The Cycle of Death: A Muˁallaqa
By ˁAbīd bin Al-Abraṣ
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
The people are all gone out of Malḥūb,
and Al-Quṭabiyyāt, and Al-Dhanūb.
The people are all gone, too, out of Rākis
and out of Al-Qalīb and Dhāt Firqayn
And ˁArda and Qafā Ḥibirr and Thuˁaylibāt.
There's nowhere in the land where we remain.
The land has taken in the wild and beastly
instead of its own people. Things have changed.
It is a land inherited by death.
All who once lived there have been raided, razed,
Slain by the blade, or left to die alone.
Grey hair marks only a survivor's shame.
The tears gush from your eyes, as if their ducts
were waterskins too hole-filled to retain
A single drop, or as cascades of water
down hillside gullies newly washed in rain,
Or as a torrent through a wādī bed
flooding the valley to a waterway,
Or a slight stream slow under bending palms
wending with a wet murmur in their shade.
How can you yearn for youth's fling, when your hair
warns of a date with death in going gray?
Oh if this land is changed, its people scattered,
don't wonder. Theirs is not the first such fate,
Though all of that expanse be now deserted
though it now havens drouth and dearth and plague.
What hope is so firm life will not belie it?
What happiness can life not wrest away?
What camel is not given to heirs in death?
What plunderer can't be plundered for his take?
All who are gone on journeys may return
but all those gone in death have passed away.
Is a barren womb a peer to fertile women?
Is a failed raider peer to men who gain?
Go prosper how you will. Sometimes the weak
achieve, and skilled men are tricked anyway.
Men won't warn him who will not heed the warnings
of Fate. To teach of wisdom is to fail
Without the heart-born gift of disposition.
Too often has a friend become a hater.
Give aid in any land you find yourself in,
and do not tell yourself "I am a stranger."
You can grow close with people from afar
and be cut off from closest of relations.
Man founders in deceit his whole life long.
Torture for him is life into old age.
Many a stretch of slime-aged standing water
I've reached through deathly, terrifying wastes,
The plumes of pigeon carcasses strewn about.
The frenzied heart heaves fearful of the place.
I passed it on my weary way in worry,
I and my brawny mount in morning haze,
My mount: a camel, onager-swift, strong-spined
her withers smooth as dunes on windless days,
A nine-year tush replaced her seven-year tooth,
not too young or too old, in her prime age
Like a wild ass gone rushing through the reeds,
dark-furred with fight-scars round the neck and face.
Or like an oryx at his peak that feeds
on bindweed1 as the northwinds round him rage.
But that's an age ago. I see myself
born by a swift, big-bodied mare again
Her frame firm to perfection, and her forelocks
cleaving wide in the clearing of her face,
Oil-fluid her every movement, veins asleep,
with a lithely gliding supple healthy shape.
She seems an eagle ready for the hunt,
to fill her nest with hearts plucked from her prey,
Who spends the night perched high upon a rock
like an old woman looking for her babies.
Then there she is in piercing cold at dawn,
hoarfrost adrip from plumes agleam with day.
She sights a meaty fox out in the distance,
nothing between them but one barren waste.
She shakes frost off her feathers, shakes herself
alert, prepared to launch out for the take,
Then launches aloft, swift as a hungry spear,
aiming in one sharp swipe to fell her prey.
He hears her wings, and lifts his tail in terror
as creatures will do only when afraid.
He spots her swoop, and crouches to a crawl
looks up at her and bears his eyes agape.
She takes him, flings him onto the brute rock.
Now prey beneath her lies in crippling pain.
She lifts him up, then dashes him back down.
His face is scraped with stones. His body breaks.
The talons tear into his flank. He squeals.
His breast is pierced. His heart, food. No escape.
Notes:
1 - The term bindweed is my translation of Arabic ruḵāmā. The word is obscure to the commentators who merely describe it as some sort of white bulbous plant. However, ruḵāmā (or ruḵēmā) in the usage of modern Arabian Bedouins refers to the convolvulus cephalopodus (c.f. James T. Mandaville, Bedouin Ethnobotany: Plant Concepts and Uses in a Desert Pastoral World), a type of bindweed, also known as the desert morning glory.
The Original:
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
The people are all gone out of Malḥūb,
and Al-Quṭabiyyāt, and Al-Dhanūb.
The people are all gone, too, out of Rākis
and out of Al-Qalīb and Dhāt Firqayn
And ˁArda and Qafā Ḥibirr and Thuˁaylibāt.
There's nowhere in the land where we remain.
The land has taken in the wild and beastly
instead of its own people. Things have changed.
It is a land inherited by death.
