ترجمة قصيدة البردوني_أبو تمام وعروبة اليوم

[ahmed_allaithy]

قصيدة عبد الله البردوني: أبو تمام وعروبة اليوم
ألقاها على الحضور في الموصل عام 1971
====
طريقة ترجمتي لهذه القصيدة مرت بثلاثة مراحل، الأولة هي ترجمتها نثرًا، ثم التعامل مع الترجمة الإنجليزية النثرية وتحويلها إلى شعر دون الالتزام ببحر شعري معين، ومع هذا
The phrasing and line lengths vary slightly across stanzas, creating a somewhat free-verse feel, especially given the shifts in theme and imagery. Some lines maintain an iambic rhythm, while others have an anapestic or looser cadence.
ثم أعدت النظر فيها وهي مصاغة شعرًا، فعدَّلتُ فيها بعض الأشياء، وحولتها إلى قصيدة على بحر واحد وهو الـ iambic pentameter
وفيما يلي القصيدة مقطعة إلى أجزاء، فيها الترجمة النثرية والصيغة الشعرية بعدها.
وفي آخر منشور سأضع القصيدة بعد صياغتها لشعر موزون في الإنجليزية
=======================

ما أَصْدَقَ السَّيْفَ! إِنْ لَمْ يُنْضِهِ الكَـذِبُ	وَأَكْذَبَ السَّيْفَ إِنْ لَمْ يَصْـدُقِ الغَضَـبُ
بِيضُ الصَّفَائِـحِ أَهْـدَى حِيـنَ تَحْمِلُهَـا	أَيْـدٍ إِذَا غَلَبَـتْ يَعْلُـو بِهَـا الغَـلَـبُ
وَأَقْبَـحَ النَّصْرِ..نَصْـرُ الأَقْوِيَـاءِ بِـلاَ	فَهْمٍ. سِوَى فَهْمِ كَمْ بَاعُوا وَكَمْ كَسَبُـوا
أَدْهَى مِنَ الجَهْـلِ عِلْـمٌ يَطْمَئِـنُّ إِلَـى	أَنْصَـافِ نَاسٍ طَغَوا بِالعِلْـمِ وَاغْتَصَبُـوا
قَالُوا: هُمُ البَشَرُ الأَرْقَـى وَمَـا أَكَلُـوا	شَيْئَاً كَمَا أَكَلُـوا الإنْسَـانَ أَوْ شَرِبُـوا

How truthful the sword is! — if only falsehood does not unsheathe it.
And how false the sword becomes if wrath is not true.
The bright blades are more guided when borne
by hands that, when victorious, bring victory to honor.
And the ugliest victory is the triumph of the powerful,
who understand nothing but how much they have sold and gained.
More dangerous than ignorance is knowledge that settles
in the hearts of those half-humans who, through knowledge, have tyrannized and usurped.
They said, "They are the superior race," yet nothing have they consumed or drunk more
than the flesh and blood of human beings
.

How true the sword! — if only falsehood ne'er should bear Its blade unsheathed to taint the honest air. And how deceitful it becomes in hands of rage, If wrath be hollow, not with justice sage. Bright are the blades, when borne by those who know To wield not might alone, but honor's glow; For when the victors win by noble right, Their victory gleams with honor’s righteous light. But lo, the ugliest conquest is the gain Of those in power, who seek naught but coin and reign. A darker menace than ignorance they’ve grown, When knowledge fills half-human hearts like stone. “They are the race supreme,” the tyrants claim— Yet feasts of flesh and blood alone their fame.

