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ليسَ الحبيبُ على ما كنتَ تَعْهَدُهُ

قد غَيّر الدهرُ ذاك الحُبَّ ألوانا

“She loved him… or was she deceiving?”

ما تَغَيّرْتُ بَعدَ غَديرٍ وَلا كَانَ

فُؤادي بغَيرِ غَديرٍ يَهيمُ

To you, G:

I was marked out for you from birth;
My life has been a precondition
For our encounter — which I crave;
I know you’re sent by God’s provision,
And you’re my guardian till the grave..
You came in dreams that soon abounded,
Even unseen, I treasured you.

Fond early on of reading novels,
For which all else she would forgo,

He loved, ah, as we cannot know it,
Today such love's anomalous,
Only the mad soul of a poet
Is still condemned to loving thus:
Always and everywhere one vision,
One customary, single mission,
One customary, single grief.

أَنتَ شُغلُ الفُؤادِ عَن كُلِّ شَيءٍ

لَيسَ يَخلو الفُؤادُ حَتّى يَراكا

ما بَدا لي شَخصٌ وَلا سَمِعَت أُذُنايَ

حِسّاً إِلّا حَسِبتُكَ ذاكا

وَإِذا ما مَدَدتُ طَرفي إِلى غَيرِكَ

مُثِّلتَ دونَهُ فَأَراكا

(في حبّي لغدير)

وكأنّ قَلبي مِنْ هَوَاهُ في وَثاقٍ لَيسَ يُطلَقْ

Another memory comes, revealing
A cherished dream in which I stand
Holding a happy stirrup... feeling
A tiny foot inside my hand.
Imagination seethes, excited,
Once more its contact has ignited
The blood within my withered heart,
Once more I love, once more I smart!

إليكِ غ:

فيا رَبّ ألّفْ بينَ قَلبي وقَلبِها

ويا رَبّ صَبّرْني على ما أصابَني

ويا رَبّ عَذّبها بما بي مِنَ الهَوَى

may the dead help me bear what is almost unbearable, since the living aren't much use to me.

وما المرء إلا قلبُه ولسانُهُ
إذا حصلت أخبارُهُ ومَدَاخله

إذا ما رِداءُ المرء لم يَكُ ظاهراً
فهيهات أن يُنقِيه بالماء غاسلُه

وما كلُّ من تخشى ينالُك شَرُّه
وما كلُّ ما أمَّلْتَهَ أنتَ نائُلُه

أصادِقٌ حُبُّكِ أم كاذِبٌ
يا خُلّتي؟ حُبُّكِ مَصنوعُ!

عاهَدتِني أن تحفَظي لي الهَوَى
فقَد بَدا لي منكِ تَضييعُ

“I write because I have nothing else to do in the world: I was left over and there is no place for me in the world of men. I write because I’m desperate and I’m tired, I can no longer bear the routine of being me and if not for the always novelty that is writing, I would die symbolically every day.”