أبَيْنَ ضُلوعي جَمْرةٌ تتوقَّدُ

A burning ember glows between my ribs—is it for what has passed, or a grief that renews itself?

O my two companions, after youth there is no greater calamity for which the fountains of tears are pooled and prepared.

Do not blame me if tears flow for its loss, for a whole ocean of tears is too meager to appease it.

And do not wonder at a stoic man weeping, for even solid rock can split open to reveal a spring of water.

A young man's youth is his armor and his solace; how and by what means can he find fortitude after it is gone?

The loss of youth is death tasted in its pure bitterness, while ordinary death makes the taste of death vanish.

My youth has been plundered, returning after its initial departure—and calamities are ever starting anew and returning.

I have been robbed of the dark hair of my temples, having previously lost their praised whiteness when I was a beardless boy.

And in place of that whiteness and its beauty, I have been given a shameful whiteness that is forever being blackened.

How vast is the difference between the two types of white: one admirable and elegant, the other hateful to the eye and wretched.

It laughs mockingly amidst the branches of my head and beard—and the ugliest pair of laughers are gray hair and toothlessness.

I used to be a cure that cleared grit from people's eyes, but now my gray hair causes their eyes to smart and water.

These are the long, beautiful eyes whose glances you used to complain of striking your heart when your head was still black with hair.

Why then do you grieve when you see them now, having made someone else their chosen target?

You complain when their arrows miss their mark, yet you grieve and choke with sorrow when they turn away from you.

Thus, those arrows leave everyone they strike—and everyone they are turned away from—fatally wounded.

When they turn away from us, we feel the sting of their avoidance; it hits the heart like a direct strike, indeed even more painfully.

They turn aside from us at times, as if the one steering them away were actually aiming straight at us.

It is grief enough that youth is rushed and its nights are short, while gray hair is made eternal.

When old age settles in, it races alongside a man's life until the grave finally embraces both him and his gray hair.

I see that Time makes its night and day run with justice, for neither the one nor the other lasts forever.

Yet it treated the night of youth unjustly, oppressing it with the endless, inexhaustible day of gray hair.

Some groups tried to console you for the night of youth, saying: 'The day of gray hair is more guiding and wise.'

Indeed, a man's daytime may better guide his efforts, but the shadow of the night is always moister and cooler.

O days of my play, will your bygone times return, and is there any poet to sing of a youth lost yesterday?

I say—while my skull has turned white, my stature bent like a bow, and my flanks grown flabby—

And weariness has crept into my bones, training me to walk without a staff, whether I stagger slowly or halt.

May my eyesight be blessed! Distant figures appear right beside me as matching pairs even when they stand alone.

Men still find pleasure in my talk, but Sulayma, Rayya, and Mahdad turn away from my conversation.

The admiring wonder of lovely women has turned into astonishment; now they merely gaze critically and draw back.

Because of the vicissitudes that the world announces, an infant weeps the very hour it is born.

For what it weeps over from this world is far more spacious and bountiful than the womb it previously occupied.

When it beholds the world, it bursts into tears as though threatened by the hardships it will soon encounter.

The human soul possesses states where it seems to witness every unseen future event before it happens.

I have grown weary under the passage of the nights and their recurrence; is there any mighty escape from annihilation?

A man's ultimate harbor is either senility or death, and the final trace of a blazing lamp is only gray ash.

I set out early for game while the wild beasts are still slumbering, though had they sensed me, they would not have slept in peace.

Bringing misery to the wild bull in his remote haunt, right where the fierce, stealthy viper watches over him.

You see every prostrate plant in every pasture falling down in submission to my spear, or rather, forced to bow.

When his doe-antelopes flirt with him in the wilderness, much as delicate, elegant maidens flirt with a companion.

I ordered a jealous spear against him, and it plunged through him swiftly, like a cobbler's awl piercing through leather.

He crashed down upon his horns, felled so violently you would think he was being dyed with his own heart's blood or bled dry.

When my spearhead met him, it looked like a shooting star striking a dark, ashen piece of raincloud.

And I have been given cups of fresh wine mixed just as Al-Gharid and Ma'bad used to sing of.

Circulating the wine among the drinkers is a pale, slender youth, served by a dark, hearty cupbearer.

Pouring from a green earthen vessel amid murmuring, cooing, and soothing background sounds.

When I wish, lovely peers delight my eyes at my morning drinking session while gazelle-like companions roam around me.

A handsome page, flowing wine, and a dashing companion upon an elevated terrace—all three elegant and tall.

And the most fertile source of joy is when the creative thoughts of the heart begin to be born.

Fresh literary fruit whose mother is the rain-cloud, aged and preserved in the old cellars of Sarkhad.

