الحمد لله الذي بحمده

Praise be to God, through whose praise endures what He has bestowed upon us from His presence.

Then may my prayers, every day and tomorrow, be upon the radiant lamp, Ahmad.

We are a caravan of men from the East, noble in soul and sharp in speech.

The days have driven us toward the Maghrib; wherever a star rises, we travel westward.

A man may be driven from his homeland by a love for loftiness or the cold rejection of time.

O Lord, what a noble, free-spirited traveler who wandered far, traveling east and west in search of high renown.

How many a prophet-like exile, after leaving his homelands, God has firmly established in power.

So question us one by one, that you may know our lineages and our glorious deeds.

For each of us is a noble father and maternal uncle, possessed of high standing, abundant virtue, and towering pride.

Raised in the heartlands of great cities, amidst blue waters and flowing rivers.

Every one of us is a skilled archer and horseman, before whose fierce assaults rival cavalry are struck dumb.

Every one of us scatters wealth through constant giving, enduringly generous and bountiful.

And every scripted entry in the lexicon is encompassed by the names we bear.

Likewise the name of the father, the maternal uncle, and whatever town or region we hail from.

Our mounts, our hunted game, and the wood of our arrows and bows.

So too what we offer as spoils of the hunt, and what remains purely for the soul's sustenance.

What we dispatch to our beloved ones, our female companions from the days of youth.

And the distinctive names or kunyas by which we call upon them.

And all the songs we gift to them, or the poetry they chant in return.

In all of that, drawn from the letters of the alphabet, there is nothing else that crosses my tongue.

If you ask by my name, I am Ahmad, praised in every hardship of time.

And my father is Arabad the valiant, peerless in all manner of lofty honor.

My lineage traces back to the Banu Ayd, people of piety, martial might, and generous hands.

My homeland is among the loftiest lands: the expanse of my abode and the villages of Aswan.

As for what I ride, it is either the she-camel or docile she-asses before which paths yield.

Indeed, the she-ass rivals the young camel, especially when it hails from the south.

The clever parrot has made excellence clear; it was a learned scholar, finding whatever it sought.

My bows are fashioned from the arak tree, and sometimes I carve them from the 'a tree.

My arrows are cut from the grove of the tooth-brush tree, leaving any target utterly paralyzed.

Sometimes I fashion them fresh from the sycamore, hastening my quarry before it can even yawn.

And occasionally they are hewn from desert shrubs rooted in firm, compact soil.

The game I hunt is the bustard, or the magnificent raptor—truly the finest prey.

I pass over the sheep and cattle, making my daily nourishment from wild ducks.

Then after that, I present game-birds as a gift to a maiden among the desert-poplar groves.

A coquettish beauty named Umamah, who walks slowly with the grace of a moving cloud.

I serenade her with the finest verse, such as stirs even the ringdoves to song.

Does the dark wing of night not yield to morning? Does its spreading shadow never recede?

At that moment the fair maiden sings poetry to which my ears are deaf to all else.

O family of Uday, resolve to depart; our bodies have bid farewell to our souls.

If you ask by my name, it is praised; and my father is Ya'sur, king of kings.

My lineage rests within the house of the Yahamid, people of generosity, martial force, and noble deeds.

I have a maternal uncle among the Banu Yarbu', settled in Fadak and Yanbu'.

As for what I ride, it is worked relentlessly across the barren wilderness.

My bows are fashioned from the carob tree, providing my livelihood and bringing in my daily bread.

My arrows are made of the ya'dhid plant, carved from a smooth, slender bough.

And sometimes they are from the yinton wood, possessing an inner strength harder than olive.

The prey I hunt is the partridge, its breast pierced cleanly through by my named weapons.

I strike them precisely on the crown of the head, without ever needing to set traps.

I take its right side for myself whenever I find its meat plump and fat.

Then I gift away its left side, counting the loss of it as no loss at all.

To a maiden named Yamamah, who has made her home in the gardens of Yamamah.

She is nourished on purslane and tall palms cultivated by the sons of Safuq.

Brought to her are fallen ripe dates and choice harvested fruit.

Water flows between her hands from every sweet, slender irrigation run.

In the garden's playground, she is imagined as a dark-eyed celestial maiden of paradise.

I said to her while my tears flowed as blood on the day of parting and my ribs burned like embers:

An ocean of your love is where I drowned the moment the reality of your estrangement unveiled its face.

She spoke, having listened closely to my words after she had offered her greetings.

The day of parting is the battlefield of lovers, built by the hands of farewell and separation.

My homeland is Yathrib, the finest abode, the sanctuary of the Muhajirin and the Ansar.

Where rests the tomb of the Prophet Ahmad—how blessed is the soil of his earth, and how praised.