[ahmed_allaithy]

مَاذَا جَرَى.. يَـا أَبَـا تَمَّـامَ تَسْأَلُنِـي؟ عَفْوَاً سَـأَرْوِي .. وَلا تَسْأَلْ .. وَمَا السَّبَبُ
يَدْمَـى السُّـؤَالُ حَيَـاءً حِيـنَ نَسْأَلُـُه كَيْفَ احْتَفَتْ بِالعِدَى «حَيْفَا» أَوِ «النَّقَـبُ»
مَنْ ذَا يُلَبِّـي؟ أَمَـا إِصْـرَارُ مُعْتَصِـمٍ؟ كَلاَّ وَأَخْزَى مِنَ « الأَفْشِينَ » مَـا صُلِبُـوا
اليَوْمَ عَـادَتْ عُلُـوجُ «الـرُّومِ» فَاتِحَـةً وَمَوْطِـنُ العَرَبِ المَسْلُـوبُ وَالسَّلَـبُ
مَاذَا فَعَلْنَـا؟ غَضِبْنَـا كَالرِّجَـالِ وَلَـمْ نصدُق وَقَدْ صَـدَقَ التَّنْجِيـمُ وَالكُتُـبُ
وَقَاتَلَـتْ دُونَنَـا الأَبْــوَاقُ صَـامِـدَةً أَمَّا الرِّجَالُ فَمَاتُـوا ثَـمَّ أَوْ هَرَبُـوا
حُكَّامُنَا إِنْ تَصَـدّوا لِلْحِمَـى اقْتَحَمُـوا وَإِنْ تَصَدَّى لَـهُ المُسْتَعْمِـرُ انْسَحَبُـوا
هُمْ يَفْرُشـُونَ لِجَيْـشِ الغَـزْوِ أَعْيُنَهُـمْ وَيَدَّعُـونَ وُثُـوبَـاً قَـبْـلَ أَنْ يَثِـبُـوا
الحَاكِمُونَ و«وَاشُنْـطُـنْ» حُكُومَتُـهُـمْ وَاللامِعُـونَ .. وَمَـا شَعَّـوا وَلا غَرَبُـوا
القَاتِلُـونَ نُبُـوغَ الشَّـعْـبِ تَرْضِـيَـةً لِلْمُعْتَدِيـنَ وَمَـا أَجْدَتْـهُـمُ الـقُـرَبُ
لَهُمْ شُمُـوخُ «المُثَنَّـى» ظَاهِـرَاً وَلَهُـمْ هَـوَىً إِلَـى «بَابَـك الخَرْمِـيّ» يُنْتَسَـبُ

What has happened, O Abu Tammam, you ask me? Excuse me; I will tell the tale, but please do not ask why.
The question itself bleeds with shame when we ask, How is it that "Haifa" or "the Negev" has celebrated the enemy?
Who is there to answer the call? Is there a determined Mutasim among us? No, not at all, and more disgraceful than the Afshin are those who have been crucified. Today, the uncouth "Romans" have returned, opening our lands, While the stolen homeland of the Arabs remains robbed.
What have we done? We raged like men but did not act, While the prophecies and the books spoke the truth. The trumpets fought on in our stead, steadfast, While the men either died or fled.
Our rulers, if they defend the land, they rush in, But if the colonizer attacks, they withdraw. They lay their eyes as a carpet before the invading army And pretend to be fierce before they even take a step.
Our rulers—Washington is their true government, And the so-called bright ones—who neither shone nor set. They stifle the nation’s genius to appease the oppressors, Yet their flattery has availed them nothing.
Outwardly, they display the pride of al-Muthanna, Yet their hearts belong to Babak Khorramdin's spirit.

What ails thee, O Abu Tammam, thou dost ask? Forgive—I'll tell the tale, yet shun the task Of asking why; the query’s shame is borne In Haifa’s fall, or Negev’s scorn, forlorn. How came they thus to greet the foreign foe? Where stands a Mutasim to bring the blow? Nowhere, nowhere, not a resolute soul, And more disgrace than Afshin’s martyr’s role. Today, the roughshod Romans come once more, Wide open lie the lands they’ve breached before. Our stolen Arab homeland lies defaced, Its people robbed, in bitter chains disgraced. What deeds have we to show? We burned, we swore, Yet prophecy had spoken long before. Trumpets braved the field, and staunch they stood, While men fell back or fled their duty’s good. Our rulers!—first to rush in feigned defense, Yet from colonizers retreat in deference. Their gaze is laid like carpet for the foe, They strut with pride but let no courage show. Washington’s leash they follow, bound and tight, And those who feign to gleam, neither rise nor light. The nation's soul, they stifle to appease, Yet servile homage gains them no release. They feign al-Muthanna’s pride, his brave display, Yet Babak’s craven spirit leads their way.

