Poem: We Weep for Youth
The poet Ibn al-Rumi expresses:
We weep for youth due to the demands of women, and for
Many other personal reasons I will mourn as well.
I lament for the vitality that once captivated me
Whenever my eyes beheld its wondrous spectacle.
None can compare to the value I placed on its blessings
For its own sake, not merely for the enchantments it bestowed.
There was a joy for my eyes in its charm,
Outshining the gaze of those who could have ensnared it.
How numerous the women’s admiration was for him,
While the soul craves admiration for what it contains.
How often he impressed those who found solace in him,
While he also mourned for those whose charm eluded him.
How effectively he could cleanse the dust from a tear-filled eye,
Yet return to cause its misting once more.
The women of the night would gaze upon him,
As they employed the arrows they shot above.
He praised their nobility, believing they would not force her
Into any turmoil that might provoke resentment.
I mourn for youth regarding the pleasure of hunting when
It grew cumbersome and was soon to depart.
In those moments, youthful men could not guide me,
Nor could my spirit ever cascade freely from their restraint.
For if I strolled on, I would do so with a burdened heart,
Like a tired man forced to plod along.
I lament for the essence of completeness when
The entertainers serenade and the cupbearer urges swigs.
In those moments, I was neither at ease, nor was I
Among those gifted with solace, so I invoked their company.
How many sighs filled my chest at that time,
In anguish for the heartache I stumbled upon.
I mourn for a spirit that once brought comfort,
Through every amusement I endeavored or enjoyed.
I sorrow for hopes that have been shattered,
Which once helped my heart find solace.
I lament for a heart that sees no substitute,
And finds no replacement since it once found peace.
I grieve for eyes that have grown wearied,
After having lost focus and heated pursuit.
Eyes that once I found noble and discerning,
Have now grown dull where they once sought worth.
I mourn for ears that once welcomed sounds,
Yet now hear only echoes from afar.
An ear that, though weary, has lost none of its acuity,
Except for its endurance in an endless cycle of reproach.
I lament for hands that once granted pleasure,
Which have since withdrawn or coiled away.
A hand I once knew, bringing pleasures close,
Which now retreats from the affection of play.
Youth consumed my heart, as I was absorbed in it,
In a situation whose reasons I cannot name.
A spirit it brought forth would refresh my soul,
Like a gentle breeze that continuously revitalizes.
It is as if my soul wandered in a garden,
Where the pour of the rain was like a generous cup.
It is as if my spirit experienced a fairy tale,
Of breath from the balmy air and blooming pleasure.
It is as if my heart was drawn in every state,
Overseen by love that graciously bestowed upon me.
Those who pass away take with them what they need,
Except youth and its unyielding needs.
Youth departs but leaves, unforgotten, a melody,
Piercing the heart, where it continues to weep.
Oh, were it that memories would fade along with it,
Or that youth might remain, while time recedes.
No, it departs, yet my soul holds onto echoes,
Of its essence, through which it continues to send me on.
And while it urges what is entrusted to it to remain,
The lingering call is a yearning it cannot fulfill.
And the spirit would be restrained when misled,
Finding alongside it, only restraints from that place.
Poem: O, How My Heart Aches
The poet Al-Mutanabbi states:
O, how my heart aches for one whose heart is filled,
And for those who, in their being, suffer sickness.
Why am I concealing a love that consumes my body,
When you profess to love the sword of the state?
If it is love that unites us through its sheen,
I wish we could share the weight of such love together.
I visited him while the swords of India lay sheathed,
And I beheld him, while the swords dripped red.
He was the noblest of all God’s creations,
And the finest of all fine features was in his aspect.
Defeating the enemy was a victory that sought within,
A blend of sorrow intertwined with the rich blessings.
Fear burgeoned immensely in your presence,
Commanding a result that cannot be fabricated.
You’ve chained your soul to something that is unworthy,
That nothing can cover nor grant them felled ground.
Each time you seek an army, it flees cowardly away,
While your valor transforms regret into awakening.
Your defeats in every battleground are your honor,
And none should bear shame should they flee.
