ترجمة قصيدة صوت صفير البلبل المنسوبة للأصمعي

[ahmed_allaithy]

ترجمتي الانجليزية لقصيدة صوت صفير البلبل المنسوبة للأصمعي
الترجمة شعرًا لابد فيها من التصرف

The whistle of yon nightingale Did stir my heart, with love so frail. The water danced with blooming flowers, Like glances sweet in fleeting hours. And thou, my lord, dost rule my heart, A master, aye, thou play'st the part. O how, how much my soul did pine, For yon gazelle with gems so fine. I plucked a blush from off his cheek, From roses shy, his warmth did speak. He said, “No more! Enough, I say!” Yet kept his kiss from me at bay. And cried, “No, no! Again, no, nay!” Then turned and sped, in wild dismay. The maidens swayed with mirth untamed, At this strange act, this man unnamed. They wailed and wailed, "Oh, woe is me!" And I did cry, “No more, agree!” “Display the pearls,” I thus implored, As her desire did yet afford. When she beheld him, hair turned grey, She sighed and wished for more than play. For kisses were not all she sought, But sweeter bonds with passion fraught. She bade him rise, and gifts bestow, While in a garden’s lovely glow. The youths, with cups like honey sweet, Served me a drink that can’t be beat. Its scent did fill my soul with cheer, More fragrant than carnations dear. In midst of gardens richly dressed, With flowers ‘round and joy expressed, The lute did sing its merry tune, The drumbeat danced beneath the moon. Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap! The ceiling shook in rhythmic slap. And lo, the roof did tremble too, The dancers’ feet, the air they flew! The spit did roast the quail so bright, Upon the quince leaves, sheer delight! And lo, the moon did cry in haste, From boredom’s endless, tired waste. And had’st thou seen me riding there, Upon a donkey, lean and bare, It limped along on legs but three, A sight most queer, as one could see! The crowd did pelt my steed with cries, Their laughter loud beneath the skies. And all did chant, “Ka’kak-ka'kak!” Behind me, with no looking back. But I did flee with hurried pace, For fear of yon wild guard’s embrace. I came before the mighty king, His presence like a royal spring. He bade me wear a robe of red, With blood-like hues where tears were shed. And thus I walked, my robe did trail, With pride and poise, in flowing sail. For I’m the bard, the brightest flame, From Mosul's land, in song and name. I’ve crafted lines with such a grace, No poet here can match this pace. And so I start, with joy and glee, The whistle of the nightingale, you see!

