خف القطين فراحوا منك أو بكروا

The camp grew light and they departed at dawn or early morn, driven by a destiny whose turns brought sudden shifts.

I feel as one who drank upon the day they fled, on aged wine from Homs or Qennasrin sealed deep away.

Brought forth from jars of pitch, brimful and dark of hue, with crumbling river mud still clinging to the spout.

A potent brew whose fever struck his vital core, leaving his heart burdened with a lingering hangover.

Such is my state, or like a lovesick wretch whose limbs are deranged, or whose heart the piercing talons struck.

Longing for them and aching as I trail my gaze behind, while clusters of their folk still linger near the twin stars.

They urged their mounts away, showing us their retreating shoulders, while inside the curtained litters murmur lovely forms.

They flash like lightning at the folk until they drive them mad, though when put to the test their judgment proves unsound.

God damn the intimacy of vain beauties when they realize you belong among those whom grand old age has touched.

They turned away when an archer bent my bowstring tight, and snow-white hair replaced the deep black of my locks.

They heed no caller pleading for a needful thing, nor do they hold any desire for a man marked by grey hair.

They headed east as the autumn star dried up the wooden stems, and scorching winds parched the green plants out of season.

My eye is captive to a flood of flowing tears, grieving a separation that brings harm to those who hoped to meet.

Moving in a tight, cord-like formation as they retreat, followed by watchful eyes between al-Shaqiq and Ayn al-Miqsam.

Until they descended from the valley in its wrath, reaching a land settled by the clans of Shayban or Ghubar.

Until they skirted al-Qasim and came into view, or murmured among themselves that here runs the deep trench.

They settled at eventide while we turned our swift riding-camels aside, just as a needy traveler finds his journey timed.

Toward a man whose spontaneous gifts never leave us bare; God granted him victory, so let that triumph be blessed.

The diver into deep perils, whose fortune is ever blessed—God's caliph, through whom prayers for rain are answered.

Anxiety stirs him alongside his innermost counsel, driven by sound judgment, a brave heart, and watchful caution.

The one who steers the collective affair with a steady hand, so no deception can trick him after firm resolves.

Not even the Euphrates when its swollen tributaries rage across both banks, carrying desert brush in its midstream,

Whipped by summer winds and churning over the river's breast with scattered pools of water,

Rushing forward from the Byzantine mountains, half-hidden by steep and curving mountain ridges,

Could ever surpass him in generosity when you ask, or match his commanding presence when you face him in public view.

Your backbiters and their petty plots pursued you relentlessly, until they fed the flesh of their victims to secret malice.

Whoever hides his sincere counsel from us while holding worldly goods belonging to another,

Let him be a ransom for the Commander of the Faithful when a grim, fierce day bares its canine teeth.

He presses his chest forward like a crouching lion preparing for a slaughter where victims are destined to be culled.

Leading a force of two hundred thousand to a position the likes of which neither jinn nor mortal ever saw.

Storming the bridges, constructing and destroying them, while fluttering banners and battle smoke rise overhead.

Until a fierce battle overtakes them at al-Taff, and at al-Thawiyya where not a single bowstring needed to be plucked.

Making the misguidance of nations plain for all to see, and straightening the neck of the arrogant rebel.

The one who single-handedly shoulders the crushing burdens of Iraq, having left a legacy of bounty and savings among them.

Sprung from a noble trunk of Quraysh that others cling to, whose highest branch the forest trees can never match.

They scale the heights yet dwell at the very root of nobility—masters of high status and champions of pride.

Packed tight upon the truth, despising obscenity, proud-nosed, and standing firm when hateful calamity strikes.

And when dark, lowering shadows envelop the horizon, they always find a clear exit and a secure refuge.

God bestowed upon them a fortune through which they conquer, for every other fortune is small and ultimately despised.

They did not grow insolent while serving as its masters, whereas any other folk would have turned arrogant.

Fierce in hostility until full submission is wrung from their foes, yet the most level-headed of men when they attain power.

Their enemies cannot endure war against them, nor does any sign of cowardice ever show in their lineage.