Don’t you see, sweet victory? It’s sweeter amidst victories alone,
Where India’s whiteness and strains intertwine.
O fairest of mankind, except in my dealings,
In you lies contention, you the adversary and the judge.
I indulge in gazes sincere from your direction,
That you presume the fat in him is what has made him swell.
What use are the benefits of life by your sight,
When lights and darkness blend alike at your request?
The gathering shall know from whom our session is shaped,
That indeed, I am the best among whom feet traversed.
For I am the one whom the blind behold with my manner,
And my words resonate where the deaf are found.
I sleep in bursts, while my eyelids drift from sleep,
And the throng comes alive through its bickering.
Ignorant man: your ignorance prompts my laughter,
Until he is met by a shrewd hand and a mouth.
When you behold the fangs of a lion protruding,
Do not assume that this lion grins.
And the soul is pursued by the grief of its beloved,
With steeds that carry it as its banner.
With two legs it journeys and two arms direct,
What it desires is divined by the hand and the foot.
And we marched forth between the masses in haste,
Until I struck, as the waves of death surged upon.
The horses, the night, and the wide plain recognized me,
And with sword and spear, parchment and quill I trail.
I roamed in desolate stretches, apart and solitary,
Until the caves and hills marveled at my arrival.
O, whom it grieves to part from us,
Everything following you fades into absence.
Had we not adorned you with forwardness,
Yet had your will been, our agreement yields forth.
If your intention is of what our envious befalls,
Why try deep-rooted wounds, if they grant you pleasure?
And if we bring forth recognition, let these be marked,
For recognition among the wise leads to lament.
How often have you sought faults in us? Such is folly,
And God despises what you bring, as dignity presides.
How distant is disgrace and flaw from my honour,
I am the Pleiades, while old age and decay cast their shadows.
Oh, that the storms that should fall from my hands,
Would redirect to those where the sweet rain has already fallen.
In every journey, I see nothing more burdensome,
Than not remembering this embittered fate.
All will eventually experience that which shall befall them.
Driven by bitterness, the sufferer will grieve.
I lament with all burdens upon the years,
For they have lost that bond, which once held dear.
Poem: The Tears Refuse to Cease
As stated by the poet Abu al-Ala Al-Maari:
His tears refuse to cease flowing down,
And the fire of his passion refuses to die.
Given the ruins, I cannot say
That I shall not attempt to withhold the clouds of tears.
And I have not slackened in questioning the familiar lanes,
Yet they do not respond; their voices fall mute.
I saw that gray had begun to appear, thus I said welcome!
And I parted ways with youth and its gilded dreams.
Having grown older not from time’s passing,
But rather from the sorrows wrought by beloved friends.
They dispatched from their burdens to me like war-horses,
And have fashioned desires for me to settle upon.
Did you not behold how we were once the noblest of friends,
Even as they decreed us worthy to defend the realm?
The mountains looked upon Nizar as we took rest,
And we made them our refuge, spreading our warmth.
We have been graced by the blessings of the very peoples,
Whom humbleness and beauty showcased as our banners.
Indeed, the clan of Rabi’a, even Nizar knows,
That we lead, while others follow.
Yet when the foolhardy of K’ab arose,
They opened the gates of war and called upon us.
We bestowed the finest steeds upon it as we stood ready,
To avenge what had been battered and what was ours to take.
So when the sword of faith sparked, we grew fierce,
Like lions ignited by the scent of their prey.
Those spears, when they meet battle,
Seem as sharp as the wind’s own arrow curls.
But we responded swiftly to its call,
And we wrapped ourselves around its strong build.
Craftsmanship, far exceeds what its creators could muster,
It thrived upon the gift bestowed by a noble hand.
Like silken arrows when they procure their aim,
So did we hit our mark on every shot.
We advanced towards the giants, strong with purpose,
And vanquished land that once held our dreams.
Leaving no challenge behind, nor within our scope,
Until we delivered their strongholds, stripped bare.
Across the desert, our escape and victories were swifter,
We have glided through their fields, their lives disrupted.
Filling the sky with our dust, and the desert scented with them,
Delighted to have crossed paths with victory in hand.