صَوْتُ صَفيرِ البُلْبُلِ هَيَّجَ قَلْبِيَ الثَمِلِ المَاءُ وَالزَّهْرُ مَعَاً مَعَ زَهرِ لَحْظِ المُقَلِ وَأَنْتَ يَاسَيِّدَ لِي وَسَيِّدِي وَمَوْلَى لِي فَكَمْ فَكَمْ تَيَّمَنِي غُزَيِّلٌ عَقَيْقَلي قَطَّفْتُ مِنْ وَجْنَتِهِ مِنْ لَثْمِ وَرْدِ الخَجَلِ فَقَالَ بَسْ بَسْبَسْتَنِي فَلَمْ يَجُد بالقُبَلِ فَقَالَ لاَ لاَ لاَ ثم لاَ لاَ لاَ وَقَدْ غَدَا مُهَرْوِلِ وَالخُودُ مَالَتْ طَرَبَاً مِنْ فِعْلِ هَذَا الرَّجُلِ فَوَلْوَلَتْ وَوَلْوَلَتُ وَلي وَلي يَاوَيْلَ لِي فَقُلْتُ لا تُوَلْوِلِي وَبَيِّنِي اللُؤْلُؤَ لَي لَمَّا رَأَتْهُ أَشْمَطَا يُرِيدُ غَيْرَ القُبَلِ وَبَعْدَهُ لاَيَكْتَفِي إلاَّ بِطِيْبِ الوَصْلَ لِي قَالَتْ لَهُ حِيْنَ كَذَا انْهَضْ وَجِدْ بِالنَّقَلِ وَفِتْيَةٍ سَقَوْنَنِي قَهْوَةً كَالعَسَلَ لِي شَمَمْتُهَا بِأَنْفِي أَزْكَى مِنَ القَرَنْفُلِ فِي وَسْطِ بُسْتَانٍ حُلِي بالزَّهْرِ وَالسُرُورُ لِي وَالعُودُ دَنْ دَنْدَنَ لِي وَالطَّبْلُ طَبْ طَبَّلَ لِي طَب طَبِ طَب طَبِ طَب طَب طَبَ لي وَالسَّقْفُ قَدْ سَقْسَقَ لِي وَالرَّقْصُ قَدْ طَبْطَبَ لِي شَوَى شَوَى وَشَاهِشُ عَلَى وَرَقْ سَفَرجَلِ وَغَرَّدَ القَمْرُ يَصِيحُ مِنْ مَلَلٍ فِي مَلَلِ فَلَوْ تَرَانِي رَاكِباً عَلَى حِمَارٍ أَهْزَلِ يَمْشِي عَلَى ثَلاثَةٍ كَمَشْيَةِ العَرَنْجِلِ وَالنَّاسُ تَرْجِمْ جَمَلِي فِي السُوقِ بالقُلْقُلَلِ وَالكُلُّ كَعْكَعْ كَعِكَعْ خَلْفِي وَمِنْ حُوَيْلَلِي لكِنْ مَشَيتُ هَارِبا مِنْ خَشْيَةِ العَقَنْقِلِي إِلَى لِقَاءِ مَلِكٍ مُعَظَّمٍ مُبَجَّلِ يَأْمُرُلِي بِخِلْعَةٍ حَمْرَاءُ كَالدَّمْ دَمَلِي أَجُرُّ فِيهَا مَاشِياً مُبَغْدِدَاً للذيَّلِ أَنَا الأَدِيْبُ الأَلْمَعِي مِنْ حَيِّ أَرْضِ المُوْصِلِ نَظَمْتُ قِطَعاً زُخْرِفَتْ يَعْجَزُ عَنْهَا الأَدْبُ لِي أَقُولُ فِي مَطْلَعِهَا صَوْتُ صَفيرِ البُلْبُلِ

[ahmed_allaithy]

ترجمة شعرية أخرى
The nightingale, with whistle sweet and clear,
Did stir my heart, intoxicated, dear.
The water flowed with blossoms all around,
And glances, blooming eyes, in joy were found.
O thou, my lord, my master and my guide,
How deep in love for thee my heart did slide!
A gazelle, fair, with agate-hued delight,
I plucked the modest rose from cheeks so bright.
"Stop, stop!" he cried, yet kissed me not at all,
"No, no, no, no!"—his hurried steps did fall.

The maid, in joy, did sway at his display,
Yet wailed and cried, "O woe, this fateful day!"
"Do not lament," said I, "but pearls reveal,"
For in his glance, her sorrow she did heal.
When she beheld his hair turned pale with age,
He sought more sweetness, kindled now by rage.
No kisses would suffice to quench his fire,
But only union with me could inspire.

She bade him rise and gifts to swiftly bring,
While youths did serve a drink, sweet honey’s spring.
Its fragrance did surpass the clove's perfume,
As blossoms filled the garden’s joyful bloom.
The lute played “Dan-dan,” and the drumbeat sang,
With “Tab-tab-tab,” the joyous rafters rang.
The ceiling shook with every lively beat,
The dancers' feet did tap with merry heat.

The roasted meat upon the quince did lay,
While moon did chirp and cry in bored dismay.
Hadst thou but seen me riding, lean and frail,
Upon a donkey thin, with legs that fail.
It limped along, as though in wounded plight,
While market stones did pelt me left and right.
They cried “Ka’kak-ka’kak,” with joy and glee,
But I did flee their scorn, in haste, with speed.

I sought the presence of a mighty king,
Who bade me don a robe, with crimson ring.
Like blood from boils, so red, my robe did gleam,
And in its train, I walked with proud esteem.
For I, the brightest mind from Mosul’s land,
Have penned such verse no bard can understand.
And in its start, with pride I say and sing:
The nightingale's sweet whistle took to wing.

