خُذوا عَن يَمينِ المُنحَنى أَيُّها الرَكبُ

Take to the right of the river-bend, O riders, so we may ask that encampment what the departing flock has done.

Perhaps some news will revive the lingering breath of a passionate lover, shattered by a yearning whose tears never dry.

Deep within his breast burns a fire of longing, fanned by agonizing sighs that distance refuses to let die out.

Ah, if only I knew—while misfortunes press heavily and this age is an unbending, razor-sharp sword—

about the tribe at al-Jar'ā': have they enjoyed that pasture since we left, and its sweet, flowing watering hole?

Has the northern valley blossomed, and have the heavy date-clusters draped its lush, verdant gardens?

And has life remained sweet after our departure for the folk where the tribal square meets the broad path?

Do they harbor the same anguish and heartache that we feel, knowing love brings suffering to the beloved?

And does the daughter of al-Manāwil know that I pine for no other woman, nor desire anyone else?

A radiant beauty like the full moon in grace and bearing, adorned with shimmering robes and pure gold.

When the women of the camp walk out, she alone commands the first and lasting gaze.

Supreme elegance has settled within her so uniquely that she has neither peer nor equal among them.

She appeared unveiled in the flush of youth, swaying with coyness, pride, and delightful vanity.

She saw me and bared a smooth cheek, shielding herself with a rigid, tight bracelet that strained against her wrist.

She remarked, "A stranger, and the maiden is a stranger too; yet in lawful marriage there is neither blame nor sin."

I replied, "I am deeply attached and passionately fond, yet in Baghdad I have neither kindred nor clan."

She asked, "Then where are your clan, your kin, and your passion?" I answered, "Where horses clash and swords strike."

She said, "I see Bahrain is your home, and passion is your offspring, but tell me who your people are."

I said, "Ask the tribes of Nizar and Yarub during the gravest calamities when the path forward is obscured."

Those who offer the strongest protection to a neighbor, the widest sanctuary, and the fiercest pride when hardship calls.

Those who pour out the most blood with spears and swords and lavish the greatest bounty when horizons grow dusty and war trembles.

And those who break the pride of any king who turns away in arrogance, despite ancient royal lineages and massive armies.

She declared, "By my life, they are indeed Rabi'ah—daughters of nobility, neither Banu Kilab nor Kalb."

If Rabi'ah were ever asked who stands beneath them, the East and West would tremble and bow down.

Those whose ancient and ancestral goodness surpasses all, producing the finest offspring when future lines falter.

The learned would bear witness that Rabi'ah is the millstone whose secret pivot is Abraham himself.

They are humanity in its entirety—the rest are mere excess—whose spines bear the crushing weight when trouble strikes.

Through them distant goals are reached, and for any seeker of kindness they maintain a fertile, welcoming estate.

Among them, noble virtues are a sacred inheritance passed down from valiant fathers to their newborn sons.

Had it not been for their generous favors and sound wisdom, the very earth would quake and the stars shatter.

They fly swiftly to answer the call of battle, yet stand immovable when the shaggy, stubborn war-camels bolt.

Should a neighbor fall prey to betrayal by another, their collective wealth is freely shared to rescue him.

Their authority holds sway from Egypt to the spears of the East, stretching to the borders of Shihr and Nuqub.

The hearts of the Roman rulers pound with terror whenever their kings are mentioned.

Their palms yearn to bestow gifts with the persistent longing of a mother camel separated from her newborn.

Most often you find them clad not in loose robes, but in finely woven Tubba'i chainmail.

They always keep two fires burning: one for roasting hospitality, and another from which the flashing sword never departs.

Their days are two: a day of boundless bounty where those in need declare themselves fully satisfied...

...and a day where horses, gleaming swords, and spears crush the enemy—may war itself never have been!

When basic grain is hoarded, their hospitality consists of prime camel meat rather than small lambs or fermented milk.

Those are my people when I call upon them, my kin; and I am sprung from towering, robust peaks among them.