A pale wine whose pearl-like froth dims, while its ruby and peridot depths glow intensely.

It possesses a sun-like brilliance that shines at times, only to be veiled occasionally by layered banks of cloud.

When the intoxication of youth meets the intoxication of its wine-cups, the mixture almost congeals from sheer smoothness.

I dallied with it through a short night that felt long, and why shouldn't I when a delicate hand served as my pillow?

How many a gazelle-like beauty has sought the shade of my presence while the branches of youth were still swaying!

I played with the beginning of Time, so it seized my fiery spirit with a vindictive latter half that never forgets a grudge.

Therefore, I show patience against its severe blows, for only those who are strong can stand up to hardship.

Time is relentless, bringing alternating mornings and scorching midday heats charged with venomous desert winds.

Its accidents make a young man taste alternating spells of ease and hardship as year chases year.

People find comfort in the thought that every garden, no matter how lush its branches, must eventually be pruned and broken.

And the only true consolation I know for the loss of my youth is the simple fact that I will not live forever after it.

And that my gray hair promises my eventual demise, even if some people claim it is merely issuing a threat.

Yet in the hope placed in Ṣāʿid's boundless grace lies a beautiful consolation and a renewed youth.

His favors will soon shine upon me, so that I shall walk about with the supple, graceful torso of a young man.

His generous rewards will capture for me far more than I ever hunted in my fresh, tender youth—indeed, they are far more skilled hunters.

And the finest prizes captured by such means are doll-like beauties whose dowries and prices are paid in gleaming coin.

Can an archer whose targets are hit by mere glances ever equal an archer whose targets are hit by silver and gold?

My hope in the descendant of Madhij has no end; it is as inexhaustible as water soaked into a hand.

Where could anyone lead me away from Ṣāʿid and seeking his bounty, when travelers before me have sought him and praised the result?

Through Abu Isa I possess a secure connection by which the chains of the captive are unlocked and fastened.

Why should I not set out early when these two are my main reliance, and why shouldn't bestowing generosity be their sole purpose?

By my life, if Ṣāʿid's ministerial office is ever shared, he nonetheless stands alone as a uniquely noble individual.

His exercise of power is fittingly dual, yet when true leadership is counted, he stands entirely alone.

He is the man who shares the bulk of his wealth with others, yet stands completely alone in receiving goodness and praise.

He is praised, not because words fall short of his reality, and described, not because he can be strictly limited.

Softer in temperament than the water upon his sword blade, yet sharper and more valorous than its cutting edge.

More bountiful and moisture-laden in the palm of his hand than spring rain, yet harder and more solid than a smooth rock.

More dazzlingly bright to the eyes than the celestial body that rivals him in high nobility when it reaches its zenith.

More weighty than Mount Radwa, and if he wished to demolish it, no resting place would hold it for the blink of an eye.

Patient and deliberate, neither hasty nor paralyzed with confusion when a crisis strikes him.

He harbors a contained, fierce intensity beneath absolute calm, exactly like an Indian blade hidden safely in its scabbard.

When it is glimpsed, hearts find peace in its presence, but when it is drawn from its sheath, collarbones tremble with fear.

The son of Makhlad meets both enemies and friends with the devotion of a man who fears and worships God.

Displaying a fierce ignorance like that of a drawn sword, and a profound forbearance like that of a sheathed one.

This is not the blind, ignorant fury of fools, but a sacred severity through which God is worshipped.

A formidable presence that guarantees either guidance or destruction whenever a people stray stubbornly from the straight path.

Offering hospitality from one well-versed in giving when sought; both of his gifts—whether sweet or stern—are praised.

Both good and evil are ready in his hands for anyone who transgresses or seeks virtue, though goodness is far more prepared.

Silent without speechlessness, his past trials speak eloquently to summon hope and amplify it.

He surpasses all promises and threats through his actual deeds, for action is the most convincing witness to action.

When his vengeance is provoked, both his enemy and his loyal friend find themselves facing a certain reckoning.

His majesty is so sublime it rises above mere flattery, yet those who seek his shelter bask safely in affectionate warmth.

He averts his gaze from those asking for help so that he may not witness free men being forced into submission.

He lowers his head with the meekness of a humbled man, even though he towers above as a proud and lofty noble.

When he bestows a favor, he never mentions it as a burden, saying instead to himself: 'O my soul, be gentle with people.'

Any act of grace that goes unmentioned sits lightest upon the shoulders and binds the neck most securely.

He transcends the need to renew his glory through gifts, for in every request you bring him, he is supremely generous.

Whoever does not increase his glory through spending wealth, yet still bestows it generously, is the truly peerless patron.

