وَزْن Wazn
يا دهر ويحك ما أبقيت لي أحداً
O Time, Woe to You, You Have Left Me No Oneذكاء اصطناعي AI
افتح في القارئ Open in reader →الخلاصة Summary
هذا النص بالإنجليزية فقط — لا تتوفر لدينا نسخة عربية منه.
Abdallah ibn al-Mu'tazz elegizes his paternal cousin, the Caliph al-Mu'tadid, who passed away in October 902 CE. The poem opens with a stark reckoning against time and fate, moving into a grand roll call of vanished glory—armies, palaces, treasures, and political power—that contrasts the immense might of the late ruler with the absolute finality of the grave. The piece is celebrated for its sweeping interrogative cadence, driving home the fragility of human dominion through relentless repetition.
الخلاصة مُولّدة بالذكاء الاصطناعي وقد تخطئ This summary is AI-generated and may contain mistakes.
السياق The story
رثى ابن المعتز ابن عمه الخليفة المعتضد بهذه القصيدة النادرة التي لم توردها ديوانه، وقد توفي المعتضد ليلة الإثنين 22 ربيع الأول سنة 289 هـ.
المصدر: الموسوعة الشعرية — دائرة الثقافة والسياحة، أبوظبي Source: The Poetry Encyclopedia — Department of Culture and Tourism, Abu Dhabi
القصة مُستخلصة من المصدر بالذكاء الاصطناعي وقد تخطئ This story was extracted from the source by AI and may contain mistakes.
النص Poem text
O Time, woe to you, you have left me not a soul alive, / while you are an evil father who devours his own children.
I ask God's forgiveness; rather, this is entirely destiny's decree. / I am well pleased with God as a single, eternal Lord.
O dweller in the grave within the dark, dusty earth, / cut off in the outer quarters, isolated and alone.
Where are the armies that you used to dispatch? / Where are the treasures whose number could not be counted?
Where is the couch that you used to fill / with such awe that whoever laid eyes upon it trembled?
Where are the palaces you built and raised high, / where the gleam of pure gold flashed and burned bright?
They have exhausted every swift, lean mare, / her flanks foaming as she flings spray from her jaws.
Where are the enemies whose stubborn pride you humbled? / Where are the lions whom you reduced to mere coin?
Where are the delegations lingering at the doors, / while the dust-colored sandgrouse scatter without direction?
Where are the men standing tall in their ranks? / Whoever departed among them without being buried has found good fortune.
Where are the steeds whose markings you dyed with blood, / and which used to carry you, the fierce lion?
Where are the lances you nourished with life-bloods? / Since you died, they have touched neither heart nor liver.
Where are the swords, and where are the loosed arrows, / striking whomever you willed, near or far?
Where are the catapults like rushing torrents, / which hurled stones at fortress walls until they stood or fell?
Where are the deeds you used to innovate, / never deeming a lenient pardon to be of any use?
Where are the gardens whose streams flow on, / and to which the warbling bird responds?
Where are the maidservants gliding like gazelles, / dragging newly woven, brocaded robes behind them?
Where are the places of amusement, and where is the wine you would take for a ruby / clad in silver mail?
Where was the rushing upon enemies to seek / the correction of the Abbasid realm when it grew corrupt?
You never ceased subduing every proud tyrant, / crushing the haughty despot with deliberate intent.
Then you vanished, leaving neither eye nor trace, / until it was as if you had never been a single person.
Nothing remains save the good you put forward, / for no mortal king's dominion lasts nor is made eternal.
الترجمات الإنجليزية مُولّدة بالذكاء الاصطناعي وقد تخطئ English translations are AI-generated and may contain mistakes.