واحرّ قلباه ممّن قلبه شبم

How burning my heart for one whose own is cold, / and for one whose body and state leave me sick with grief.

Why must I conceal a love that has wasted my body, / while multitudes lay claim to love for Sayf al-Dawla?

If we were united by a shared love for his radiant face, / then would that we divided our passion strictly by its measure.

For he was the finest of all God's creation, / and the finest quality within that fineness was his moral character.

To outstrip the enemy you targeted is a true victory, / though it holds concealed sorrow within and manifest blessings without.

Intense terror has stood in your stead, and your sheer dread / has accomplished what mere beasts could never achieve.

You have bound your soul to an unnecessary vow: / that neither earth nor landmark shall ever grant the fallen enemy burial.

Every time you confronted an army and forced it to flee in panic, / your soaring ambitions drove you straight to pursue its vengeance.

Routing them in every battle falls upon you as your duty, / yet no shame attaches to them when they turn and run.

Do you not see a sweet victory, incomparable to any other, / where Indian blades and flowing temple-locks crossed paths?

O fairest of men, except in how you treat me, / with you is my dispute, and you are adversary, prosecutor, and judge alike!

Of what use is the sight of this world's brother to his eye, / if lights and total darkness appear entirely the same to him?

I am the one whose literary art even the blind can perceive, / and whose spoken words brought hearing to the deaf.

I sleep with my eyelids tightly shut against my soaring poetic inspirations, / while all creation stays awake because of them, locked in debate.

Many an ignorant fool was emboldened by my laughter, / until a sharp, discerning hand and mouth put an end to him.

When you see the lion's fangs bared in the open, / do not ever imagine that the beast is smiling at you.

That precious life—my own soul's companion—amidst its owner's trials, / I rescued it upon a noble steed whose very back is a sanctuary.

Its legs in the gallop function as a single foot, its two hands as one, / and its actions instantly fulfill whatever hand and foot desire.

Upon a slender, swift vessel I sailed right between the rising waves, / striking forward while the oceans of death crashed around us.

The steeds, the dark night, and the desert wastes know me well, / as do the battle, the sword-stroke, the parchment, and the pen.

I kept company with wild beasts alone in the empty wilderness, / until even the high hills and rounded dunes looked upon me in wonder.

O you whose separation breaks our hearts, / compared to finding you, everything else in existence is absolute void.

How well disposed we were to receive your generous honors, / had your commands toward us matched our own loyalty.

If what our envious detractors whisper brings you secret joy, / then any wound that pleases you ceases to cause us pain.

Between us, if you would only preserve it, lies a deep mutual recognition, / for among people of intellect, shared covenants are sacred trusts.

How often you hunt for a flaw in me only to find yourselves defeated, / while both God and true nobility despise what you attempt.

How distant are defects and shortcomings from my supreme nobility! / I am the Pleiades, while those two are merely gray hair and decrepit old age.

Would that the rain cloud whose lightning strikes me directly / might divert its gentle downpours away from my rival and toward me.

I see the horizon demanding of me every grueling stage of travel, / a journey far too heavy for the swiftest, trotting pack-camels.

If you leave our close companions behind us to our right, / deep remorse will surely strike those who bade them farewell.

When you depart from a people who possessed the complete power / to prevent your leaving, then know that the true travelers are they.

The worst of all lands is a country devoid of a true friend, / and the worst earning a person can make is that which brings disgrace.

The poorest catch snared by my open palm is a hunting prize / where noble falcons and scavenging kites are treated as equals.

With what tongue can poetry be uttered by a wretched upstart, / approved by you, though belonging to neither Arab nor foreigner?

This is your reprimand, yet it springs entirely from deep affection; / it contains polished pearls, not merely harsh words.