مطل الليل بوعد الفلق

Night delayed its departure with the promise of dawn, while the star complained of a lingering insomnia.

The east wind swept by bearing the musk of the dark, and the meadow drank deeply from the sweet morning dew.

Dawn revealed a blushing cheek, shimmering with sweat from beads of morning moisture.

Night overtook its own stars, causing them to tumble down like falling autumn leaves.

Night poured its flood across them so heavily that the star grew certain it would drown.

The east surged over it, steered by the hull of a vanishing crescent moon acting like a small boat.

That dazzling brilliance swept away the jet-black dark, erasing the shadows with stark whiteness.

By my father! After slumber, a nocturnal phantom traveled by night, visiting a dwelling that had known no steps.

It visited me while night lamented its eastern edge, hunted still by the remnants of twilight.

The east wind drives the tears of the dew across the meadow's eyes, while its blossoms weep with drenched centers.

It moved with a steady grace in a solid posture, swaying softly within a restless sash.

Its face emerged from behind its hair, just as dawn breaks out from the gloom of dusk.

Morning plundered the darkness of its night, touching the cheek with a stroke of sunset.

Its eyes outshone the double edges of a sword, while its cheek was adorned with pure elegance.

It rode a noble-bred mount that kissed the dusty earth without needing to break into a gallop.

Haughty of glance and stirred by pride, it moved forward with the delicate gait of a startled gazelle.

Were it to stretch out among herds of wild antelopes, heart and neck would instantly surrender in fierce rivalry.

Its dark coat parted to reveal a shining blaze on its forehead, banishing the dark with pure white.

Its sides were robed in the garment of night, while its cheek was adorned with the light of dawn.

It lunged forward as though fleeing from a stinging insect, a jinn's touch, or sudden madness.

Capturing the endless expanse through patience, and overtaking the unreachable through sheer gentleness.

Possessing goodwill hidden beneath anger, and profound gravity wrapped inside wild turbulence.

Upon a cheek like a white Indian blade, and an ear resembling a blue-tempered spearhead.

When it pitched its ears to listen, it summoned the shooting stars like eavesdroppers.

They stubbornly resisted like the grain of a lance-shaft that refuses to stay straight unless hammered.

Every time my glances brushed its razor edge, it fluttered like a heart gripped by terror.

Within a dark scabbard shaken by desert winds, leaving no room for a flexible green bough.

It meets you with an eloquent heel, trailing the rapid pace of a razor-sharp blade.

Surpassing the sweeping circle of a flashing glance or the flowing movement of a speaking tongue.

You see it shimmer when shaken, its two sides shifting between solid form and fluid illusion.

A gale whipped across its hollow fuller, and its decorated nodes ran smooth like white water-lilies.

Whenever you addressed it, it deflected away from a surface as smooth and slippery as fine silk.

The interlocked mail bound the strength of its rings together, sealing them in a solemn pact.

Startled in battle by the piercing thrust of lances, the metal rings withdrew, folding tightly into one another.

Whenever hostile gazes swept across it, they captured the very image of eyes reflected within.

The polished back of the blade slipped away from moisture, throwing off water with a hiss of heat.

If it were to strip off its scabbard like a garment, it would radiate heat like a tongue of fire.

Smoky-dark from the smoke of battle, green with water-patterns, and reddened by the stain of blood.

Its surfaces drank so deeply of moisture you would think it had been watered by the rain-clouds of your palms.

O sons of Ma'n, you have ennobled a lineage of trees that without you would never have leafed.

Had Hassan praised your finest poets, his drinking companion would never have wept in distant Jilliq.

Or had the poet al-Tayi drawn near your quarters, he would not have driven the lightning toward the meadow of al-Abraq.

The tribe of Taghlib pitched their tents among you in a sanctuary guarded by those who claim ultimate glory.

The noble offspring you brought forth are pure descendants who have reached the absolute zenith of that race.

Tell anyone who fears a hostile age or complains of the blows of a destructive time:

Turn to the unique majesty of the state, or its honor, or grasp firmly onto its flashing sword.

Your eyes are treated upon visiting them to an orderly poetic system designed for glory.

They innovated so brilliantly in excellence that they placed upon the shoulders of time what it could not bear.