And Suʿād, on the morning of farewell when they departed,
was nothing but a soft-voiced maid with downcast, kohl-rimmed eyes.

When she smiles she lifts the veil from teeth that gleam
like a watering place brightened by wine that has been thinned.

She charmed me with a draught of cool water drawn from a bending channel—
crystal-clear in the valley of Abṭaḥ, cooled by the north wind.

The breezes sweep away the floating specks, and a nighttime cloud
douses it with showers, its drops white and copious.

How noble a companion she would be, if only she kept her promises—
if only advice were ever welcomed!

Yet she is a friend whose very blood is mingled with
anguish, obsession, falsehood, and change.

She never stays in one state for long,
like the ghoul that shifts its many-coloured cloaks.

Nor does she hold to the pact she claims—
no more than a sieve can keep water.

So let not her pledges and promises beguile you;
wishes and dreams are but deception.

The broken pledges of ʿArqūb became a proverb for her;
her own promises are nothing but lies.

I hope and I long that her affection might draw near,
but I hardly think we shall receive a gift from her.

Suʿād now dwells in a land that none can reach
save swift, noble coursers bred for the messenger’s ride.

None can get to her but lean, long-legged steeds
that shift from trot to amble when fatigue sets in—

mounts that pour out frothy sweat when they labor,
treading a trackless waste whose landmarks are erased and unknown.

They cast their gaze into the unseen with bright, wide, solitary eyes
when the rugged desert and its slopes blaze with heat.