[ahmed_allaithy]

مَاذَا تَرَى يَا «أَبَـا تَمَّـامَ» هَـلْ كَذَبَـتْ أَحْسَابُنَـا؟ أَوْ تَنَاسَـى عِرْقَـهُ الذَّهَـبُ؟
عُرُوبَـةُ اليَـوَمِ أُخْـرَى لا يَنِـمُّ عَلَـى وُجُودِهَـا اسْـمٌ وَلا لَـوْنٌ وَلا لَـقَـبُ
تِسْعُونَ أَلْفَـاً « لِعَمُّـورِيَّـة َ» اتَّـقَـدُوا وَلِلْمُنَجِّـمِ قَـالُـوا: إِنَّـنَـاالشُّـهُـبُ
قِيلَ: انْتِظَارَ قِطَافِ الكَرْمِ مَـا انْتَظَـرُوا نُضْـجَ العَنَاقِيـدِ لَكِـنْ قَبْلَهَـا الْتَهَبُـوا
وَاليَـوْمَ تِسْعُـونَ مِلْيونَـاً وَمَـا بَلَغُـوا نُضْجَـاً وَقَدْ عُصِـرَ الزَّيْتُـونُ وَالعِنَـبُ
تَنْسَى الرُّؤُوسُ العَوَالِـي نَـارَ نَخْوَتِهَـا إِذَاامْتَطَاهَـا إِلَـى أَسْـيَـادِهِ الـذَّنَـبُ
«حَبِيبُ» وَافَيْتُ مِـنْ صَنْعَـاءَ يَحْمِلُنِـي نَسْرٌ وَخَلْفَ ضُلُوعِـي يَلْهَـثُ العَـرَبُ
مَاذَا أُحَدِّثُ عَـنْ صَنْعَـاءَ يَـا أَبَتِـي ؟ مَلِيحَـةٌ عَاشِقَاهَـا :السِّـلُّ وَالـجَـرَبُ
مَاتَـتْ بِصُنْـدُوقِ «وَضَّاحٍ» بِـلا َثَمَـنٍ وَلَمْ يَمُتْ فِي حَشَاهَا العِشْـقُ وَالطَّـرَبُ
كَانَتْ تُرَاقِبُ صُبْـحَ البَعْـثِ فَانْبَعَثَـتْ فِي الحُلْمِ ثُمَّ ارْتَمَـتْ تَغْفُـو وَتَرْتَقِـبُ
لَكِنَّهَا رُغْمَ بُخْـلِ الغَيْـثِ مَـابَرِحَـتْ حُبْلَى وَفِي بَطْنِهَـا «قَحْطَـانُ» أَوْ «كَرِبُ»
وَفِـي أَسَـى مُقْلَتَيْهَـا يَغْتَلِـي «يَمَـنٌ» ثَانٍ كَحُلْـمِ الصِّبَـا...يَنْـأَى وَيَقْتَـرِبُ

What do you think, O Abu Tammam? Have our noble lineages lied, Or has the golden root forgotten its origin?
Today’s Arabism is something else, no name Nor color nor title can reveal its existence.
Ninety thousand burned for Amoria, And they told the astrologer: "We are meteors!" They said they would not wait for the grapes to ripen on the vine, But ignited themselves even before the clusters had matured.
But today, though we number ninety million, we have not reached Maturity, though the olive and vine have been pressed. Our proud foreheads forget the fire of their honor If ever the tail mounts them to ride to their masters.
"Habeeb," I come from Sana'a, a falcon bearing me With Arabs panting behind my ribs. What shall I say of Sana’a, my father? A beauty beloved by disease and mange.
She died in Waddah's chest, without a price, But love and joy have not died within her. She kept watch for the dawn of resurrection, only to rise In dreams, then sink back to slumber, waiting and watching.
Yet despite the stinginess of the rain, she remains Pregnant, and in her belly, Qahtan or Karib. And in the sorrow of her eyes stirs a Yemen, A vision of youth—drifting, then drawing near.

