make our appointment for every night together.
And They Said, “Do Not Weep, It Is Their Caravan”
By the poet Ibn Baqi Al-Qurtubi:
And they said, “Do not shed tears; it is their caravan,”
on the shooting stars carrying maidens like dolls.
Are my tears all spent, yet they tease?
And they asked, “Have you not moved on, were you not once in love?”
But why remained I, like the weeping dove?
Were they merely quieting the jerking partridge, sweetly scented?
In midst of dampness, with soft-lipped charm,
but a glance from her will inspire harvest,
on my distress, how much is like longing through thirst.