Nizar Qabbani’s Poem of Sorrow
Your love taught me to embrace sorrow. I yearn for a woman who can evoke my sadness,
a woman I can weep in the embrace of, like a fragile bird.
I seek a woman who can gather my shattered pieces,
like fragments of broken glass. Your love, dear lady, has instilled in me the worst of habits.
It has taught me to read my coffee cup thousands of times in one night,
to explore the remedies of herbalists, and to knock on the doors of fortune tellers.
Your love compelled me to step out of my home, to stroll along the sidewalks,
chasing your visage in the rain and the car headlights while pursuing your spirit
even in the flyers scattered on the streets.
It taught me how to wander aimlessly for hours in search of gypsy hair that
even the most beautiful gypsies would envy, seeking a face and an echo of your voice
that encapsulates all faces and tones.
Your love led me into a city of sorrow, a place I had never visited before.
Until I met you, I had never realized that tears signify our humanity,
and that a human devoid of sorrow is merely a fading memory.
Your love taught me to act like a child, to draw your face with chalk on the walls,
to sketch it on the sails of fishermen, on bells, and on crosses.
It revealed to me how love transforms the timelines of our lives.
When I love, time itself seems to cease spinning.
Your love has introduced me to a realm of emotions that were never previously fathomed.
I began reading childhood tales, dreamt of marrying the daughter of a sultan;
her eyes, clearer than the waters of the bays, her lips sweeter than pomegranate blossoms.
I dreamed of stealing her away, just like the knights of old,
and envisioned giving her pearl and coral necklaces.
Your love taught me the essence of delirium,
showing me how time passes without the arrival of the sultan’s daughter.
It taught me how to love you in all things—
in bare trees, in the dry yellow leaves,
on rainy days, amid the storms,
in the tiniest café where we gulp our black coffee in the evenings.
Your love taught me to find refuge in nameless hotels,
and churches without titles, in cafés that lack identity.
Your love enlightened me on how the night magnifies the sorrows of strangers.
It made me visualize Beirut as a captivating woman,
donning her finest outfits each evening,
spraying perfume upon her curves for sailors and princes alike.
Your love has taught me to cry without tears,
to feel heartache as if a boy with severed legs were sleeping gently
on the streets of (Al-Rawsha) and (Al-Hamra).
Your love taught me to mourn—
and I have long needed a woman who can truly make me weep.
A woman in whose arms I can cry, just like a little bird,
someone who can collect my shattered existence like pieces of broken glass.
The Sad Evening Poem
Written by the poet Ali Mahmoud Taha:
I have renewed my lost dreams and nights,
So do you have a word about my passion?
O sanctuary of my illusions and monastic repose,
I recited in its shadow verses for beauty,
The first love songs I sang.
In this valley of dreams, I stood to see
the specters of events drifting past after the tragedy,
I sought refuge by the rocky edge, alone,
Crying for an evening that has passed and its nights,
That have transformed us in their wake.
It left us scattered after the storms,
The heart glances in the cold night,
Weeping for your luminous, marvelous nights,
And memories of the past that reveal themselves
Amid fields and the shores of lakes.
Moonlit Sorrow Poem
Written by the poet Muhammad Al-Maghut:
O spring approaching from her eyes,
O canary soaring in the moon’s light,
Take me to her—a poem of love or a dagger’s wound.
For I am a vagrant and a wounded soul,
I cherish the rain and the distant waves’ moan.
From the depths of slumber, I awaken,
To reflect upon the figure of a beautiful woman I encountered one day,
To sip wine and to pen poetry.
Tell my beloved Layla,
with the intoxicated lips and silken feet,
That I am ill and longing for her,
I catch glimpses of footprints upon the heart,
Damascus! O pink chariot of the captives.
As I lie in my room, I write and dream,
gazing at passersby from the heart of a high sky,
Hearing the rhythm of your flesh.
Twenty years we have been knocking on your steadfast doors,
While the rain falls on our clothes, our children,
And our chests, choked with aching coughs,
Seem sad as farewell, pale as the sorrow of the fields.
The wild desert winds carry our lamentations
to the alleys and the bakers and the spies,
And we race like wild horses upon the pages of history,
Weep and tremble,
As the winds and orange spikes drift apart.