You trace every act of generosity back step by step until it rests upon Ṣāʿid as its ultimate pillar.

As if his father, the day he named him Ṣāʿid, foresaw how he would climb the heights of nobility and ascend.

He ran the race alongside his peers, and whoever dared contest his supremacy was constantly crushed and subdued.

When every rival who could match him in nobility was left behind, he continued racing yesterday against today and tomorrow.

A generous champion who blunts the sharpness of other thoroughbreds with his own edge, running against his own shadow as a solitary victor.

No praise of him by panegyrists, no matter how exaggerated, can ever outrun the reality of his enduring glory.

He comes from a true lineage of noble, high-nosed chieftains of Madhij, men of vast achievements with no ignoble taint.

They built their glory upon a Madhiji mountain peak whose very summit mingles with the northern stars.

They are the mountain ibexes of nobility; for them, even the most rugged, difficult ascents are made easy.

Have you not witnessed Ṣāʿid's close favor with his Lord? Indeed, both the heedless observer and the watchful scholar have seen it.

The true qiblah of the world appeared, while over wickedness hung dark shadows and the fountains of virtue were renewed.

When he took charge of affairs, abominations were denounced, the recognized good was restored, and all corruption was repaired.

The scattered unity of the people was brought back together, whereas I remember when it was utterly fractured.

He protected them and spread kindness widely among them, so that every last one of them was barred from evil and praised for good.

When they did good, they were rewarded manifold, and whatever sins they committed were covered over with forgiveness.

When the fertility of life and its security met, the lethargic were shaken awake and the sleepless finally slept.

No pasture was closed to anyone trying to make a living, no watering hole was cut off, and no resting place was rejected.

They woke to a life where death held no sweet release for the living, nor did living hold any reason for scorn.

Let every bewildered wanderer seek shelter in his courtyards, for no one who seeks his sanctuary remains lost.

A tyrant whose immense threat we once witnessed as a terrifying reality has now faded into a mere memory.

His transgression led him on blindly, unaware that he was being fattened up only to have his throat slit.

He ran right into the ambush of the slayer of tyrants—and where can any ambush hide from God?

There was let loose against him Ṣāʿid, master of both wealth and skill, combining martial fury with foreign-forged cunning.

His foreign cunning was his absolute silence regarding his plans, and his tactical innovation was knowing precisely where to strike.

He struck him with unbearable power and strength, a loyal champion supported by both forms of weaponry.

He recognized his quarry as the finest of all game to hunt, even if it was the most wretched creature to be stalked.

A resolute, cunning strategist among the people laid those traps for him—one who had long been skilled in binding foes.

A successful vizier aiding a successful sovereign, reinforcing one another exactly as pillar supports pillar.

Whenever he substituted for the ruler in affairs, you would find that neither of their public appearances could be matched.

He acts as Mercury whenever the fires of war are banked, and as Mars for as long as those fires burn bright.

He charges against his enemies with such devastating assaults that their stations and seats shrink in panic.

At times baring pens stripped for statecraft, at times baring sharp swords stripped for battle.

Whenever he acquires wealth, he immediately converts it into combat and an earthquake for anyone who rebels.

Despite my enemies and in the teeth of their threats, even when they flash lightning and rumble with warnings, I declare:

Let the Banu Salam—nay, let all mankind together—give thanks to Ṣāʿid in words that cannot be refuted.

And if you are ungrateful, God and the Prophet Muhammad will bear witness to and reward his efforts against those who deny him.

He quenched a fire whose flames had soared too high, and he kindled a light that was nearly extinguished.

And the Madhij tribe was never isolated from this praise, unless the deniers choose to reject plain truth.

O Madhij, you fought an exemplary battle, so rejoice in your reward and thanks before God, for righteous deeds are always acknowledged.

If the Ansar of old rushed to help their Prophet, you too have returned with victory—and a returning cycle is all the more praised.

You and they are two branches from the same tree, twin lineages whose noble origins meet in an undeniable station.

You are Yemenis of blessed impulses, offering pure, unalloyed loyalty to whoever embraces the heritage of Ma'add.

We are governed among you by brilliant, shining stars whose administrative acumen glows and radiates.

Protectors and scribes whose hands manage both the spears and the pens upon which the kingdom rests.

Your pens are eloquent and refined, springing from a literary soil where the acacia, the dhal, and the boxthorn meet.

That is why spears have touched them, so that they now straighten and bend just like the shafts in your hands.

When you drive their points straight into the chests of matters, they strike home cleanly amidst flowing streams of blood.

How light should wounds and bloodshed seem to you when striving for nobility and attaining it!

