The Garden Of Bright Waters | Page 7

And when she walks,
All women tall and tiny
Want her figure and
start crying.
Because of your mouth,
Long life to the Agata valley,
Long life to
pearls.
Watchers have discovered paradise in your cheeks,
But I am
undecided,
For there is a hint of the tops of flames
In their purple
shining.
_From the Arabic of Ahmed Bey Chawky (contemporary)._
WHITE AND GREEN AND BLACK TEARS
Why are your tears so white?
Dear, I have wept so long
That my
old tears grow white like my old hair.
Why are your tears so green?
Dear, the waters are wept away
And
the green gall is flowing.
Why are your tears so black?
Dear, the weeping is over
And the
black flash you loved is breaking.
_From the Arabic (School of Ebn-el-Farid) (thirteenth century)._
A CONCEIT
I hide my love,
I will not say her name.
And yet since I confess
I
love, her name is told.
You know that if I love
It must be ... Whom?
_From the Arabic of Ebn Kalakis Abu El Fath Nasrallah (eleventh
century)._

VALUES
Since there is excitement
In suffering for a woman,
Let him burn on.

The dust in a wolf's eyes
Is balm of flowers to the wolf
When a
flock of sheep has raised it.
From the Arabic.
WHAT LOVE IS
Love starts with a little throb in the heart,
And in the end one dies

Like an ill-treated toy.
Love is born in a look or in four words,
The
little spark that burnt the whole house.
Love is at first a look,
And
then a smile,
And then a word,
And then a promise,
And then a
meeting of two among flowers.
From the Arabic.
THE DANCING HEART
When she came she said:
You know that your love is granted,
Why
is your heart trembling?
And I:
You are bringing joy for my heart
And so my heart is
dancing.
From the Arabic of Urak El Hutail.
THE GREAT OFFENCE
She seemed so bored,
I wanted to embrace her by surprise;
But then
the scalding waters
Fell from her eyes and burnt her roses.
I offered her a cup....
And came to paradise....

Ah, sorrow,
When she rose from the waves of wine
I thought she
would have killed me
With the swords of her desolation....
Especially as I had tied her girdle
With the wrong bow.
_From the Arabic of Abu Nuas (eighth century)._
AN ESCAPE
She was beautiful that evening and so gay....
In little games
My hand had slipped her mantle,
I am not sure

About her skirts.
Then in the night's curtain of shadows,
Heavy and discreet,
I asked
and she replied:
To-morrow.
Next day I came
Saying, Remember.
Words of a night, she said, to bring the day.
_From the Arabic of Abu Nuas (eighth century)._
THREE QUEENS
Three sweet drivers hold the reins,
And hold the places of my heart.

A great people obeys me,
But these three obey me not.
Am I then
a lesser king than love?
_From the Arabic of Haroun El Raschid (eighth century)._
HER NAILS
She is as wise as Hippocrates,
As beautiful as Joseph,
As
sweet-voiced as David,
As pure as Mary.
I am as sad as Jacob,
As lonely as Jonah,
As patient as Job,
As

unfortunate as Adam.
When I met her again
And saw her nails
Prettily purpled,
I
reproached her for making up
When I was not there.
She told me gently
That she was no coquette,
But had wept tears of
blood
Because I was not there,
And maybe she had dried her eyes

With her little hands.
I would like to have wept before she wept;
But she wept first
And
has the better love.
Her eyes are long eyes,
And her brows are the
bows of subtle strong men.
_From the Arabic of Yazid Ebn Moauia (seventh century)._
PERTURBATION AT DAWN
Day comes....
And when she sees the withering of the violet garden
And the saffron
garden flowering,
The stars escaping on their black horse
And dawn
on her white horse arriving,
She is afraid.
Against the sighing of her frightened breasts
She puts her hand;
I
see what I have never seen,
Five perfect lines on a crystal leaf

Written with coral pens.
_From the Arabic of Ebn Maatuk (seventeenth century)._
THE RESURRECTION OF THE TATTOOED GIRL
Her hands are filled with what I lack,
And on her arms are pictures,

Looking like files of ants forsaking the battalions,
Or hail inlaid by
broken clouds on green lawns.
She fears the arrows of her proper eyes
And has her hands in armour.

She has stretched her hands in a cup to me,
Begging for my heart.

She has circled me with the black magic of her brows
And shot small
arrows at me.
The black curl that lies upon her temple
Is a scorpion pointing his
needle at the stars.
Her eyes seem tight, tight shut;
But I believe she is awake.
_From the Arabic of Yazid Ebn Moauia (seventh century)._
MOALLAKA
The poets have muddied all the little fountains.
Yet do not my strong eyes know you, far house?
O dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa,
Speak to me, for my camel
and I salute you.
My camel is as tall as a tower, and I make him stand
And