هُمُ سَلَبوني الصَبرَ وَالصَبرُ مِن شاني

They have stripped me of patience, though patience was my very nature, and they have barred my eyelids from the sweetness of sleep.

They broke the sacred oaths of love within my very soul, and my own culpable love did not deter them from shedding my blood.

Though they filled my cups to the brim with the bitter wine of parting, yearning for them has nonetheless become my nightly companion and drinking partner.

And if their departing camel-loads left me behind in the open wilderness, it is enough that my heart strives tirelessly behind their tracks.

Stop the swift riding-camels and ask their campsite which way they traveled—did they set out at night toward al-Jiz' or towards al-Ban?

And did they traverse the mountain slope near al-Liwa in the early morning, across the playground of archers and gazelles there?

And where did they pitch their camp—did they make their mounts kneel on the ridge of Tihamah, or upon the sand dunes of Na'man?

Did souls flow through the riverbed out of sheer longing—souls that rushed eagerly toward the sacred sanctuary ahead of their physical bodies?

And when they drove them onward in the evening, did the camel-driver turn their reins toward the mountain pass of Bawwan?

Did they spend the night at the monastery of Abdun, or did their monks lead them onward by night toward the monastery of Najran?

They journeyed while the darkness of night was like the dye of garments, and their camel-litters curved away bearing varied colors and descriptions.

Their white domes traveled out in the pre-dawn hours, gleaming like stars across the winding paths of sand dunes.

God bless a caravan that treats the earth as a single step, when they urge on their plump, soft-bodied mounts.

Give rest to mounts driven hard by love, moving with the unsteady grace of wine pulsing through the limbs of a drunkard.

Direct them toward the holy valley of the sanctuary, where water flows in abundance and the sa'dan plants grow.

And send a greeting from it to the residents of al-Hijr—a greeting diffusing the fragrant scent of pure mastic and ban trees.

A gust has blown forth from the wormwood of Yathrib, stirring my longing and sorrow alongside the pre-dawn winds.

The East has crushed a pellet of musk into the West with it, and I trailed my garments behind it across the land of Darin.

The gentle morning breeze blowing from the direction of Tayba reminded me of Najd and the sweet scent of its arar plants.

I yearn intensely for those familiar abodes; truly, they are the resting places of my relief, my spirit, and my aromatic repose.

And I yearn along with my desires for that homeland where my blissful intimacy and solace were truly perfected.

I am drawn with deep desire toward the signposts of Mecca whenever lightning flashes from the peaks of Shamam and Thablan.

O dwellers of the sanctuary, time owes me a visit to you; I urge my sluggish resolve forward with longing for you.

When will my sore, weeping eye find healing through a single glance that plunges the pupil of my eye into your divine light?

And who will grant me the nearness of your meeting out of sheer compassion, while time constantly turns its shoulder away from me?

May your campground at al-Khif be watered by a season fed by pouring, torrential tears streaming from my overflowing eyes.

And may it bless the acacia tree along the banks of al-Aqiq, beneath whose shade the shadows of desire and love draw near.

I greet the open quarters lying between Marwa and Safa with the greeting of one whose own longing has kept him alive.

Quarters where the exalted angels recite wondrous verses of revelation, alternating between remembrance and scripture.

And they are the very first earth whose courtyards were met by the early morning rain, when Yemeni rainclouds embroidered the open valley.

A prophetic procession made camp there—a vast, surging sea overflowing hills and lowlands alike.

There the Trustworthy Spirit delivered a message that brought forth glad tidings and inspired noble titles of praise.

There the seal of prophecy was broken by the noblest of all mortals, the pride of Nizar from the lineage of Ma'add ibn Adnan.

Muhammad, the finest of all worlds entirely, and the master of all earthly beings among humans and jinn.

The one whose coming was foretold before his very creation by the esoteric arts of soothsayers and the accounts of monks.

He is the ultimate cause of this cosmos; were it not for him, no sky would have risen nor would overflowing floods have subsided.

Nor would the courtyards of eternal Paradise have been adorned—gardens where dark-eyed houris and youths sing praises.

Nor would the sun of guidance have risen after a darkness whose gloomy shroud was the night of unbelief.

Nor would intercession have surrounded sinners to ward off the brutal guardians of hellfire from them.

He possesses miracles that silenced every denouncer and drew the sharp sword of proof against the doubter.

For him the disc of the full moon split into two halves, and every thirsty soul was quenched by water streaming from his palm.

Idols were granted speech, uttering words by which they dissociated themselves before God from falsehoods and deceit.

He summoned a mute desert tree, and it answered, coming forward while dragging the hems of its blossoms between its branches.

The palaces of Syria glowed with his light, which rose above every horizon, whether distant or near.

He brought joy to the wastelands through his prayer, clothing the face of the dusty earth with the beauty of April.

Verily, the Book of God is his greatest sign; by it the liar was disgraced and the envious detractor was brought to ruin.

His eloquence outstripped every master orator; far is the rhymed prose of Quss and Sahban from matching it.

The Prophet of guidance raised truths like shining stars whose light wiped away the murky shadows of falsehood and slander.

Before his might, the Chosroes of old were humbled—those who had stripped the crowns from the house of Sasan.

With flashing blades, he secured the heritage of the noble kings from the age of the Greeks for the orthodox faith.

He forced Caesar to drink the deadly venom of brown lances, making him gulp down the poison saliva of a viper.

The domains of disbelief and polytheism became barren wastes where only a whispering jinn converses with the echo.

True faith became captivating in its freshness, and the face of guidance shone bright for all who gazed upon it.

O best of all people in lineage and household, and the most generous of all creation, both non-Arab and Arab.

Who can expect rhyming verses to encompass your description, even if they raced to match the encomiums of Hassan?

