وَزْن Wazn
قَبرَ الغَريب سَقاكَ الرَّائِحُ الغادي
O Tomb of the Stranger, May the Morning and Evening Rains Water Youذكاء اصطناعي AI
افتح في القارئ Open in reader →الخلاصة Summary
هذا النص بالإنجليزية فقط — لا تتوفر لدينا نسخة عربية منه.
Composed during his bitter exile in Aghmat following the collapse of his Andalusian kingdom, Al-Mu'tamid ibn Abbad wrote these verses to serve as a poignant epitaph for himself. Stripped of his crown and imprisoned far from Seville, the fallen sovereign reflects on his lost glory, his former might, and the cruel reversal of fortune that carried him from the pinnacle of power to a desolate grave. The poem stands as one of the most celebrated elegies of al-Andalus, blending the poignant sorrow of a broken king with the enduring dignity of a master poet.
الخلاصة مُولّدة بالذكاء الاصطناعي وقد تخطئ This summary is AI-generated and may contain mistakes.
السياق The story
قال المشاركون إن المعتمد بن عباد كتب هذه القصيدة ليرثي فيها نفسه وحاله بعد ما آلت إليه أحواله في أغمات، وكأن الأبيات كُتبت بالفعل لتكون نقوشاً على قبره.
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
O tomb of the stranger, may the morning and evening rains water you! Truly, you have won the shattered remains of Ibn Abbad.
Through forbearance, through knowledge, through grace when it flowed, through fertility for the drought-stricken, through quenching for the thirsty.
Through the one who thrusts, strikes, and hurls when men fight unto death, turning crimson with the charging, ferocious lion.
Like time in vengeance, like the sea in bounty, like the full moon in darkness, like the chief at the gathering.
Yes, it is the truth; destiny overtook me with it from the heavens, and so it met me at its appointed time.
Before that bier, I never knew that mountains could be carried upon wooden planks.
Enough! So treat gently what you have been entrusted with of nobility; may every lowering, thundering cloud drench you.
Weeping for its brother whose downpour you have hidden beneath the flat stone, with tears that come and go.
Until the tear of the morning mist pours over you in abundance, from the eyes of flowers that are not stingy with their solace.
And may the constant prayers of God never cease to rest upon your buried one, too numerous to count by tally.
الترجمات الإنجليزية مُولّدة بالذكاء الاصطناعي وقد تخطئ English translations are AI-generated and may contain mistakes.