ترجمة قصيدة في ليلة التنفيذ_هاشم الرفاعي

**ahmed_allaithy** · 01-09-2026, 04:23 AM

Translator’s Note on Meter, Register, and Poetic Constraint

This English rendering seeks not to replicate the Arabic poem’s meter mechanically, but to reproduce its operative poetic force—its breath, gravity, and moral pressure—within the prosodic resources of English. 1. Meter: From Quantitative Monorhyme to Stress-Based Cadence

The Arabic original is composed in a classical quantitative meter with sustained monorhyme, a form that enables long syntactic spans, accumulative argumentation, and incantatory authority. English, being stress-timed rather than quantity-based, cannot reproduce this structure without either semantic distortion or rhetorical inflation.

Accordingly, the translation adopts a flexible blank-verse tendency (predominantly iambic, but deliberately elastic), allowing:

long sentences to breathe across line breaks,
rhetorical questions to retain their pressure,
declarative moral statements to fall with weight rather than ornament.

Where strict iambic pentameter would have required compression, inversion, or lexical padding, it was relaxed in favor of semantic fidelity. 2. Rhyme: Deliberate Renunciation

The Arabic poem’s monorhyme is not decorative; it functions as a juridical drumbeat, reinforcing inevitability and moral reckoning. In English, sustained end-rhyme over such length risks either:

bathos,
sing-song cadence,
or semantic dilution through forced lexical choices.

Rhyme was therefore renounced intentionally, replaced by:

internal rhythm,
syntactic parallelism,
controlled repetition of key lexical fields (light/dark, blood/tears, chains/fire, silence/voice).

This preserves the poem’s ethical seriousness and avoids aestheticizing suffering. 3. Register: Elevated but Unarchaic

The Arabic operates in a high classical register, drawing implicitly on Qur’anic cadence, khutbah rhetoric, and elegiac testament. The English therefore avoids:

colloquial diction,
contemporary idiom,
excessive archaism.

Instead, it employs a biblical–juridical English register—echoing Miltonic, prophetic, and testimonial modes—without imitation or pastiche. This allows the poem to sound as if originally written in English, while retaining its gravity. 4. Lineation: Fidelity Over Fluency

Each English line corresponds directly to its Arabic counterpart. This decision privileges:

analytical transparency,
pedagogical usefulness,
and ethical accountability to the source text.

Where Arabic condenses meaning through morphology or parataxis, English occasionally expands slightly within the line, but never across lines, preserving the poem’s argumentative architecture. 5. Ethical Constraint: Refusal of Consolatory Aestheticism

Most crucially, the translation refuses to “beautify” pain. The poem is not lyrical lament but moral deposition—a condemned speaker addressing history, not merely a father. The English therefore resists:

sentimental softening,
melodramatic crescendo,
redemptive closure not present in the original.

The final tone remains suspended between testimony and judgment, mirroring the Arabic’s unresolved ethical horizon.

In sum:
This translation treats meter not as a template to be copied, but as a function to be re-enacted—allowing English prosody to carry the same burden of meaning, responsibility, and historical weight that the Arabic original bears.

**ahmed_allaithy** · 01-09-2026, 04:30 AM

A Letter from the Cell

Father—what grave words issue from my hand,
While rope and headsman stand in mute attendance?
This letter comes to thee from a cell of frost,
Whose stony walls deny both warmth and mercy.
One night alone is granted me to breathe;
I feel its darkness closing as my shroud.
It shall pass, Father—this I doubt not—and after
Men shall bear forth my lifeless frame.

Around me spreads a silence armed with death,
While memory heaves and labors in my breast.
Pain bows me down; I seek my rest and stay
In measured verses of the Sacred Book.
My soul within these ribs grows clear as light;
Awe enters softly, shaking all my frame.
Long have I lived believing in my Lord,
Yet only now I taste faith’s inward sweetness.

The hush is cleft by iron’s hollow cry,
As chains are idly played with by the keeper;
At intervals he fixes me with eyes
That glance like those of some infernal spy,
And through the narrow breach within the door
He marks his prey, then turns, secure, to pace
His ordered rounds.

I bear him no resentment nor deep hate:
What sin of his should earn my bitterness?
He is of decent nature, like thyself,
And shows no thirst for violence or blood.
Yet should he sleep but once upon his watch,
His children taste privation’s bitter bread.
Perchance—though terror sits upon his face—
Were he a poet, he might mourn my fate;
Or, home returned, remembering my form,
Might weep unbidden in his children’s sight.