What dost thou see, O Abu Tammam? Have our noble lines deceived, Or has the golden root its own source unperceived? Arab pride today is but a shadow's guise— No name, nor hue, nor honor's spark it belies. Ninety thousand once burned for Amoria’s gate, Told the stars, “We meteors set aflame our fate!” They would not wait for grapes to ripen on the vine; No, they kindled fire before the clusters shined. But now, though ninety million hearts abound, We lack the strength that once this soil renowned. The olives are pressed, the vineyard bared, Yet Arab souls remain unprepared. Once, our brows ignited, proud and bold, Now we are mounts for masters, bought and sold. “Habeeb,” from Sana’a I descend—a falcon’s flight, And Arab hearts throb close, yet out of sight. What can I say of Sana’a, my heart, my kin? She, beloved, yet frail, consumed from within. She perished in Waddah’s chest, without a price, Yet love and joy in her have not died, nor vice. She held vigil for dawn’s renewing gleam, But rose only in dreams, a fading beam, Then fell once more, to sleep’s deep ache, Patient in vigil, for dawn’s sweet sake. Though the rains forsake her, her spirit swells, In her womb Qahtan or Karib dwells. And in the sorrow of her gaze stirs a Yemen bold, A youth’s vision, distant, but close to hold.

[ahmed_allaithy]

«حَبِيبُ» تَسْأَلُ عَنْ حَالِي وَكَيْـفَ أَنَـا؟ شُبَّابَـةٌ فِـي شِفَـاهِ الرِّيـحِ تَنْتَـحِـبُ
كَانَتْ بِلاَدُكَ «رِحْلاً»، ظَهْـرَ «نَاجِيَـةٍ» أَمَّـا بِـلاَدِي فَلاَ ظَهْـرٌ وَلاَ غَـبَـبُ
أَرْعَيْـتَ كُـلَّ جَدِيـبٍ لَحْـمَ رَاحِلَـةٍ كَانَتْ رَعَتْـهُ وَمَـاءُ الـرَّوْضِ يَنْسَكِـبُ
وَرُحْتَ مِنْ سَفَـرٍ مُضْـنٍ إِلَـى سَفَـرٍ أَضْنَـى لأَنَّ طَرِيـقَ الرَّاحَـةِ التَّـعَـبُ
لَكِنْ أَنَا رَاحِـلٌ فِـي غَيْـرِ مَـا سَفَـرٍ رَحْلِي دَمِي وَطَرِيقِي الجَمْرُ وَالحَطَـبُ
إِذَا امْتَطَيْـتَ رِكَابَـاً لِلـنَّـوَى فَـأَنَـا فِي دَاخِلِي أَمْتَطِـي نَـارِي وَاغْتَـرِبُ
قَبْرِي وَمَأْسَـاةُ مِيـلاَدِي عَلَـى كَتِفِـي وَحَوْلِـيَ العَـدَمُ المَنْفُـوخُ وَالصَّخَـبُ

"Habeeb, you ask of my state and how I fare? I am a reed flute, weeping on the lips of the wind.
Your homeland was a “ride” on a camel's back, While my land has no back and no protection.
You grazed every barren land with the flesh of a mount That had once grazed it, with the water of meadows flowing down.
You went from exhausting journey to journey, Growing wearier, for the path of comfort is labor.
But I am a traveler on a journey unlike any other, My mount is my blood, and my path is embers and firewood.
If you mount the saddles of departure, then I— I mount my own fire within and live estranged
My grave and the tragedy of my birth rest upon my shoulder, Surrounded by a void bloated with noise and nothingness.