The scent of purest musk and diffusing ambergris lingers between his grave and his pulpit.

May our Lord bless him and grant him peace, guarding him in His throne with utmost honor.

And upon him and his noble companions—and praise be to God for the completion.

If you ask by my name, it is Na'man, and my birthplace and upbringing are in Na'man.

By that I mean Wadi al-Arak, for names often encompass multiple places through shared terms.

And my father is Nusayb ibn Nail, cheerful of countenance and gentle-fingered.

His courtyard has never grown barren of leadership since the day extinction was banished.

I weep for him with unceasing tears; would that time had caused me to die before him.

And may God's curse be upon people who conceal something other than what they show to the world.

I have offered counsel, so accept the warnings if you find within yourself an inner monitor.

If you ask by my name, I am Nasir, and my father is Tamar, companion to high glory.

My honor and lineage reside within Najiya, a tribe delivered from every evil.

I have a maternal uncle among the Banu al-Najjar, whose home is impregnable and whose guest is protected.

I have prolonged my speech, yet sincere advice benefits; successful is the one who heeds honest counsel.

Praise be to God of exalted station; lover and detractor are both alike to me.

And may God's curse be upon corrupt rulers who brand every pure, learned scholar as a heretic.

Men whose bellies are bursting with greed, possessing no aptitude for anything save oppression.

Loose-belted and utterly useless, incapable even of appreciating wine or song.

Jackals by night and rotting corpses by day, their innards trembling with cowardly fear.

When one of them sees a cloud of dust rising, his heart comes close to leaping out of his chest.

Yet if he sees bread-crumbs soaked in broth, he turns into a lion whose right hand pours down bounty.

He gorges himself across seven folds of the stomach, stuffing food like garments packed into a chest.

Thus his portion from God is distant, burdened with perpetual curses and divine wrath.

Instead, our ruler is Ali, whose ancestor in every noble lineage is also named Ali.

Destined for justice and sound guidance, he is the youth of sovereignty and steadfastness.

Slender-waisted and high-shouldered, with a radiant brow shining like the stars.

My lineage among mankind is solid flesh: a sky of glory and immense distinction.

I accompanied the finest king as a warrior, striving earnestly in the collection of all sciences.

I remained a constant nocturnal companion in his service, yet I never gained even a date-stone's worth from him.

However, his offspring Abu al-Hasan has provided me with a life of secure and pleasant shelter.

Had fate not appointed an envious rival for me there—for every breast holds someone full of rancor.

The market of understanding would have languished, save for him who surpassed all mortals: the scion of glory, Abu al-Hasan.

Ali, son of the successful king; but for him, the market of literature would have found no buyers.

To his court flock the people of established tradition, brilliant wisdom, and refined intellect.

Bearers of weapons and scholars alike find safety and sanctuary within his shadow.

He waters them with his heavy downpours and gentle mists, casting his protective shade over them forever.

He honors them with balanced, measured generosity, exactly like the practice of his heroic father.

He extends gentle forbearance when they err, and never drives them away if they are slow.

Not with routine, perfunctory gifts, but with the genuine affection of a father treating his sons.

They have no equal after him; all other mortals are mere Amr while they are the letter waw.

If you wish, test the rulers of the earth; you will not find a single angel among them.

None of them is free from playing the tambourine or sitting by the kiln of leisure.

Whenever he sees a trusted singer, he clothes him in silk brocade and fine Persian cloth.

Directing his customary bounty straight to the singer's hand—may his hand never lack its custom.

Yet if he sees a man of literature and jurisprudence, he gifts him only phlegm to spit out.

He hurls accusations of zandaqa against him from afar, though the ruler himself is too dull-witted to grasp the scholar's speech.

The most impudent of men are these degenerate kings who call religious scholars heretics.

And whoever among us plunges deepest into blindness away from guidance, may heaven's curse never miss him.

If you would only stop, O sons of al-Musanna, casting aspersions on me, I would turn my spears away from you.

May your heads never be adorned with scholarly turbans, nor your beards serve as anything better than floor-sweepers.

Nor should you carry books tucked in your sleeves, for that is the absolute opposite of blossoms blooming in their calyxes.

Nor should you wrap yourselves in white cloaks, nor take the lead in public assemblies.

How many a thief is called a judge, while God is deeply displeased with his whispered secrets.

And how many a man you call a jurist is actively avoided by all the chaste women of the neighborhood.

And how many a spineless wretch whom I care not to name—I refuse to engage my intellect in satirizing him.

How then can a truly accomplished scholar be reviled? Have they no shame before Hilal, whose brilliance outshines all?

Let the dogs slink away from Hilal, whose perfected glory never fears any diminution.

Once my heart has found peace in God, I care nothing for the barking of dogs.

