قذى بعينك أم بالعين عوار

Is there grit in your eye, or has the eye become diseased? Or did your tears overflow when the dwelling grew empty of its people?

It is as if my eye, whenever the memory of him crosses my mind, were a streaming flood pouring copiously down both cheeks.

She weeps for Sakhr—she is overwhelmed with grief and out of her mind—while heavy layers of fresh earth lie as a barrier before him.

Khunas weeps, and as long as she lives, she will never cease to wail over him, though she is impoverished by sorrow.

Khunas weeps for Sakhr, and she has every right to do so, since Time has betrayed her, and Time is ever destructive.

Death is inevitable, and its sudden turns hold lessons; Time itself cycles through varying states and conditions.

You once had Abu Amr to lead you—what an excellent wearer of turbans, a swift helper to those who call upon him.

Unbending in character, lavishly generous when others withhold, and in wars he possessed a daring heart and crushing might.

O Sakhr, he was one who frequented watering places that other tribesmen approached with dread; yet there is no shame in his watering there.

He stalked like a fierce beast toward a terrifying, tangled crisis, armed with two weapons: fangs and claws.

No grieving mother camel circling her lost newborn—emitting two kinds of cries, open and hidden—

grazes as she pleases until memory strikes her, whereupon she does nothing but rush forward and pull back in frantic despair.

She never grows fat on any land, though she grazes; her entire existence is reduced to yearning and burning sighs.

is a day more agonizing than the one Sakhr parted from me; and Fate holds both sweetness and bitterness.

Indeed, Sakhr is our guardian and our master, and when winter brings famine, Sakhr is a relentless slaughterer of camels for guests.

Indeed, Sakhr is bold when riders set out, and indeed, when hunger strikes, Sakhr slaughters livestock to feed the people.

Indeed, Sakhr is the one by whose guidance travelers steer, as if he were a landmark with a blazing fire upon its peak.

Resilient, radiant of face, flawless, and pious; and when the panic of war dawns, he is its fiery catalyst.

A bearer of banners, plunging deep into valleys, a constant presence in assembly gatherings, pulling his army forward to victory.

A slaughterer of fat camels, a refuge for the tyrannical, a ransom-payer for captives, and a mighty healer who mends what is broken.

So I said when I saw that Fate has no reproachful master—it acts alone, bringing both gifts and destruction.

Ibn Nahik has brought me the announcement of a trusted brother’s death, about whom rumors used to be falsely thrown.

So I spent the night keeping vigil, tracking the stars, until heavy curtains of darkness fell below the deep horizon.

No female neighbor ever saw him walk into her courtyard with wicked intent when her husband had cleared out of the house.

Nor would you ever find him eating secretly while food was hidden inside; rather, he brought it out openly in the large bowl, overflowing.

He fed the people fat meat during times of severe drought, and in barren wastelands he proved a noble-rooted, easy-handed provider.

He was my absolute closest connection among all kin; now that he has been struck down, life holds no more desires.

Straight as a spear from Rudayna, his youth unspent, as if beneath the folds of his cloak he were a prince of iron resolve.

Stern of visage yet his image illuminates the night; his noble lineage stems from tall, pure stock.

An inheritor of glory, blessed in character, broad-chested and formidable when facing trials with stoic endurance.

A noble branch springing from a pure, untainted branch, firm in his inner resolve, boasting proudly when the tribe gathers.

He resides deep within a grave, encompassed by its dark hollows, heavy stones, and earthen layers.

Open-handed for acts of goodness with a dawn-like radiance, broad-chested and constantly commanding righteous deeds.

Let every destitute person weep for him, whose wealth was swept away by harsh time, leaving him wedded to poverty and scarcity.

And let the travelers whose guide lost his way in a desolate wasteland weep for him—a darkness thick and black as pitch.

Would he ever deny anyone his cloak if they asked him for it? Nor would any shivering traveler pass him by unhelped in the dead of night.