In your cold eyes,
a storm of twinkling stars cries out,
O weary lover with the crumpled heart,
Adorned in coughs and jewels,
You are my source of longing.
I Counsel You to Sorrow, Do Not Counsel You to Endurance
Spoken by Abu Firas Al-Hamadhani:
I counsel you on sorrow, not on endurance,
The calamity is far too great for both reprimand and diversion.
I admire that you may be comforted
By the best of losses, O best of lost souls.
This is the tragedy if it skimped on what it possessed—
Its eyelids, making it unyielding.
There isn’t sadness within me like yours,
Although I have sought solace, yet found none.
My distance from you has not diminished my sorrow;
It is the shared solace in both closeness and separation.
I will share with you the hardships if they strike,
Just as I shared with you over the joys and prosperities.
I weep with tears that have a binding strength,
As I rest upon a patience void of support.
I never seek self-delight,
Knowing well what you endure from your own anguish.
I will keep sleep from my eyes,
Aware that you remain mired in endless wakefulness,
O solitary one, weeping without aid.
May God assist you with acceptance and resilience.
This captive left behind— there is no ransom for him,
He would offer his life, his loved ones, and his offspring.
The Mourning Dove Weeps with Sorrow
Written by Muhyi al-Din Ibn Arabi:
The mourning dove cries and wails with sorrow,
Its dirge echoes in the air, laden with longing.
Tears stream from eyes, forlorn with grief,
As if they were the weeping eyes of sorrowful hearts.
I grieve for the secluded, for my beloved’s solitary absence,
For the incomparable sorrow of losing the beloved.
I am overwhelmed by the flames of my love for Ramla,
Where the tents are and the eyes watch across the dunes.
Of every deadly glance, my eyelids are weak,
They grow heavy with the shade of longing gazes.
I keep drinking from the chalice of my tears,
Concealing love from my reproachful self.
Until the raven cries of parting visits us,
The sorrow of loss becomes too apparent to bear,
They have traversed the depths, cleaved the banks,
Thus, under the burdens, the echoes and moans.
I saw the reasons for mortality
When ropes were loosened and bundles tightly bound.
For parting— together with love—is deadly,
Yet the torment of love becomes light with reunion.
Why must I speak affectionately to her who is beautiful
wherever she may be found?
I Call Upon the Weary Eye that Cannot Sleep
Spoken by Abu Firas Al-Hamadhani:
I beckoned you, O weary eye unable to sleep,
Available for both little sleep and great rest.
This is not a reluctance to give life,
For it is the first granted favor to those who exert effort.
Nothing from the burden I bear obscures my resolve,
Nothing I would confess to him shall fade.
I do not falter even slightly,
For shame invokes strength and envy from the mightiest foes.
Yet, I shall choose the death of my kin
On the backs of proud steeds, devoid of rests.
And I refuse to die supported
By the hands of the Christians, in the silent grave.
I flaunt my persistence on the days of defiance,
Yet I have not donned the appearance of a coward.
I am caught between two conflicting commands,
Each day renewing my stock of adversity.
With the grace of patience in safety,
And through the uncertainty of fate, I find assurance.
I turn my glance between a friend conflict-bound
And a loyal companion suffering chains and bonds.
I called upon you as the doors rattled above us,
Be a respectful guest and an exalted rescuer.
For one such as you is summoned for any great matter,
And I am one to be ransomed from the gloom.
I call you not out of fear for my demise,
Nor do I expect this day to extend until tomorrow.
As the condemnation of fate has utterly been shattered,
And the siege has enveloped the lofty unknown.
However, I loathe to meet my end in foreign lands,
Among the hands of bare-hearted Christians.
So leave me not surrounded by enemies,
And do not cease to inquire about me, as you sit idle.
And do not sit idle about me, as my fate has been sealed,
For you are not reserved from noble deeds.
For how much you have done for me in grace and generosity,
You elevated my status while increasing the jealousy of others.
Cling to those favors before they slip away,
And rise with haste, a resolute spirit, to liberate me.
For if you were to pass away today,
I fear yours shall be the infamy of being the devout.
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