Labid Ibn Rabi’ah

Two poems translated from Arabic by Safwan Khatib

Why Sing of Ruins?

At Mínan, the emptied camps are home to other life.

Places of rest and residence,
the high and low hills
all mastered now by wind––

Streams flow down from Al-Rayan
ruthless as the written word,
marking

the faces of the stones.
.

Months of calm and months of war
have passed

since the nights they slept here––

But the spring rains of the stars
still nourish this ground
in storms . . .

in the gentlest showers . . .

Evenings fill with the deafening chatter
of clouds

Some darken the morning. Some come by night.

The Ayhucan’s branches soar.
Ostrich and deer give birth on the banks of the gorge.
Wild cows gaze softly at their calves.

Rainwater rewrote the ruins

or, like a tattooer, let
new forms rise from purple dust––

I stopped to plead with them.

But how are we to plead with stones
whose deathless faces,

full of words, won’t speak?

Two Laments for Arbad

We vanish. The stars do not.
They light the hills and cisterns in our wake.

I rode, once, in the shadow of Arbad
who has left me here, alone.

But I won’t waste my breath: all will learn
of Time,
who troubles, who separates––

I won’t curse or celebrate what is plain.
People are like encampments: struck by life,
emptied at dawn,
deserted by morning––

The human is like a flame:

after burning across the dark,
reduced to ash––

The good is nothing
but the hidden grammar of devotion––

All property and kin are lent.
They too must be returned to Time.

This land has seen
one people after another––

They come and go, though we remain
as when a herdsman

walks out to gather the last of the camels
that have strayed—

Some awash in fortune,
others wretched,
people are nothing

but two forces:
one brings to end, one seeks to raise––

If my death delays, I’ll still feel
these fingers curl around its staff.

On my knees I’ll tell you stories of the past.
I’m like some sword whose sheath has changed.

O mourners, don’t plea with death.
It has its day––

When the travelers depart
can you tell me who’ll return?

You pull tears from me––
We weep over the trace of the broken

bond of childhood: a bond that cannot break––

But will you fall to your knees each time
Time strikes or calamity arrives?

No interpreter of birds,
no reader
of cast stones can know

what God designs––
Ask them:

When will the young taste their death?
When will the great rains come?

My heart hums with the rhythm of grief.
I wish that it would end––

But the memory of a late dear friend
has pierced my depths––

I knew better than to lash my heart––
a useless act––

but one tempted by darkness
does not obey––

So renounce this theme and speak of other things––

Bring to mind
the virtues of your noble brother––

O Arbad, child of a generous line,

will you leave me now to walk
broken-horned,
our bond shattered?

There is no tragedy like this one:

the loss of every brother
like the sudden darkness of a star––

Those who cared for him have ridden off.
I remain,
abandoned like a mangy hide
among people consumed by vice––

Whoever recounts their days
shames them, never straying from blame––

But time and time again I’ve seen
his people of Ja’far
like an unending rain,

men sharp as battle spears,

proud as stallions, beholden only to the clans
founded by their fathers––

Glory may come to them
unsought,
unwished for––

After my flesh,
my bones thinned––

Time, despite my censure, does not relent.

Translator’s Note: The first poem “Why Sing of Ruins?” is a translation of the first ten lines of Labid’s Mu’āllaqa. The title is my own and does not appear in the original poem, which is much longer. The second two poems are elegies translated in their entirety. The second elegy is recorded in two different versions. I have translated the ب version, recorded by Abu Al-Faraj. Both versions
appear in most editions of Labid’s Diwan.