I am no lowly member among them; when virtues are counted, I am their hardened, stalwart man.

I hold a high house among them, alongside generosity, wisdom, steadfast patience in battle, and a razor-sharp tongue.

My separation from them and my exile—tossed by relentless waves, rugged highlands, and vast deserts—

was never by my own choice or out of resentment; by my life, they are truly my eye, my nose, and my heart.

Yet such are the days: they drive people apart at times and bring them close again, for neither separation nor union lasts forever.

I remain deeply attached to them, constantly asking after them wherever travelers rest or riders stop.

How often someone tells me, "Turn away from them, for alongside agonizing pain, even a tendon must sometimes be severed."

I replied, "Softly now, you speak the truth—yet only when the healer lacks the medical skill to do otherwise."

If I treat a diseased limb by cutting it off entirely, neither reed nor stalk will remain in my body.

I am deeply protective of my people, and despite my distant home and long exile, I remain fiercely devoted to them.

I hold among them a sword that, when I draw it against time itself, leaves even time trembling in fear.

Though the edge of an ordinary sword may sometimes blunt or chip, this poetic blade neither chips nor misses its mark.

A resolute prince whose lofty aspirations aim so high they seem to challenge the seven shining stars.

His reach surpasses every grasp, while both non-Arabs and Arabs humble themselves and submit to his might.

He is the scion of glory from a family tree whose branches stretch high and whose soil is pure.

His rival spends sleepless nights grappling with worry, meeting his doom before he can achieve his own desire.

He rose toward glory even before his beard began to sprout, claiming it alongside a legacy of great deeds.

He is the full moon, yet no veil obscures his light, whereas clouds constantly hide the moon's glow.

He is a lion whose thicket is made of gleaming swords and spears; he is a blade whose sheath is every warrior's torso.

He is like death, yet he does not kill by treachery; he is like the sea, save that his waters are sweet to drink.

Never since his youth has an opposing army clashed with him without victory ultimately belonging to him.

Kings have never hesitated before a monumental task of pure glory without him stepping forward to accomplish it.

Extraordinary news of him has reached me, bringing delight to my ears and rejoicing to my heart.

Word of his sincere affection for his kin and his absolute rejection of their enemies—without a doubt or falsehood.

And his rallying of his forces from every direction out of protective zeal, so that fear vanished and the community healed.

O Abu Majid, look upon your kinsman with the eye of forgiveness that ignores the tricks of treacherous schemers.

For pure love is untainted by hypocrisy, whereas some people possess a deceitful, slippery nature.

Let my elevation of you sting those folk who, if called upon in a disaster, refuse—and when safe, shout empty threats.

They are like sharp hooks for carrying falsehoods—or rather, lighter still—yet in moments of grave trial they are stiff as wood.

My nobility and manifest excellence tower above them; can towering mountain peaks ever equal low hills?

I swear, had it not been for my pure love for you, heavily laden red camels would never have traversed the land to Bahrain for my sake.

I could easily have found refuge and travel elsewhere on earth, for people of excellence suffer no harm in being far from home.

Secondly, it pains me that my best poetry is carried away in books dedicated to praising others beside you.

My praise has fallen to others—what a petty need this is, one that a noble, resolute prince should forbid!

That is when people remark: "If his own kin were truly noblemen, his flint-stone would never strike without a spark."

For me to praise anyone other than you is equivalent to lampooning them, and if I do so intentionally, it is a reproach against you.

I possess garments woven by intellect and thought that will endure as long as centuries follow one another.

I guard them jealously and withhold them from anyone else, even if Hatim al-Ta'i of legendary generosity or Ka'b were resurrected.

Therefore, spare my free face from having to ask you for anything, for even if Ibn Zaidah were alive, such begging is too hard to bear.

Grant me a small measure of your wealth so I might nourish the fledglings in my homeland where drought has seized everything.

For your sea is boundless for those who come to drink, and your courtyard offers a vast, welcoming refuge for all who visit.