We have sent these arid hopes directly to you, that they may be watered by a heavy downpour of your boundless favors.

Grant me sanctuary when the Reckoning exposes my crimes and heavy sins tip the scale of my balance downward.

For you are the one whose noble intercession alone opens the doors to pardon and forgiveness.

Upon you be God's peace as long as the eastern wind blows and slender branches sway gently over sand dunes.

And let greetings be carried within the pocket of the southern wind, their passage exhaling the scent of every yearning heart.

Direct them to the two Umars—your two companions—and following them in virtue, your son-in-law Uthman.

And may their sweet fragrance greet Ali, while bestowing an abundance of divine approval upon your two grandsons.

O Messenger of God, I have forged an unwavering resolve toward you; when I set my mind to it, distance and nearness are the same.

I addressed my own heart while it tossed upon the burning coals of longing for you, and it answered my call.

Would that I knew whether I am indeed bridling my fast riding-camels to hasten toward you, or shaking out my travel bags.

And whether I am folding up the earth's skin while traveling toward you atop swift, eager mahari camels across barren flats.

Camels made unsteady by an excess of longing for the sanctuary when the camel-driver chants songs to them.

And will my footprints in those lands and homelands erase the transgressions I have committed?

What could possibly check my reins when I possess a high status in your court that saddles me upon the steed of glory?

Should harshness and misery elude your visitors, then the boundless generosity of your descendant, the victorious Ahmad, is enough for me.

He is my bedrock, whose soles tread upon the stars al-Simakain, and whose reach transcends the seven layered heavens.

The crowned sovereign of the ages; when he unleashes his wrath, he plunges flashing swords right into the knots of enemy crowns.

His dignity matches that of jungle lions, much like when the Khattian spear quivers above fortress walls.

A roaring lion who, when his terrifying roar visits the lands, shrinks the local lions of the thicket into insignificance.

And when his armies unleash the dust-cloud of war, the thunder of blazing fires rumbles within its heavy masses.

They pour down thunderbolts upon the enemy's land, unleashing a destructive sea of collapse and violent tremors.

Battalions that, if they charged over Mount Radwa, its solid rock would be fractured by swift steeds racing with eagles.

Countless as the gravel, consisting of every brilliant, marked chieftain and every valiant warrior thrusting with Redan spears.

When the dark night of war blinds them to the necks of the enemy, gleaming Khurasani spearheads guide them straight to enemy jugulars.

They are the ones who made the enemy swallow the bitter tastes of doom, and dragged the face of the foe through the dusty earth.

They flung open the regions of the earth until they forced even the monarchs of the Sudan to pay heavy tribute.

The leader of humanity whose lineage traces back to Ali, and to a family that ruled mankind through Zayd.

They are the props of the Yemen and the pillars of sovereignty, possessing high ambitions that have pitched camp above the planet Saturn.

They are the Alids whose faces shine like full moons when the stars of troubled times grow pitch black.

They are the masters of a house whose roof God raised upon the peak of supreme height with unshakeable pillars.

Within them the Wise Quran was revealed, and its verses explicitly declare their supreme virtue in the Criterion.

They are the branches of the Chosen One's cousin and vicegerent—thus you have two glorious bonds of kinship and nearness.

A flourishing meadow of glory whose grass is kept perpetually lush by the flowing waters of the prophetic message.

Through their supreme, unblemished glory, the ancient tribes of Ma'add are exalted above all Arabs, both Adad and Qahtan.

They are my ultimate pride if I ever boast before humanity, and my house rivals the loyalty shown by Salman.

When panegyrists divide up the spoils of glorious praise, my share through al-Mansur clearly outweighs them all.

An imam upon whose forehead time wears a distinguishing mark, and from whose majesty two crowns rest upon the parting of kingship's hair.

He soared above the heights of the stars with an ambition that circles higher than twin eagles in the heavens.

He raised a caliphate in the horizon of high nobility, draped in a sash and twin necklaces of his own supreme glory.

When he leans back in state upon royal thrones, wearing the haughty majesty of a sultan over regal pride,

You behold the wisdom of Luqman as he speaks, and witness the justice of Chosroes seated within his royal hall.

When the spirit of pure praise stirs him, his fingertips pour forth favors like the flooding waters of rushing channels.

O observer of Islam, behold the lightning flash of hope and make haste toward a lush, thriving garden atop the peaks of glory.

God has decreed in your supreme nobility that you shall rule the world and conquer it from Souss to the Sudan.

And that you shall fold the earth beneath your unchallenged sway, stretching from the land of the Sudan all the way to Baghdad.

You shall fill it with a justice whose banners flutter over the two holy sanctuaries and atop the fortress of Ghumdan.

How often the land of Iraq has been congratulated for your nobility, and glad tidings rushed to the farthest edges of Oman.

Had your flashing swords approached the eastern lands, the crowns of Chosroes and the Khagan would have been yours by conquest.

Had your era redistributed the ranks of kings, the sons of Marwan would have become mere dependents living upon your exalted grace.

Even the Abbasid al-Saffah would have willingly followed you, leading the people of Khurasan behind your black banner.

Glory is nothing other than what you have raised to the stars using the pillars of long brown lances and murran wood.

These virginal, freshly-polished rhymes are ones I have unveiled, admired by the houris in the house of Paradise.

They have come to you, O Commander of the Faithful, as though they were vials of musk or fragrant forest thickets.

They are too magnificently beautiful to be called mere replicas of scattered pearls or heavy gold necklaces.

May you ever remain the protector of the world's frontiers, guarding the faith with the sovereign dominion of Solomon.

And may you forever be bolstered by mighty victory, while kings are led before you dressed in the humble garb of servants.