You did not wander down any misguided path in what you achieved; rather, a well-paved highway was laid out for you.

And what you attained was not won by inventing a new path, but by reviving what the neglectful had abandoned.

I see anyone who tries to reach the noble heights you achieved as a blind, paralyzed man grasping for the Pleiades.

While any opponent of yours sees his fortune continually sink, his breath heaving upward in eternal sighs.

He watches the glittering adornments of the world shed upon you, yet turns a blind eye to your true merit out of pure heartache.

If he measured the gifts you received against your actual worth, it would extinguish the burning fire inside his chest.

Instead, he gazes enviously at what you wear outwardly, unaware that what lies beneath is far more sublime, elevated, and glorious.

More radiant than the necklace upon the neck of a bride, and finer even than the garment she strips off.

I have thanked you with the gratitude of a man whose nearly extinguished life was brought back to flutter faintly in his body.

The lethal shadows of death hung over the people of his land, but you swept away those stagnant clouds.

And though your benevolence embraced everyone generally, a specific share of it came to me which I can never deny.

I was a man who fulfilled his debt of gratitude to the utmost, even if others were the primary objects of your beneficence.

Whenever I won a share of your bounty, I felt as though it were singled out and dedicated exclusively to me.

Whoever thanks a blessing generally finds his gratitude far richer and more abundant when that blessing singles him out.

And the most deserving man to be embraced by your favor is your critic when death is dark and ash-colored.

Whomever you rescue, you guarantee his survival; and whatever you plant is never left untended.

And I am one who dedicates to Al-Muwaffaq his gratitude, and your gratitude on behalf of every person who bears witness.

Who will carry my message to the Prince through whom the foundations were anchored and the lofty building erected?

He bared wrathful, razor-sharp blades purely to win God's approval, leaving no room for a second stroke.

O Abu Ahmad, you have tested the community of Muhammad with a trial that your cousin Ahmad will surely approve of.

You stanched the unlawful bloodshed after it had been spilled unrighteously while the carefree slumbered.

You made safe the nights of the fearful, so that one man sleeps soundly while another rises to give thanks in late-night prayer.

Through you Islam was reclaimed after its departure, and the beacon of religion returned firmly constructed.

You killed the monster who made women despair, and whose buried infant daughters were dug up across land and sea.

He ruthlessly slaughtered the pillars of devotion while they knelt and prostrated between the mosque pillars.

Wicked Jews received his protection, while a people devoted to God suffered miserably under him.

You besieged the Zanj leader until his forces crumbled and his provisions ran completely out.

He was left gasping his last breath without you having to strike him down, and he was brought low without you needing to take him prisoner.

His surrounding regions were dense with power, yet you shaved them away unlawfully as if you were an iron file.

You used trickery to strip his army away from him while continually adding fresh troops to your own unbreakable ranks.

Even if you had simply killed them without adding to your forces, that slaughter would have brought sufficient relief.

Instead, he persisted in rebellion until you were granted victory, never diminishing him except that you grew all the greater.

Stripping the warrior of his sword is far more damaging and cunning than merely breaking him.

You descended upon him demanding nothing less than his life as your guest-gift, a rightful offering ready for such a man.

With a massive army that, if hurled against the flanks of Mount Dhabul, would leave its rocky anchorages ground down to flat earth.

When it crosses a sea, its waters nearly run dry, and when it visits the mainland, the earth is left stripped bare.

You did not leave him until he was separated from his head, replaced upon his shoulders by a bare, dark brown pike.

His unkempt beard fluttered above it like a battle banner used by the pursuing army to find its way.

The eyes of onlookers beheld him while between them and him stood a barrier like a bolted door of hell.

His oil-soaked head marched among the dense columns of troops, while his mutilated torso lay abandoned on the plain.

His downfall carried the full measure of punishment, as though Mount Thahlan and a massive boulder had collapsed upon him.

You spared no effort in warning him, but he foolishly imagined the surface of the sea was a paved marble palace.

You drove him toward salvation as if his clear highway were a smooth, stretched strip of linen.

When he refused anything but destruction, you whipped him onward toward the Fire—what a wretched destination to be driven to!

You maintained a silence that promised a fierce leap through perilous darkness, exactly like a lion crouching before it springs.

Abu al-Abbas fought on every front to defend a day draped in a garment of tangible evil.

Fighting with the valor of a hero who turns away from base whims, yet swerves fiercely to ward off any stain of shame.

The lion's cub matches his sire; it is no wonder at all when you see the lion's whelp acting like a lion.

Ibn Makhlad proved to be a fine helper and loyal counselor while enemies massed directly against you.

He pressed forward on your behalf even when the edges of the iron blades grew dull from striking—