All who once lived there have been raided, razed,
Slain by the blade, or left to die alone.
Grey hair marks only a survivor's shame.
The tears gush from your eyes, as if their ducts
were waterskins too hole-filled to retain
A single drop, or as cascades of water
down hillside gullies newly washed in rain,
Or as a torrent through a wādī bed
flooding the valley to a waterway,
Or a slight stream slow under bending palms
wending with a wet murmur in their shade.
How can you yearn for youth's fling, when your hair
warns of a date with death in going gray?
Oh if this land is changed, its people scattered,
don't wonder. Theirs is not the first such fate,
Though all of that expanse be now deserted
though it now havens drouth and dearth and plague.
What hope is so firm life will not belie it?
What happiness can life not wrest away?
What camel is not given to heirs in death?
What plunderer can't be plundered for his take?
All who are gone on journeys may return
but all those gone in death have passed away.
Is a barren womb a peer to fertile women?
Is a failed raider peer to men who gain?
Go prosper how you will. Sometimes the weak
achieve, and skilled men are tricked anyway.
Men won't warn him who will not heed the warnings
of Fate. To teach of wisdom is to fail
Without the heart-born gift of disposition.
Too often has a friend become a hater.
Give aid in any land you find yourself in,
and do not tell yourself "I am a stranger."
You can grow close with people from afar
and be cut off from closest of relations.
Man founders in deceit his whole life long.
Torture for him is life into old age.
Many a stretch of slime-aged standing water
I've reached through deathly, terrifying wastes,
The plumes of pigeon carcasses strewn about.
The frenzied heart heaves fearful of the place.
I passed it on my weary way in worry,
I and my brawny mount in morning haze,
My mount: a camel, onager-swift, strong-spined
her withers smooth as dunes on windless days,
A nine-year tush replaced her seven-year tooth,
not too young or too old, in her prime age
Like a wild ass gone rushing through the reeds,
dark-furred with fight-scars round the neck and face.
Or like an oryx at his peak that feeds
on bindweed1 as the northwinds round him rage.
But that's an age ago. I see myself
born by a swift, big-bodied mare again
Her frame firm to perfection, and her forelocks
cleaving wide in the clearing of her face,
Oil-fluid her every movement, veins asleep,
with a lithely gliding supple healthy shape.
She seems an eagle ready for the hunt,
to fill her nest with hearts plucked from her prey,
Who spends the night perched high upon a rock
like an old woman looking for her babies.
Then there she is in piercing cold at dawn,
hoarfrost adrip from plumes agleam with day.
She sights a meaty fox out in the distance,
nothing between them but one barren waste.
She shakes frost off her feathers, shakes herself
alert, prepared to launch out for the take,
Then launches aloft, swift as a hungry spear,
aiming in one sharp swipe to fell her prey.
He hears her wings, and lifts his tail in terror
as creatures will do only when afraid.
He spots her swoop, and crouches to a crawl
looks up at her and bears his eyes agape.
She takes him, flings him onto the brute rock.
Now prey beneath her lies in crippling pain.
She lifts him up, then dashes him back down.
His face is scraped with stones. His body breaks.
The talons tear into his flank. He squeals.
His breast is pierced. His heart, food. No escape.
Notes:
1 - The term bindweed is my translation of Arabic ruḵāmā. The word is obscure to the commentators who merely describe it as some sort of white bulbous plant. However, ruḵāmā (or ruḵēmā) in the usage of modern Arabian Bedouins refers to the convolvulus cephalopodus (c.f. James T. Mandaville, Bedouin Ethnobotany: Plant Concepts and Uses in a Desert Pastoral World), a type of bindweed, also known as the desert morning glory.
