‫للشاعر بدر شاكر السياب‬ Badr Shakir El-Sayyab

‫ين الذي أَ ْل َقى ِھ َيا ًما؟‬ َ ‫َھ ْل ُت َس ِّم‬ Would you call what I have love’s fire?
‫أَ ْم ُج ُنو ًنا بِاألَ َمانِي؟ أ ْم َغ َرا ًما؟‬ Or mad hope? Or desire?
‫َما َيكونُ ال ُحبُّ ؟ َن ْوحً ا َوا ْبتِ َسا ًما؟‬ What is love? Grieving and a smile?
Or a fire trembling in my bones when our eyes meet,
‫ان ال َتالقِي‬
َ ‫الحرَّ ى إذا َح‬ َ ‫وق األَضْ لَ ِع‬ ُ ُ‫أ ْم ُخف‬ and the longing that I hide by gazing at my feet,
‫ت ف َِرارً ا بِا ْشتِ َياقي‬ ْ ‫َب ْي َن َع ْي َن ْي َنا َف‬
ُ ‫أط َر ْق‬ a longing for the quench of heaven’s drink?
‫س َتسْ قِينِي إ َذا َما؟‬ َ ‫َعنْ َس َما ٍء لَ ْي‬ Prayerful and thirsty I came but no,

.‫ج ْئ ُت َھا ُمسْ َتسْ قِ ًّيا أَ ّال أَ ْواما‬

into the dregs of hell’s brew I did sink.
ِ

‫الح ْو ُر لَ ْو أَصْ َب ُحنَّ ظِ ّالً في َش َرابي‬ َ ُ‫ال ُعيُون‬ Your eyes in all their fullness—

َ ‫ح فِي أَ ْي ِدي‬ ُ ‫ت األ ْقدَ ا‬

could they in my drink their shadow cast,
‫ص َحابِي‬ َ َّ‫َجف‬ even the cups of my friends would dry,
ِ ‫ض ْي َن َح َّتى بِال ُح َبا‬
‫ب‬ َ ْ‫ون أَنْ َيح‬ َ ‫ُد‬ not the slightest drop would last;
‫َھ ِّيئِي َيا َكأْسُ ِمنْ َحا َفاتِ َك ال ُس ْك َرى َم َكا ًنا‬ O Glass! Prepare a place upon your drunken edge
‫َت َتال َقى فِي ِه َي ْو ًما َش َف َتا َنا‬
where our lips might one day meet
in trembling and burning replete,
ْ‫وق َو ْالتِ َھاب‬ٍ ُ‫فِي ُخف‬ in that distance which in its very depths
ٍ ‫اع فِي أَعْ َماقِ ِه ظِ ُّل ا ْقتِ َرا‬
‫ب‬ َ ‫َوا ْبتِ َعا ٍد َش‬ casts the shadow of her approaching steps.

‫جيبِي‬ ِ ‫َك ْم َت َم َّنى َق ْلبِي ال َم ْكل ُومُ لَ ْو لَ ْم َتسْ َت‬
ٍ ‫ِمنْ َبعي ٍد لِلِ َھ َوى أَ ْو ِمنْ َق ِري‬
‫ب‬
ٍ ‫آ ِه لَ ْو لَ ْم َتعْ ِرفِي َق ْب َل ال َّتالقِي ِمنْ َحبي‬
‫ب‬
if only your lips had never touched another mouth,
‫ش َفا َھا‬ َ ِ‫أَيَّ َث ْغ ٍر َمسَّ َھات‬
ِّ ‫يك ال‬
‫َسا ِك ًبا َش ْك َواهُ آ ًھا ُث َّم آ ًھا؟‬
‫َغ ْي َر أَ ِّني َجا ِھلٌ َمعْ َنى ُس َؤالِي َعنْ َھ َوا َھا؟‬
How longs my wounded heart for your reply
to love, whether from afar or nearby;
Ah, if only you had never met another love,
letting go its sweet pain with “Ah!”
But me? I don’t know.
Why question I her love for me?

‫أَ ُھ َو َشي ٌء ِمنْ َھ َوا َھا َيا َھ َوا َھا؟‬

Is it from my love for her, O love? What could it be?

‫ض ْو َء ال َط ُروبا‬ َّ ‫أَحْ ُس ُد ال‬ I envy that light, happy and gay,

‫ُموشِ ًكا ِم َّما ُيالقِي أَنْ َي ُذوبا‬

about to melt from what it faces in the way,
so connected is it, its nibbling poetry full;
‫شعْ َر ْالتِ َثا ًما‬َّ ‫فِي ِر َباطٍ أَ ْو َس َع ال‬ Heaven’s first light, now and then, colors so bold,
‫ال َّس َما ُء البِ ْك ُر ِم َن أ َلوانِ ِه آ ًنا وآ ًنا‬ permit the eye only fairest purple to behold.
‫الطرْ فُ ّإال أ ُرْ َج َوانا‬ َ ‫ال ُينِي ُل‬ I wish my heart from that imprisoned light were but a ray.
Please tell me, Is all of this love’s way?
‫ين‬
ِ ‫ج‬ِ ‫ض ْو ِء ال َّس‬ َّ ‫ك ال‬ َ ِ‫ت َق ْلبِي لَ ْم َح ٌة ِمنْ َذل‬ َ ‫لَ ْي‬
‫أَ ُھ َو ُحبٌّ ُك ُّل َھ َذا َخ ِّب ِرينِي‬