[ahmed_allaithy]

وهذه القصيدة "تكييف" شعري للقصيدة الأصلية:
The nightingale, that cheeky bird,
Whistled tunes I’d never heard.
It stirred my heart, so drunk with bliss—
A splash of water, a floral kiss.
And you, dear master, noble lord,
For you, I’d strike with Cupid’s sword.

Oh, how my heart was snared, you see,
By a tiny gazelle, all agate-y!
I plucked a blush from off his cheek,
Like roses blooming, soft and meek.
He cried, "Stop! Stop!" but kissed me not—
A tricky little scamp, I thought.

He said, "No, no, and no, no, no!"
And off he dashed with quite a show.
The maidens swooned, their hearts aflame,
At this bizarre, yet charming game.
They wailed and wailed, "Oh, woe is me!"
But pearls, I said, were all I’d see.

Her eyes grew wide, his hair turned gray—
He wanted more than just to play.
No kiss would satisfy this lad,
He wanted all the love I had!
She whispered softly, “Rise, dear friend,
And bring me gifts that never end.”

Then youths approached with cups of brew,
So sweet, like honey, rich and true.
Its scent, like cloves, did fill the air,
A fragrant bliss beyond compare.
In gardens lush, where flowers bloom,
We danced and laughed, dispelling gloom.

The lute went “Dan-dan,” sweet and bright,
The drumbeat “Tab-tab,” pure delight.
Tab-tab-tab, and tap-tap-tap—
The roof shook with a lively slap.
The meat was grilled upon a spit,
The moon sighed softly, tired of it.

Had you but seen my noble ride—
A donkey, thin, yet full of pride.
It limped along on legs but three,
A comical, sad sight to see.
The people tossed their stones at me,
And jeered with cries of “Ka’kak-kak-kree!”

But onward, brave, I walked in haste,
Escaping guards, their swords in waste.
I sought a king, both grand and wise,
Who gifted me with robes that rise,
As red as blood from boil did flow,
And in my robe, I strutted slow.

For I, dear world, the brightest star,
In Mosul’s land, have come so far.
I’ve penned such lines, so rich, ornate,
That literature cannot relate.
And so I start, my voice full still—
The sound of the nightingale’s trill.

[ahmed_allaithy]

ولمن لا يهضمون الشعر الإنجليزي
Here is the prose translation of the poem, rendered as accurately as possible :

The sound of the nightingale’s whistle
stirred my intoxicated heart.
The water and the flowers together,
along with the blossoms of glances from the eyes.
And you, my master,
and my lord and protector.
How much, how much did I fall in love
with a small gazelle, of agate hue.
I plucked from his cheek
the rose of modesty’s blush.
He said, “Stop! Stop it!”
but did not give me a kiss.
He said, “No, no, no, and no, no, no,”
and hurried away.
The maiden swayed in joy
from the actions of this man.
She wailed and wailed,
“Woe, woe, woe to me!”
I said to her, “Do not wail,
but show me the pearls instead.”
When she saw him, his hair turned grey,
desiring more than kisses.
And afterward, he was not content,
except with the sweetness of union with me.
She said to him in such a state,
“Rise, and bring me gifts.”
And the young men served me
coffee, as sweet as honey.
I smelled it with my nose,
more fragrant than carnations.
In the middle of a garden adorned
with flowers and joy for me.
The lute played “Dan-dan” for me,
and the drumbeat “Tab-tab” for me.
Tab-tab, tab-tab,
tab-tab-tab for me.
The ceiling rattled for me,
and the dance beat “Tabtab” for me.
Meat grilled and roasted
on quince leaves.
And the moon chirped, crying,
from boredom upon boredom.
And if you could see me riding,
on a thin donkey,
walking on three legs,
like the walk of a wounded man.
And the people pelted my camel
in the market with pebbles.
And all cried “Ka'kak-ka'kak”
behind me and from all sides.
But I walked away fleeing,
for fear of the overseer.
To meet a great, exalted king,
who commanded for me a robe,
red like the blood of a boil.
I dragged it along as I walked,
proudly strutting my train.
I am the most brilliant literary man,
from the land of Mosul.
I composed decorated verses,
beyond the grasp of literature.
I say at their beginning:
The sound of the nightingale’s whistle.