With gallows prepared, and swords drawn, we cut paths,
Taking what is yours, and offering no reprieve.
It was indeed a deadly storm, crashing through the ground,
And fiercely granting our will as they quaked.
How far have the cities fallen behind our descent?
When we had governed this land with what was pure.
When the nobles rose to lead their armies swiftly,
We had only to write the tales of glory.
I am the son of the fighters, swift and decisive,
When foes dread combating, I shelve their squabbles.
Did you not know what of the truth I declare,
That I pierced the darkness, shining brighter than most?
Poem: A Brother’s Assurance
The poet Abu al-Atahiya affirms:
Should a brother submit to fate,
And the father disappear, leaving no trace;
Even the parent of a lineage might not endure,
Yet the children may soon forget his face.
For a name is remembered in tribes,
Yet it fades from memory when out of sight.
And when a man’s years are spent away,
Time has away taken everything in his sight.
It seems that people have gathered to recite,
As though they said, “Quick, let’s rush to him, let’s find!”
Question him, nudge him,
Gently stir him to life.
When they become desperate, no effort for him,
They say, “Lay him still. Let him just fade.”
Lay him down gently and prepare him,
You must wrap him in silence and sorrow.
Flush and wrap him tight in the shroud,
If they ask, “Where to bury him today?”
Then they proclaim to take him back to the earth,
Reserving him in this cold grave,
Buried beneath heavy stones,
Encumbered and weighed down beneath its tomb.
Withdrawn from life so far away,
Yet forth, forgotten amongst their grief.
As though he was nothing, left abandoned,
Tell me, what now remains of his glory?
As with any absence, regret replaces glory,
Where we all succumb to that which is forgotten.
For the dead have departed where they longed to go,
Only finding shadows in their stillness.
Golden days live in the hearts of those forgotten,
As a group is lost amidst their own desires.
There remains but one thing that may endure,
To entangle them, recalling fondly to one another.
Here lies a man, blessed by friends who fulfill him,
Who is content when they cradle him still.
Yet a struggling man, whose worth goes undervalued,
No connection has perished for him continues.
While those closest to him who each rest in need,
Will languish without wisdom in this world’s passing.
And the desire of men amongst each other,
Find themselves lesser in these transient qualities.
Poem: The Whistle of the Nightingale
States Al-Asma’i:
The sound of the nightingale’s whistle,
Ignites the heart with longing and thrill.
The water and the flowers bloom together,
With flowers blooming near the gaze of beauty.
And you, O my master,
Indeed, my rightful lord,
How deeply do you endear me,
O sweet gazelle of my affection.
Plucked from the cheek of modesty,
With a kiss of blush from petals strong.
As it cried, “No, no, no!” continuously,
Becoming agitated and racing now.
While the swords swayed with joy,
From this man’s melodious suggestion.
With whimpers resounding around me,
Woe to me, woe to me, my lament!
I said, “Do not lament,”
For pearls shined beneath his laughter.
It directed the yearning heart to rise,
And revel with vigor amidst all things nativity.
A multitude of friends brewed me,
Sweet coffee akin to honeyed delight.
I breathed it in — a most fragrant trace,
More beloved than the scent of carnations.
Within the garden where sumptuousness reigns,
And joy is adorned throughout.
The lute rings resonantly for me,
And the drum beats like a rhythm of life.
As each beat rolled forth to set the scene,
Creating an atmosphere of endless merriment.
And the ceiling sparkled in unison,
Echoing laughter no longer constrained.
The dance was aplenty, and joy filled all the night,
Both in body and soul, moving freely in delight.
Shawa-shawa and stands swayed,
On a donkey who walks on three legs.
With the gait of the enchanted mark,
And people gathering around with glee.
While traditional festival unfolded its bloom,
While all gathered to savor the atmosphere.
What hands sway aside from earthly duties,
But oh, their desires drowned deep within?
Even if I slip beyond, I shall not return,
To face the glories of my domain.
This rephrased version of the original poems retains their meaning while aiming for a more professional tone and improved SEO compliance.