Upon the hardened wall a window stands,
Where life’s own meaning lies behind thick bars.
Oft have I lingered there in contemplation
Of wakeful souls who rise against despair.
There faces loom like mist, reflecting well
The seething tumult hidden in men’s hearts:
One selfsame feeling dwells in all alike,
Though masked in them—while death in me stands bare.

A whisper coils within my inmost ribs:
What lured me toward this headlong, reckless strife?
Had it not served me better to be seen
Marching with crowds in disciplined submission?
What loss had silence brought me, had I buried
Each grief more deep within concealment’s vault?
This is my blood; it soon shall pour and quench
The fires that flared within my tortured sides;
My restless heart, convulsed with beating now,
Tomorrow shall forbear its throbbing course.

Yet tyranny remains; my death shall not
Unbind its chains nor null its dark decree.
The train of injustice presses onward still,
Unmoved though one torn sheep fall from the herd.
Such is the soul’s discourse when it lays bare
My mortal nature, then resumes its swell;
And tells me life was shaped for aims more high
Than clapping hands before a tyrant’s throne.

Thy burning breath, though stifled, shall yet fill
Their horizon thick with lingering smoke;
The wounds engraved upon thy scourged flesh
Prefigure dawns from which the guilty shrink.
The captive’s tears in distant iron bonds
And here the martyr’s blood shall intermix,
Till hills are glutted full with both alike
And nothing left but flood-born insurrection.
For many storms break forth only when calm
Has lulled the helmsman into careless ease;
Fire thickening in the earth’s deep womb
Provokes at last the fury of the mount.
Drops follow drops; then comes the driving stream,
And after it the overwhelming flood—
It surges roaring, tearing tyrants up,
More potent than all force of throne or sword.

I know not whether memory shall keep
My tale, or drown it in oblivion’s dark;
Nor whether history shall brand me traitor,
Or hail me breaker of the idols’ reign.
This only know I: I cannot drink
The cup of abasement and survive.
Had I in rising sought but light alone
For my afflicted people, that sufficed.
I love a life of dignity and worth—
No chain, no terror, no debasing scorn;
If I must fall, I fall with honor held,
Free men’s hot blood still coursing in my veins.

Father, when morning breaks upon the world
And sunlight floods all quarters of the earth,
And birds amid the branches greet a day
New-born and radiant in its many hues,
And hope’s plain melodies are heard to flow
From common lips of those who ply their trade,
Then he who once knocked gently at our door
Shall knock the prison-gate—the executioner;
And soon thereafter I shall sway aloft,
Fast bound upon the timber of the noose.

Let this console thee: that this fatal cord
Was not wrought here by native hands. They spun it
In a land that vaunts itself a beacon,
Lighting knowledge’s proud and lifted fires;
So they proclaimed—and bore it to my land,
Wounded, by hands of aiding traitors brought.

I would not have thee live in broken grief,
Crushed in the throng of anguish and despair.
Thy son, enchained and dragged toward his death,
Is taken thus without a lawful crime.
Recall the childhood tales thou once didst tell
Of loving lands and native soil held dear.
And if at night thou hear my mother’s sobs,
Lamenting youth cut down in its first bloom,
While deep she hides her grief from prying eyes,
Concealing pain from those who dwell nearby,
Then seek her pardon for me—for from her
I ask no more than absolution’s grace.

Still in mine ear resounds her tender speech,
Each word a draught of mercy and of care:
“My son, infirm am I, and weak with years;
No strength remains in me to bear more grief.
Then let my heart taste joy—go seek a bride
Of virtue, and forgive my stern command.”
Such was her wish, abundant, richly hoped—
How fair her dreams, how gentle her desires.
Now I know not on what wings she rests,
Nor in what gardens she shall dwell henceforth.

What here I set before thee, Father dear,
Is but a portion of my suffering thought.
Yet if at last light triumphs, and the crowd
Tears down the law of pirates and of plunder,
Then even those allied with shame shall speak
My name with honor, weighing well my will.

Until we meet beneath the shade of Justice,
Whose judgments stand in holiness and balance.

**ahmed_allaithy** · 01-09-2026, 04:40 AM

Father, what lines my trembling fingers draw,
While rope and headsman stand, the final law?
This letter reaches thee from frozen stone,
A cell whose walls refuse the heart a home.
One night remains, my measured breath to spend;
Its gathered dark foretells my mortal end.
It shall pass on—I doubt it not, nor pray—
And after, men shall bear my corpse away.