How astonishing is an envied moon—is there any hope left for the envious hand to reach it?

He who cannot attain my achievements envies me, while I graze freely and drink deep from the pasture of my honor.

Leave him to whatever choices he makes for himself, and grant me satisfaction with his sister and his bride.

People imagine my habitual state is silence, as if I were terrified of dying.

The moment I let loose my tongue against the base, let the sword sever my very lineage.

Directing my scorn at his bride, his mother, then his sister, and himself—that is the most disgraceful contempt.

Pay no heed to the claims of the philosophers, for they are incapable of unveiling the unseen.

If you wish to study the world, cling strictly to the limits of logic, mathematics, or medicine.

Or other such obscure matters of natural philosophy that brush against the edges of religious law.

If you so willed, O Master of pardon and forgiveness, You could blanket all creation in wrath or in grace.

You have established equity in wealth and in poverty, never punishing the destitute man with the riches of the affluent.

You fashion things endowed with beauty, only to test their limits and bring them to ruin and annihilation.

Had You willed, Your creations would endure forever; yet no one possesses knowledge of the secret save You.

People of ignorance are blessed with wealth, while deserving, envious men are denied.

You clothe fools in silk and brocade, granting them crowns and royal thrones.

While you deprive the noble scholar of his daily bread, abandoning him to ruin and destitution.

And sometimes You bestow upon him helpless offspring, naked, destitute, and starving.

And perhaps he is driven to marry among the basest folk due to the crushing weight of his back and the lack of money.

The impoverished scholar's eyes weep with sorrow, even if his lips manage a smile.

He must bear the gloating malice of relatives—as though he were feeding on the venom of scorpions.

If he were able, he would chew a live viper rather than share a dining table with an ungrateful brother.

This only happens when a man lacks true chivalry, despite coming from an otherwise fine paternal stock.

Be like the wolves: despise your relatives, and make companions of snakes and scorpions instead.

A noble man's worst companion is his closest kin; they are his personal viper and his scorpion.

The worst among them are the paternal uncle, the cousin, the maternal uncle, the aunt, and the brother.

The person who despises you most is your sister's son; so detest him as he actively detests you.

Invoke blessings upon al-Siddiq and al-Faruq, for honoring them is among the most binding of duties.

And do not place Uthman below them, for he is the finest man who lived after them.

Nor should you delay the man of high glory, Ali—the Hashimite, the heroic champion.

Whoever disparages Muawiyah is nothing more than a yapping hound among barking dogs.

Follow the sublime master Malik; if you follow anyone else, that choice is yours.

Like al-Shafi'i and Abu Hanifa; both of them are men of profound piety and scrupulous fear of God.

I read by way of revelation when I was four, and before six my entire mastery was complete.

As soon as I was adorned with the Quran, I began looking into the underlying realities of its exegesis.

I left no scholarly text unpolished by my study, becoming thoroughly expert in every field.

I neglected neither the treatises of Ibn Abbas nor the collected works of Ibn Sallam.

Nor the book of Ibn Hamid, the servant of God; indeed, I stored all of that safely within my memory.

Once I had mastered dialectical theology, I read the books of every successful master.

The books of Abu Ishaq laden with deep meanings, clarifying every complex textual problem.

And all the chains of transmission I carry come from the jurist Ahmad al-Talamanki.

Then I read the books of the Muwatta unremittingly, without a trace of laziness.

Then I saturated myself in the narrations of Bukhari, sealing my ultimate scholarly pride.

I kept all the books of Abu Ubaid tethered tightly within my intellectual grip.

Then I studied the grammatical science of Sibawayh, grasping its innermost core with complete understanding.

Under my teacher Abu Uthman Nafi', who proved to be a truly brilliant and accomplished master.

Then I exhausted the works of Abu al-Ala concerning divine attributes and names.

He taught me rare linguistic terms and textual correctness until the dawn of their clarity broke and shone.

Then he elevated me through the transmission of subtle diction until I returned counted among the master memorizers.

I read treatises on metaphorical language under Qarmutah al-Shirazi.

After hearing them from the jurist Ahmad, master of deep comprehension and legal teaching.

Then I read the books of al-Rummani, al-Farisi, and his son Uthman.

Meaning Ibn Jinni, for he was his spiritual son even though his biological father was al-Hasan.

For al-Farisi trained and cultivated him, and sometimes one calls a brother 'father'.

This spiritual fatherhood misled some people, who mistakenly attributed actual biological paternity to him.

Glory be to that One, Just, Absolute God, who has taken neither companion nor offspring.

Every single book of language I have comprehended, and every piece of ancient poetry I have narrated.

Then I reflected upon the boundaries of logic; whoever seeks absolute truth must speak with precision.