“Habeeb, you ask of my state and where I lie, I am but a reed flute, weeping to the sky. Your homeland was a “ride” on a camel’s back, While my land knows no spine, no shield to lack. You grazed each barren field with blood and bone, From mounts that once had roamed those meadows alone. And you, from journey’s toil, to toil again— The path of ease is harsh on weary men. But I, a traveler, bound to paths unmade, My mount is blood, my road through ember laid. If you would ride the saddles of departure’s call, Then I—on fires within I mount, estranged from all. My grave and birth’s lament are on my back, Enclosed by emptiness, an endless wrack— A vastness bloated with the void’s harsh song, A noise-filled silence, where no hearts belong.

[ahmed_allaithy]

«حَبِيبُ» هَـذَا صَدَاكَ اليَـوْمَ أَنْشُـدُهُ لَكِـنْ لِمَـاذَا تَـرَى وَجْهِـي وَتَكْتَئِـبُ؟
مَاذَا ؟ أَتَعْجَـبُ مِنْ شَيْبِي عَلَى صِغَـرِي؟ إِنِّي وُلِدْتُ عَجُـوزَاً .. كَيْـفَ تَعْتَجِـبُ؟
وَاليَـوْمَ أَذْوِي وَطَيْـشُ الفَـنِّ يَعْزِفُنِـي وَالأَرْبَعُـونَ عَلَـى خَــدَّيَّ تَلْتَـهِـبُ
كَـذَا إِذَا ابْيَـضَّ إِينَـاعُ الحَيَـاةِ عَلَـى وَجْـهِ الأَدِيـبِ أَضَـاءَ الفِكْـرُ وَالأَدَبُ
وَأَنْتَ مَنْ شِبْتَ قَبْـلَ الأَرْبَعِيـنَ عَلَـى نَـارِ «الحَمَاسَـةَ » تَجْلُوهَـا وَتَنْتَـحِـبُ
وَتَجْتَـدِي كُـلَّ لِـصٍّ مُتْـرَفٍ هِـبَـةً وَأَنْتَ تُعْطِيـهِ شِعْـرَاً فَـوْقَ مَـا يَهِـبُ
شَرَّقْتَ غَرَّبْتَ مِنْ «وَالٍ» إِلَـى «مَلِـكٍ» يَحُثُّـكَ الفَقْـرُ ... أَوْ يَقْتَـادُكَ الطَّلَـبُ
طَوَّفْتَ حَتَّى وَصَلْتَ « الموصِلِ » انْطَفَأَتْ فِيـكَ الأَمَانِـي وَلَـمْ يَشْبـعْ لَهَـا أَرَبُ
لَكِـنَّ مَـوْتَ المُجِيـدِ الفَـذِّ يَـبْـدَأه وِلادَةً مِـنْ صِبَاهَـا تَرْضَـعُ الحِقَـبُ

"Habeeb, today I echo your voice, But why do you see my face and feel saddened?
What’s this? Do you wonder at my early gray? I was born an old man... why are you surprised?
Today I wither as the wildness of art plays upon me, And forty years blaze upon my cheeks.
Thus, when the ripeness of life turns pale Upon the face of a poet, thought and art shine bright.
And you, you grayed before forty, Burning by the fire of valor, polishing it and weeping.
You beg every rich thief a gift, And yet, you give him poetry greater than any gift he offers.
East and west you traveled, from governor to king, Driven by poverty... or led by need.
You wandered until you reached Mosul, where Hopes dimmed in you, yet left no desire satisfied.
But the death of a gifted one begins As a rebirth from her youth, nourishing the ages."

"Habeeb, today I echo all you spoke, Yet why, when you gaze upon me, do you choke? What’s this? You wonder at my early gray? I was born an old man... is that so strange, you say? Now I wither, art’s wildness plays my tune, Forty years blaze upon me all too soon. And so, when life’s pale ripeness meets decay, Thought’s brilliance, and art’s keen edge, hold sway. And you—gray before your fortieth year, Burned by valor’s flame, with a poet’s tear. You knelt to each gilded thief for grace, Yet gave him gifts your verses could outpace. East and west, from governor to king, you’d roam, Pushed by poverty’s hand, drawn by need’s bone. You wandered, found Mosul’s dimmed fires instead, Where hopes once bright grew pale, and dreams had fled. Yet the death of a soul that bears such light Is reborn, feeding ages with its sight.

