عواذل ذات الخال فيّ حواسد

Female critics of the beauty with a mole are envious of me; how noble is the bedfellow of the fair maiden when compared to me!

He protects her purity while fully capable of transgressing, and disobeys passion in his dreams even while asleep.

When will a lover tormented by inner longing find relief, remaining agonizingly close yet far from her?

If you fear disgrace in every private moment, why have the pristine beauties never truly captivated you?

Illness pressed upon me so heavily that I grew accustomed to it, until my doctor and visiting friends tired of my bedside.

I rode past the beloved's dwelling and my steed neighed; do horses truly grieve for ancient campsites?

What does the dark mare fail to recognize in the traces of a home once watered by slave girls using water-skins?

I intend a task while the nights act as adversaries, trying to prevent its realization while I push forward.

Isolated from all companions in every land, with an immense goal and barely any helpers to assist.

A swift mare assists me through catastrophe after catastrophe, bearing upon her own body the undeniable proofs of her breed.

She bends gracefully beneath the weight of combat as though her joints beneath the lances were made of flexible rods.

I lead myself into watering places with an Indian blade in my hand, places from which those who refuse to fight never return.

However, if the hand does not commit the heart to a trial, the forearm will never support the hand.

O my two companions, I see none other than poets making claims, yet the false assertions come from them while the master poems come from me.

Do not be astonished that swords are numerous, for the sword of the state today is singular.

He bears a noble temperament unsheathed in war, yet habitually sheathed when dealing with beauty and pardon.

When I saw people falling short of his high station, I became certain that time itself is a discerning critic of men.

The most rightful owner of the sword is he who strikes necks, and the most rightful master of command is he for whom hardships appear light.

The most wretched lands of God are those whose people are the Romans, yet even there no one denies your glory.

You launched continuous raids across their lands until you left the eyelids of those behind the Franks perpetually sleepless.

Stained with blood while the enemy lies struck down, they resemble prayer sanctuaries though they never bowed in prostration.

You overturn their towering mountains, and strike them down with lances that function as calculated stratagems.

You strike them to pieces even after they retreated into hillocks, just as vipers settle deep within the earth.

Lofty fortresses situated on high peaks are humbled when your cavalry adorns their necks like necklaces.

They battered them on the day of Lake Hula, driving them to Hanzit until the land grew white with captured spoils.

They drove Samosata to join the plain of Safsaf until it collapsed, and both their people and stones tasted utter destruction.

A renowned warrior launched a nocturnal raid through the valley with them; blessed is the devout worshipper hidden beneath the veil.

A hero who desires vast expanses of the earth, while his own time and profound purposes feel constrained by them.

A companion of military campaigns whose swords never rest from enemy necks except when the Tigris river freezes over.

Nothing was left untouched except the softening beauty of lips and swelling breasts of the women in their protection.

Patriarchs weep over them in the darkness of night while they are discarded among us as ordinary plunder.

Thus days proceed among mortals: the misfortunes of some people are the distinct advantages of others.

Among the honors of the ancients is that you live among them, admired even in slaughter as though you were a benefactor.

Every drop of blood you caused to flow is a source of pride, and every heart you mastered sings your praise.

Everyone perceives the paths of courage and generosity, but the innate disposition of the soul is what truly commands it.

You snatched away so many lifespans that if you retained them all, the world would rejoice in your eternal immortality.

You are the sharp blade of kingship while God wields you, and you are the standard of religion while God binds its knot.

You are Abu al-Hayja, son of Hamdan—how wonderfully a noble newborn resembles his father!

Hamdan descended from Hamdun, Hamdun from Harith, Harith from Luqman, and Luqman from Rashid.

Those illustrious figures are the sharp fangs of the entire Caliphate, while all other regional princes are mere surplus.

I love you, O sun and full moon of the age, even if critics as distant as the Lesser Bear censure me for it.

This is solely because your excellence is blindingly manifest, not because life in your court offers mere material comfort.

A modest amount of love governed by reason is wholesome, whereas excessive love driven by ignorance leads only to ruin.