Pombas Brancas
Translation:
White doves
Flying high
Scratching the shadows
Of the large clouds
There they go
Doves that do not return
They bring within
Their wings
In rosy beaks
Scattered clouds
On the sea
Doves of my singing
Merely singing
Various recollections
Coming on the paths
Nobody knows
Where they go
The Doves that do not return
Original:
Pombas brancas
Que voam altas
Riscando as sombras
Das nuvens largas
Lá vão
Pombas que não voltam
Trazem dentro
Das asas prendas
Nas bicos rosas
Nuvens desfeitas
No mar
Pombas do meu cantar
Canto apenas
Lembranças várias
Vindas das sendas
Que ninguém sabe
Onde vão
Pombas que não voltam
Oju mo ti mo mi
Ni le yi o o
Oju mo ti mo – mo ri re o
Eye abada
Eye adaba
Eye adaba ti n fo l’oke l’oke ori orun
Wa ba le mi o o
Oju mo ti mo mo ri re o
Eye abada
Eye adaba
Eye adaba ti n fo lo ke lo ke
Wa ba le mi o o
Oju mo ti mo, mo ri re o
Gentle now,
doves of the thornberry and moringa thicket,
don’t add to my heart-ache
your sighs.
Gentle now,
or your sad cooing
will reveal the love I hide
the sorrow I hide away.
I echo back, in the evening,
in the morning, echo,
the longing of a love-sick lover,
the moaning of the lost.
In a grove of tamarisks
spirits wrestled,
bending the limbs down over me,
passing me away.
They brought yearning,
breaking of the heart,
and other new twists of pain,
putting me through it.
Who is there for me in Jám’,
and the Stoning-Place at Miná,
who for me at Tamarisk Grove,
or at the way-station of Na’mān?
Hour by hour
they circle my heart
in rapture, in love-ache,
and touch my pillars with a kiss.
As the best of creation
circled the Ka’ba,
which reason with its proofs
called unworthy,
And kissed the stones there –
and he was the Natiq!
And what is the house of stone
compared to a man or a woman?
They swore, and how often!
they’d never change – piling up vows.
She who dyes herself red with henna
is faithless.
A white-blazed gazelle
is an amazing sight,
red-dye signalling,
eyelids hinting,
Pasture between breastbones
and innards.
Marvel,
a garden among the flames!
My heart can take on
any form:
a meadow for gazelles,
a cloister for monks,
For the idols, sacred ground,
Ka’ba for the circling pilgrim,
the tables of the Torah,
the scrolls of the Qur’án.
I profess the religion of love;
wherever its caravan turns along the way,
that is the belief,
the faith I keep.
Like Bishr,
Hind and her sister,
love-mad Qays and his lost Láyla,
Máyya and her lover Ghaylán.
-Ibn ‘Arabi
(trans. Michael Sells)
from: http://www.ibnarabisociety.org/articles/poemtarjuman11.html
Original:
ألا يا حَماماتِ الأراكَة ِ والبَانِ ترَفّقْنَ لا تُضْعِفْنَ بالشجوِ أشجاني
ترَفّقْنَ لا تُظهرنَ بالنّوح والبُكا خفيَّ صباباتي ومكنونَ أحزاني
أُطارحُها عند الأصيلِ وبالضحى بحنَّة ِ مشتاقٍ وأنَّة ِ هيمانِ
تَنَاوَحَتِ الأرواحُ في غَيضَة ِ الغَضا فمالتْ بأفنانٍ عليَّ فأفناني
وجاءتْ منَ الشَّوقِ المبرَّحِ والجوى ومن طُرَفِ البَلْوَى إليّ بأفْنانِ
فمَن لي بجمعٍ والمحصَّب مِن مِنًى ومَنْ لي بِذاتِ الأثْلِ مَنْ لِي بنَعْمان
تطوفُ بقلبي ساعة ً بعدَ ساعة ٍ لوَجدٍ وتبريحٍ وتَلثُمُ أركاني
كما طاف خيرُ الرُّسلِ بالكعبة ِ التي يقولُ دليلُ العقْلِ فيها بنُقصَانِ
وقبّلَ أحجاراً بها، وهو ناطقٌ وأينَ مَقامُ البيتِ من قدرِ إنسانِ
فكَم عَهِدَتْ أن لا تحولَ وأقسمتْ وليس لمخضوبٍ وفاءٌ بأيمانِ
ومنْ أعجبِ الأشياءِ ظبى ُ مبرقعُ يشيرُ بعنَّابٍ ويومي بأجفانِ
ومَرعاهُ ما بينَ التّرائِبِ والحَشَا ويا عَجَباً من روضة ٍ وَسَطَ نيرانِ
لقدْ صارَ قلبي قابلاً كلَّ صورة ٍ فمَرْعًى لغِزْلاَنٍ وديرٌ لرُهْبانِ
وبَيْتٌ لأوثانٍ وكعبة ُ طائفٍ ، وألواحُ توراة ٍ ومصحفُ قرآنِ
أدينُ بدينِ الحبِّ أنَّى توجَّهتْ رَكائِبُهُ فالحُبُّ ديني وإيماني
لنا أُسْوَة ٌ في بِشْرِ هندٍ وأُخْتِهَا وقيسٍ وليلى ، ثمَّ مي وغيلانِ