Around me spreads a silence edged with doom;
My memories surge and crowd the narrow room.
Pain bows me low; I seek a steadier breath
In sacred verses armed against my death.
My soul within these ribs stands clear and bare;
Awe enters softly, shaking thought and care.
Long have I lived believing in my Lord;
Only at last I taste faith’s inward chord.

The hush is split by iron’s ringing cry,
As chains are toyed with, idly passing by.
At intervals his watchful eyes appear,
Lit like a spark from regions dark with fear.
Through narrow hatch he marks his living prize,
Then turns secure to pace his ordered guise.
I bear him neither hatred nor disdain;
What guilt of his should justify my pain?

He is of decent mold, like thee, my sire,
No thirst betrays him for another’s fire.
Yet should he sleep one moment at his post,
His children taste privation’s bitter cost.
Perhaps—though terror hardens still his face—
Were he a poet, he would mourn my case;
Or home returned, recalling what I was,
Might weep unbidden, moved by pity’s cause.

Upon the hardened wall a window stands,
Where life lies shackled fast by iron bands.
Oft have I lingered there with wakeful sight,
On those who rise against the rule of night.
Their faces loom like mist upon the air,
Reflecting hearts that seethe yet still forbear.
One feeling binds them all, though masked from view;
In me alone stands death exposed and true.

A whisper coils within my inmost core:
What lured me headlong to this fatal war?
Had it not served me better to be seen
Marching with crowds in discipline serene?
What loss had silence brought me, had I sealed
My grief more deep where none could hear or feel?
This is my blood—it soon shall pour and run,
To quench the fires my tortured sides have spun.

My restless heart, convulsed with fervent beat,
Tomorrow yields its office and its heat.
Yet tyranny remains; my death shall not
Unbind its chains nor cleanse its guilty plot.
The train of injustice presses on its way,
Unmoved though one torn sheep be cast away.
Such is the soul’s discourse when stripped and tried,
Laying man bare, then swelling like a tide.

It tells me life was shaped for ends more high
Than clapping hands when crowned oppressors pass by.
Thy burning breath, though stifled, shall endure
And smoke their skies with memory secure.
The wounds engraved upon thy scourged flesh
Prefigure dawns the guilty fear afresh.
The captive’s tears in distant iron rings
And here the martyr’s blood shall mingle things,

Till hills are glutted full with both combined,
And flood-born revolt is all that’s left behind.
For storms break forth when calm has grown too deep,
And helmsmen trust the sea to let them sleep.
Fire thickening in earth’s concealed domain
At last erupts, ungoverned by the plain.
Drops follow drops; then comes the driving stream,
Then floods that drown the tyrant’s fragile dream.

It surges, tearing idols from their throne,
More strong than scepter, crown, or mailed stone.
I know not whether memory shall keep
My tale, or drown it in oblivion deep;
Nor whether history shall name me vile,
Or breaker of the idols men compile.
This only know I: I cannot drink
The cup of shame, nor live upon its brink.

Had I in rising sought but light alone
For my afflicted people, this had shone
Enough to weigh against the price I pay.
I love a life where dignity holds sway:
No chain, no terror, no debasing scorn;
If I must fall, I fall with honor borne.
Free men’s hot blood still courses through my veins,
Though death stands ready with his certain chains.

Father, when morning breaks on field and street,
And sunlight crowns the world in order sweet;
When birds among the branches hail the day,
And colors bloom where darkness fled away;
When hope’s plain melodies are heard to rise
From common lips beneath familiar skies—
Then he who once knocked gently at our door
Shall knock the prison-gate, and knock no more.

Soon after, I shall sway upon the beam,
A body hanging where the ravens dream.
Let this console thee: this unpitying cord
Was not wrought here by hands of our own ward.
They spun it in a land that boasts its light,
A beacon robed in knowledge, crowned with right;
So they proclaimed—and bore it to my shore
By traitors’ hands, my wounded country’s sore.

I would not have thee live in shattered grief,
Crushed by the weight of anguish past relief.
Thy son, enchained and driven to his end,
Is slain without a crime the law could mend.
Recall the childhood tales thou once didst tell
Of native lands beloved and guarded well.
And if at night my mother’s sobs arise,
For youth cut down before its promised skies,

If deep she hides her grief from prying sight,
Concealing pain from neighbors day and night,
Then seek her pardon for me—this I pray:
From her I ask no more than grace to stay.
Still in mine ear her tender speech resounds,
Each word with mercy mixed, with care it bounds:
“My son, infirm am I and worn with years;
No strength remains to carry further tears.

