وَزْن Wazn
ألما على الربع القديم بعسعسا
Halt at the ancient, lingering ruinsذكاء اصطناعي AI
الغزل · Love & Romanceالرثاء · Grief & Mourning
افتح في القارئ Open in reader →الخلاصة Summary
هذا النص بالإنجليزية فقط — لا تتوفر لدينا نسخة عربية منه.
This late masterpiece by Imru' al-Qais captures the haunting transition from heroic vigor to bodily decline. Speaking from the shadow of physical collapse and impending death, the poet reflects on the vanishing landscapes of his youth, the fading allure of companionship, and the relentless creep of infirmity. Historical tradition records that he recited these poignant reflections as his health failed during his final journey, lending the poem the poignant weight of a dying master's testament.
الخلاصة مُولّدة بالذكاء الاصطناعي وقد تخطئ This summary is AI-generated and may contain mistakes.
السياق The story
ذكر المشاركون أن امرأ القيس قال بيتاً يعبر عن معاناته وموته التدريجي وهو: فلو أنها نفس تموت سوية ولكنها نفس تساقط أنفسا.
المصدر: منازل القصيد — تلفزيون سوريا Source: The “Manazil al-Qasid” podcast — Syria TV
القصة مُستخلصة من المصدر بالذكاء الاصطناعي وقد تخطئ This story was extracted from the source by AI and may contain mistakes.
النص Poem text
Halt both of you at the ancient ruins that linger and fade, as though I were crying out or speaking to stone.
If only the folk of the camp were there as they used to be, I would find a midday resting place and a night-camp among them.
Do not fail to know me, for I am that very one, from the nights when the clan camped at Ghaul and al-A'las.
You see me closing my eyes not for a single hour of the night, save when I bow my head to nod off in sleep.
My ancient illness returned upon me at the break of dawn, and I dread lest my sickness relapse and drag me down.
How many a distressed rider I have spurred after, defending his flank from the horsemen until he caught his breath.
And how many a day I would set out with combed hair, smooth-skinned and beloved by the haughty maidens.
They prick up their ears at my voice whenever they hear it, just as wild heifers turn to the call of a vigorous bull.
I see them unwilling to love a man whose wealth has dwindled, nor one in whom they spot the gray of aging.
I never feared the harsh trials of life as I now see my arms too weak even to stand and put on my clothes.
If only it were a soul that dies all at once, but rather it is souls falling apart one by one.
A bleeding wound has replaced sound health—what a cruel transformation of blessings into absolute misery.
The ambitious one aimed from the far corners of the earth, just to saddle me with his clinging disease.
Truly, after destitution comes riches for a man, and after gray hair comes long life and fine garments.
الترجمات الإنجليزية مُولّدة بالذكاء الاصطناعي وقد تخطئ English translations are AI-generated and may contain mistakes.