The Original:
أَقفَرَ مِن أَهلِهِ مَلحوبُ فَالقُطَبِيّاتُ فَالذُّنوبُ
فَراكِسٌ فَثُعَيلِباتٌ فَذاتُ فِرقَينِ فَالقَليبُ
فَعَردَةٌ فَقَفا حِبِرٍّ لَيسَ بِها مِنهُمُ عَريبُ
وَبُدِّلَت أَهلُها وُحوشاً وَغَيَّرَت حالَها الخُطوبُ
أَرضٌ تَوارَثَها شَعوبُ وَكُلُّ مَن حَلَّها مَحروبُ
إِمّا قَتيلاً وَإِمّا هالِكاً وَالشَيبُ شَينٌ لِمَن يَشيبُ
عَيناكَ دَمعُهُما سَروبُ كَأَنَّ شَأنَيهِما شَعيبُ
واهِيَةٌ أَو مَعينٌ مُمعِنٌ أَو هَضبَةٌ دونَها لُهوبُ
أَو فَلَجٌ ما بِبَطنِ وادٍ لِلماءِ مِن بَينِهِ سُكوبُ
أَو جَدوَلٌ في ظِلالِ نَخلٍ لِلماءِ مِن تَحتِهِ قَسيبُ
تَصبو وَأَنَّى لَكَ التَّصابِي أَنّى وَقَد راعَكَ المَشيبُ
إِن تَكُ حالَت وَحُوِّلَ أَهلُها فَلا بَديءٌ وَلا عَجيبُ
أَو يَكُ أَقفَرَ مِنها جَوُّها وَعادَها المَحلُ وَالجُدوبُ
فَكُلُّ ذي نِعمَةٍ مَخلوسٌ وَكُلُّ ذي أَمَلٍ مَكذوبُ
وَكُلُّ ذي إِبِلٍ مَوروثٌ وَكُلُّ ذي سَلَبٍ مَسلوبُ
وَكُلُّ ذي غَيبَةٍ يَؤوبُ وَغائِبُ المَوتِ لا يَؤوبُ
أَعاقِرٌ مِثلُ ذاتِ رِحمٍ أَم غَانِمٌ مِثلُ مَن يَخيبُ
أَفلِحْ بِمَا شِئتَ قَد يُبلَغُ بالضَّعفِ وَقَد يُخدَعُ الأَرِيبُ
لاَ يَعِظُ النَّاسُ مَن لاَ يَعِظِ الدَّهرُ وَلا يَنفَعُ التَلبيبُ
إِلّا سَجِيّاتِ ما القُلوبِ وَكَم يَصيرَنَّ شانِئاً حَبيبُ
سَاعِد بِأَرضٍ تَكُونُ فِيهَا وَلا تَقُل إِنَّنِي غَريبُ
قَد يوصَلُ النازِحُ النائي وَقَد يُقطَعُ ذو السُهمَةِ القَريبُ
وَالمَرءُ مَا عَاشَ فِي تَكذِيبٍ طولُ الحَياةِ لَهُ تَعذيبُ
بَل رُبَّ ماءٍ وَرَدتُ آجِنٍ سَبيلُهُ خائِفٌ جَديبُ
ريشُ الحَمامِ عَلى أَرجائِهِ لِلقَلبِ مِن خَوفِهِ وَجيبُ
قَطَعتُهُ غُدوَةً مُشيحاً وَصاحِبي بادِنٌ خَبوبُ
عَيرانَةٌ مُؤجَدٌ فَقارُها كَأَنَّ حارِكَها كَثيبُ
أَخلَفَ ما بازِلاً سَديسُها لا حِقَّةٌ هِي وَلا نَيوبُ
كَأَنَّها مِن حَميرِ غابٍ جَونٌ بِصَفحَتِهِ نُدوبُ
أَو شَبَبٌ يَحفِرُ الرُخامى تَلُفُّهُ شَمأَلٌ هُبوبُ
فَذاكَ عَصرٌ وَقَد أَراني تَحمِلُني نَهدَةٌ سُرحوبُ
مُضَبَّرٌ خَلقُها تَضبيراً يَنشَقُّ عَن وَجهِها السَبيبُ
زَيتِيَّةٌ ناعِمٌ عُروقُها وَلَيِّنٌ أَسرُها رَطيبُ
كَأَنَّها لِقوَةٌ طَلوبُ تُخزَنُ في وَكرِها القُلوبُ
باتَت عَلى إِرَمٍ عَذوباً كَأَنَّها شَيخَةٌ رَقوبُ
فَأَصبَحَت في غَداةِ قِرَّةٍ يَسقُطُ عَن ريشِها الضَريبُ
فَأَبصَرَت ثَعلَباً مِن ساعَةٍ وَدونَهُ سَبسَبٌ جَديبُ
فَنَفَضَت ريشَها وَاِنتَفَضَت وَهيَ مِن نَهضَةٍ قَريبُ
يَدِبُّ مِن حِسِّها دَبيباً وَالعَينُ حِملاقُها مَقلوبُ
فَنَهَضَت نَحوَهُ حَثيثَةً وَحَرَدَت حَردَةً تَسيبُ
فَاِشتالَ وَاِرتاعَ مِن حَسيسِها وَفِعلَهُ يَفعَلُ المَذؤوبُ
فَأَدرَكَتهُ فَطَرَّحَتهُ وَالصَيدُ مِن تَحتِها مَكروبُ
فَجَدَّلَتهُ فَطَرَّحَتهُ فَكَدَّحَت وَجهَهُ الجَبوبُ
يَضغو وَمِخلَبُها في دَفِّهِ لا بُدَّ حَيزومُهُ مَنقوبُ
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