Then let my heart taste joy—go seek a bride
Of virtue, and forgive my stern command.”
Such was her wish, abundant, rich, and kind;
How fair her hopes, how gentle her design.
Now I know not on what wings she rests,
Nor in what gardens she her sorrow nests.

What here I set before thee, Father dear,
Is but a part of what I suffer here.
Yet if at last light triumphs by the crowd,
And pirate law is torn, and power unbowed,
Then even those allied with shame shall say
My name with honor on a freer day.

Until we meet beneath just judgment’s shade,
Where holy scales are held and never swayed.

**ahmed_allaithy** · 01-09-2026, 04:53 AM

Critical Note: From Qaṣīda Judgment to Augustan Moral Closure

This poem occupies a rare but intelligible position between two rigorous poetic systems: the classical Arabic qaṣīda and Augustan English moral verse. Its translation into heroic couplets is not a gesture of stylistic assimilation, but an attempt to preserve the poem’s procedural intelligence—how it thinks, argues, and judges—across languages. 1. Qaṣīda Logic: Unity Through Constraint

The classical qaṣīda is often mischaracterized as thematically digressive. In fact, its coherence is enforced not by linear narrative but by formal constraint, most notably sustained monorhyme and meter. Every bayt must return to the same terminal sound, creating a continuous field of accountability. The poet may hesitate, doubt, remember, or accuse—but every movement must pass through the same phonetic gate.

In this poem, the qaṣīda’s logic is unmistakable. The speaker moves through:

intimate address (the father),
ethical self-interrogation,
political indictment,
prophetic futurity,
and testamentary closure.

What binds these stages is not theme but return: each verse must answer to the rhyme, just as each thought answers to judgment. The poem does not seek lyric release; it seeks moral endurance under constraint. 2. The Bayt as Ethical Unit

In classical Arabic poetics, the bayt is a complete ethical act. It may be syntactically open, but it is rhetorically closed. Each line stands capable of citation, repetition, and accountability. This feature is essential to understanding the poem’s authority: the speaker is not improvising; he is testifying.

The monorhyme intensifies this effect. The poem does not progress toward resolution; it accumulates pressure. The voice does not escape; it persists. 3. Augustan Moral Verse: Closure as Judgment

Augustan English poetry—particularly heroic couplets—operates through a different but structurally analogous principle. Where the qaṣīda enforces unity through recurrence, heroic couplets enforce it through closure.

Each couplet:

introduces a claim,
sharpens it,
and seals it with rhyme.

This makes the form uniquely suited to ethical reasoning under discipline. Pope’s couplets are not merely elegant; they are juridical. They resemble verdicts, not impressions.

For a poem that interrogates obedience, revolt, sacrifice, and historical memory, such a form is not incidental. It compels the speaker to finish what he begins. There is no enjambed escape, no dissolving ambiguity. 4. Functional Equivalence, Not Formal Imitation

The translation does not attempt to reproduce Arabic monorhyme mechanically. Continuous monorhyme in English, sustained over epic length, would risk monotony or artificial diction. Instead, the heroic couplet is adopted as a functional analogue:

Arabic monorhyme binds every line to fate.
English couplets bind every thought to judgment.

Both systems reject provisional utterance. Both insist that language must answer for itself. 5. Testimony Rather Than Lament

Crucially, both traditions support a mode of speech that is testimonial, not confessional. The speaker does not seek pity; he seeks record. He speaks not to be absolved but to be understood correctly by history.

In this sense, the poem belongs neither to Romantic expressivism nor to modern protest lyric. Its closest analogues are:

the Arabic tradition of the condemned voice addressing posterity,
and the Augustan tradition of moral reasoning compressed into durable form.

6. Judgment as the Final Horizon

The convergence of qaṣīda logic and heroic couplets produces a poem governed by constraint as meaning. The speaker is bound—by chains, by law, by history, by form. That binding is not aesthetic; it is ethical.

The rhyme does not console.
It closes.

In both traditions, form is not decoration but responsibility.

ترجمة قصيدة في ليلة التنفيذ_هاشم الرفاعي

ترجمة قصيدة في ليلة التنفيذ_هاشم الرفاعي

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