They are the ones who race the winds when food is scarce for suppliants or when supplies run dry.

O Banu Umayya, your blessings cover us completely; they are absolute, leaving no room for bitterness or obligation.

O Banu Umayya, I have fought fiercely on your behalf against the sons of a folk who both betrayed and aided.

I struck the sons of al-Najjar dumb on your behalf, as the nobility of Ma'ad well knows, for they had ranted long enough.

Until they submitted against their bitter reluctance, for words accomplish what sharp blades cannot pierce.

O Banu Umayya, I offer you sincere counsel: do not let a deceitful scoundrel like Zufar spend the night among you.

Treat him as an enemy, for both his public face and hidden character reek of villainy.

Deep-seated malice, no matter how old, is like a skin mange that lies dormant for a time before breaking out.

Commander of the Faithful, you were granted victory through us when the news reached you in the plains of Ghouta.

They brought you the head of Ibn al-Hubab, bearing the clear mark of a sword across its nose.

His ears are deafened to all sounds, and he will never speak again unless a stone itself finds a voice.

His rotting carcass now lies beside the garbage dumps, with boulders and stones piled high above his head.

He calls upon the cowardly remnants of Ghassan who witnessed the rout, asking how the boisterous young troops treated you.

And al-Harith ibn Abi Awf, whom they tossed about until vultures and predatory beasts tore him to pieces.

And Qays Aylan, who came dancing back to swear public allegiance after their apostasy.

May God grant no guidance to Qays in their straying, and no comfort to the Banu Dhakwan when they stumbled.

They wailed from the war when its teeth bit into their shoulders, for Qays Aylan are naturally prone to panic.

They once maintained some dignity until Satan's traps caught hold of them and they flew into a rage.

They were driven onto a stubborn, hard-backed she-camel—a barren beast without a scrap of soft wool or hair.

The foolish leaders of Sulaym kept up their reckless course until both arriving and departing travelers were bewildered.

As they stood staring while harvesting their bitter colocynth, we pointed toward the desert whirlwinds and bade them a permanent farewell.

They rushed back to their two volcanic homelands to inhabit them, just as cattle gallop back to their home pastures.

Sinjar was left completely empty of them, followed by the Khabur basin and the surrounding river settlements.

They have as much relation to the tribe of Farras as the moon has to the guiding stars of the Little Bear.

Nor do they touch the Dhabab when their eyes turn green with fear, nor Usayya, save that they share common flesh.

Not a single rider from their ranks ever set out to catch us without falling behind, completely out of breath.

The Banu Kilab suffered one of those dreaded disasters that are feared and awaited.

A massive, unhealable rift has opened between us, leaving no room for blood ties or diplomatic excuses.

As for Kulayb ibn Yarbu, they have no access to noble deeds—neither coming to the water nor leaving it.

Left behind while the rest of mankind settles affairs, groping blindly in absolute ignorance.

Slapped around the bottoms of the watering troughs, bearing the indelible stamp of the Darimi clan.

Wretched are the sober among them, and wretched is their drinking party when sweet wine and intoxicants flow.

A tribe that has plumbed the depths of every immorality and every shameful disgrace for which Mudar is cursed.

Riding gaunt camels at a rapid trot all the way to Najran, or spreading their base gossip as far as Hajar.

They consume vile provisions all by themselves and beg behind people's backs for the latest news.

Recall the wretched clan of Ghudana, deformed and stunted, surrounded by squalid animal pens.

They ooze moisture when heated inside their tunics, and bristle up aggressively whenever rain dampens them.

What account do the Ghudana hold? They are merely sheep-herders who wait until leftovers are discarded.

They attach themselves to Yarbu, but their contribution when tribes pool their resources is negligible and despised.

Their beards are yellowed by fireplace smoke when winter aid is withheld and cold-fingered milkers shut their barns.

Then they return to filthy, stained rags, never bathing even when they scratch their scabbed skin in the hollows.

Glory has sworn a solemn oath never to ally with them, unless hair manages to grow across the inside of a human palm.