وَزْن Wazn
قفا نبك من ذكرى حبيب وعرفان
Pause, let us weep for the memory of a beloved and an abodeذكاء اصطناعي AI
الغزل · Love & Romanceالمديح · Praise & Honor
افتح في القارئ Open in reader →الخلاصة Summary
هذا النص بالإنجليزية فقط — لا تتوفر لدينا نسخة عربية منه.
Imru' al-Qais stands as the archetypal pre-Islamic vagabond prince, driven from his kingdom after the murder of his father and condemned to a life of exile, wandering, and relentless quests for vengeance or patronage. This celebrated qaṣidah opens with the timeless pre-Islamic convention of halting at abandoned desert campfires to mourn lost companions, before sweeping into breathtaking descriptions of wild landscapes, nocturnal raids, steadfast mounts, and memories of aristocratic leisure. Generations of Arabic critics revered the poet for his astonishing fluidity of imagery, his peerless command of natural detail, and the tragic defiance that underpins his brilliance.
الخلاصة مُولّدة بالذكاء الاصطناعي وقد تخطئ This summary is AI-generated and may contain mistakes.
النص Poem text
Halt, both of you, let us weep for the memory of a beloved and her traces, / at a camping-ground whose ruins have vanished since ages past.
Years have passed over it after my time, until it has become / like the tracing of a Zabur script in the prayer books of monks.
I remembered the entire tribe through them, and it stirred up / the lingering roots of an illness deep within my heart and soul.
My tears poured down onto my cloak until it seemed / as though they were heavy, continuous downpours from a rainstorm.
If a man does not guard his own tongue, / then nothing belonging to him will ever be guarded.
And if you should see me upon Jabir's saddle-rig, / on a narrow ledge while my burial shrouds flap in the wind,
Then how many a distressed warrior have I turned back to rescue, / and how many a captive have I freed from his iron collar, so that he praised me!
And true companions I roused at early dawn, / so that they all arose between dazed and intoxicated.
And a vast, distant wilderness I have cut to its core, / mounted upon a strong, smooth-striding, obedient beast.
And a rain-storm whose colors match the fana plant I descended into, / where every heavy, weeping cloud took its turn.
Upon a steed that offers you its running styles before you even ask, / never stiff nor sluggish, but bursting with energy.
Like a tawny desert gazelle upon whom has swooped / an eagle, plunging down from the crags of Mount Thahlan.
And a barren wasteland like the hollow of a wild ass, a trackless maze, / which I crossed atop a lean-faced, dark-coated, swift stallion.
It deflects the flanks of the mounts with its robust frame, / just as a supple branch sways gently over other branches.
And a swift runner like a mountain torrent, reaching / the enemy's territory with pomp, power, and grand columns.
I drove them onward until their riding beasts grew weary, / and until the noble steeds no longer needed to be led by reins.
And until you see the once-stout, plump bay horse / now abandoned to scavenging vultures and eagles.
الترجمات الإنجليزية مُولّدة بالذكاء الاصطناعي وقد تخطئ English translations are AI-generated and may contain mistakes.