[ahmed_allaithy]

«حَبِيبُ» مَـا زَالَ فِـي عَيْنَيْـكَ أَسْئِلَـةً تَبْـدُو... وَتَنْسَـى حِكَايَاهَـا فَتَنْتَـقِـبُ
وَمَا تَـزَالُ بِحَلْقِـي أَلْــفُ مُبْكِـيَـةٍ مِنْ رُهْبـَةِ البَوْحِ تَسْتَحْيِـي وَتَضْطَـرِبُ
يَكْفِيـكَ أَنَّ عِدَانَـا أَهْـدَرُوا دَمَـنَـا وَنَحْـنُ مِـنْ دَمِنَـا نَحْسُـو وَنَحْتَلِـبُ
سَحَائِـبُ الغَـزْوِ تَشْوِينَـا وَتَحْجِبُـنَـا يَوْمَاً سَتَحْبَلُ مِـنْ إِرْعَادِنَـا السُّحُـبُ؟
أَلاَ تَـرَى يَـا أَبَـا تَمَّـامَ بَارِقَـنَـا (إِنَّ السَّمَـاءَ تُرَجَّـى حِيـنَ تُحْتَجَـبُ)

"Habeeb, there are still questions in your eyes, They appear, then conceal themselves and hide their stories.
And still, within my throat, a thousand laments, Hesitant to speak, ashamed, they quiver in fear.
It’s enough to know that our enemies have shed our blood, While we ourselves drink and drain our own.
The clouds of invasion roast us and obscure our sight— Will a day come when our thunder makes these clouds bear fruit?
Don’t you see, O Abu Tammam, our lightning flash? The sky holds hope, even as it hides from view."

"Habeeb, your eyes still harbor endless queries, They flicker, then retreat, cloaked in their stories. And here, within my throat, a thousand cries— They tremble, fearful, under shrouded skies. It is enough, you know, that foes have bled us dry, Yet we, with thirsty hearts, our own blood buy. The clouds of conquest scorch us, dim our sight— Will dawn arrive, our thunder turning night? O, do you see, Abu Tammam, our lightning's gleam? Hope lurks within the heavens' veiled dream."

[ahmed_allaithy]

ترجمة القصيدة مع توحيد البحر (الوزن) وهو iambic pentameter ووضع عنوان جديد لها:

Echoes of Honor and Forgotten Flames

How true the sword—if only falsehood ne’er should bear
Its blade unsheathed to taint the honest air.
And how deceitful it becomes in hands of rage,
If wrath be hollow, not with justice sage.
Bright are the blades when borne by those who know
To wield not might alone but honor's glow;
For when the victors win by noble right,
Their victory gleams with honor’s righteous light.
But lo, the ugliest conquest is the gain
Of those in power who seek naught but coin and reign.
More dark than ignorance, a menace grown,
When knowledge fills half-human hearts like stone.
“They are the race supreme,” the tyrants claim—
Yet feasts of flesh and blood alone their fame.

What ails thee, O Abu Tammam, thou dost ask?
Forgive—I’ll tell the tale, yet shun the task
Of asking why; the query’s shame is borne
In Haifa’s fall or Negev’s scorn, forlorn.
How came they thus to greet the foreign foe?
Where stands a Mutasim to bring the blow?
Nowhere, nowhere, not a resolute soul,
And more disgrace than Afshin’s martyred role.
Today, the roughshod Romans come once more,
Wide open lie the lands they’ve breached before.
Our stolen Arab homeland lies defaced,
Its people robbed, in bitter chains disgraced.
What deeds have we to show? We burned, we swore,
Yet prophecy had spoken long before.
Trumpets braved the field, and staunch they stood,
While men fell back or fled their duty’s good.

Our rulers!—first to rush in feigned defense,
Yet from colonizers retreat in deference.
Their gaze is laid like carpet for the foe,
They strut with pride but let no courage show.
Washington’s leash they follow, bound and tight,
And those who feign to gleam, neither rise nor light.
The nation's soul, they stifle to appease,
Yet servile homage gains them no release.
They feign al-Muthanna’s pride, his brave display,
Yet Babak’s craven spirit leads their way.

What dost thou see, O Abu Tammam? Have our noble lines deceived,
Or has the golden root its own source unperceived?
Arab pride today is but a shadow's guise—
No name, nor hue, nor honor's spark it belies.
Ninety thousand once burned for Amoria’s gate,
Told the stars, “We meteors set aflame our fate!”
They would not wait for grapes to ripen on the vine;
No, they kindled fire before the clusters shined.
But now, though ninety million hearts abound,
We lack the strength that once this soil renowned.
The olives are pressed, the vineyard bared,
Yet Arab souls remain unprepared.
Once, our brows ignited, proud and bold,
Now we are mounts for masters, bought and sold.

“Habeeb,” from Sana’a I descend—a falcon’s flight,
And Arab hearts throb close, yet out of sight.
What can I say of Sana’a, my heart, my kin?
She, beloved, yet frail, consumed from within.
She perished in Waddah’s chest, without a price,
Yet love and joy in her have not died, nor vice.
She held vigil for dawn’s renewing gleam,
But rose only in dreams, a fading beam,
Then fell once more, to sleep’s deep ache,
Patient in vigil, for dawn’s sweet sake.
Though the rains forsake her, her spirit swells,
In her womb Qahtan or Karib dwells.
And in the sorrow of her gaze stirs a Yemen bold,
A youth’s vision, distant, but close to hold.

“Habeeb, you ask of my state and where I lie,
I am but a reed flute, weeping to the sky.
Your homeland was a ‘ride’ on a camel’s back,
While my land knows no spine, no shield to lack.
You grazed each barren field with blood and bone,
From mounts that once had roamed those meadows alone.
And you, from journey’s toil, to toil again—
The path of ease is harsh on weary men.
But I, a traveler, bound to paths unmade,
My mount is blood, my road through ember laid.
If you would ride the saddles of departure’s call,
Then I—on fires within I mount, estranged from all.
My grave and birth’s lament are on my back,
Enclosed by emptiness, an endless wrack—
A vastness bloated with the void’s harsh song,
A noise-filled silence, where no hearts belong.

"Habeeb, today I echo all you spoke,
Yet why, when you gaze upon me, do you choke?
What’s this? You wonder at my early gray?
I was born an old man... is that so strange, you say?
Now I wither, art’s wildness plays my tune,
Forty years blaze upon me all too soon.
And so, when life’s pale ripeness meets decay,
Thought’s brilliance, and art’s keen edge, hold sway.
And you—gray before your fortieth year,
Burned by valor’s flame, with a poet’s tear.
You knelt to each gilded thief for grace,
Yet gave him gifts your verses could outpace.
East and west, from governor to king, you’d roam,
Pushed by poverty’s hand, drawn by need’s bone.
You wandered, found Mosul’s dimmed fires instead,
Where hopes once bright grew pale, and dreams had fled.
Yet the death of a soul that bears such light
Is reborn, feeding ages with its sight.

"Habeeb, your eyes still harbor endless queries,
They flicker, then retreat, cloaked in their stories.
And here, within my throat, a thousand cries—
They tremble, fearful, under shrouded skies.
It is enough, you know, that foes have bled us dry,
Yet we, with thirsty hearts, our own blood buy.
The clouds of conquest scorch us, dim our sight—
Will dawn arrive, our thunder turning night?

O, dost thou see, Abu Tammam, our lightning’s arc?
The sky holds hope when veiled in shadows dark.