Birth
Hand on the Prophet, God
look not upon my sins
but help me to greater repentance!
For those alive with me
love the forbidden.
We used to go the unguided road
without God's hand showing the way,
and so we quarreled, we fought
on the purposeless path so long
we didn't care since we were living death
if we were going toward peace
or lost ourselves in void.
Can good combine with evil?
Power spring from the atom?
Pregnant with death's cypher
can it slay war and escape with peace?
Can weakness be upright and just
as strength so that we can pursue it?
Will Earth return to love and joy?
Praise to You, God!
Powerful Willful God,
You sent us a herald,
a warning sign of light,
a great flame to guide us,
a messenger of Your Eye
without whose light
we wouldn't have seen you,
the Maker of all things,
in so many of this world's things:
yes, Your Prophet
who made death hope
and deathlessness a tree
whose flowers refusing to wither
never die.
Hand on the Prophet, God,
On the Prophet, the best among us,
who on the night of Hira'
saddled a moon,
flower of the full moon in the sky,
by whose light we read life's wisdom,
the secrets of permanence,
thanks to a God who guides us,
teaching with the words of his pen
what we did not know.
Hand on the Prophet, God:
overlook my sins,
help me to greater sorrow for them!
Maulid Night
secret of all nights, of all beauty,
spring enchanting me with virtue's charm
tonight my Muslim land burns bright
with the works of imagination
it circles the shaikb' s pillar,
blossoming with cluster lights
like Pleiades' light,
unveils woman's magic luster
in countless ways,
her loveliness fashioned by light
light reveals.
On " Abdul Mun " im's Square
(who loved the people —
rain fall on his grave and bless him!)
the thousands who meet here
only on this holy day rejoice,
their painted tents granted
this one passionate night.
For it's here an old man
rocks to and fro, circling,
pounding the naba dancers
keep circling, bowing,
like waves, back, forth,
up, down, their leaping
filling the night
under the long banners
that float from tent poles
like a drunken ship
on the mountain sea.
They meet, join souls
hand on shoulder greeting, feasting
they dance! they dance!
finding they drink together
the taste of joy:
eager feet stepping in,
treading out the dance!
so swift they move like birds,
kicking up jallabies ,
dervishes turning,
never stopping spinning!
feet jerking, swaying
in the nets of their robes
like fires of flame!
Karir drum beats louder
than nuba's echo,
each dancer rippling, bubbling,
rising like a fountain!
Now a moment of peace
quells the ringing dance,
now body forgets self,
spirit radiant with light
relaxes, the old man's eyes
close on a universe still
dreaming its great dream.
The muqaddam , that great shaikb ,
raises his voice in song,
drawing near he pounds the sweating drum,
from his mouth scattering
the holy words of the rites:
everywhere the circle of his dancing
bending where he bends,
his drum a fire on fire!
. . . . .
Hand on the Prophet, God
Help and support me with him
who speaks for the people
on Judgment Day —
with him who drinks pure water
from al-Kauthar, Paradise river.
On the square's other side
clear light spreads
a rainbow of hope and joy,
a spring flowing through
the darkness of night,
dance driving souls here
slowly one moment,
another faster than breath!
Here a girl dark as
the shadows her veil draws
sways on young hips
shyly, modestly, possibly
saying hello, calling you
with the fringe of her thaub
In chains, she is free,
in harmony, she is chaos.
But see there,
that pretty Maulid candy doll
vendors hawk, that princess
robed in hue of every color
A little thing, but how pretty!
Braced there on her throne
in the carnival high above
islands of sweets,
that seem to the eye
mythical treasures of imaginary pearls.
Though she does not
her downcast eyes speak!
Children turn around her,
dark eyes glinting rainbows
beam their hopes for her,
joyfully misted in tears.
God! How their poverty wastes them!
The tiny children who come here
on Your Prophet's Birthday,
longing for joy, but went home,
taste of dust in their mouths.
Weep for the mother
who'd give them stars
if they asked! Yes,
weep for her:
she carries nights without sleep
all through the brightness of the day.
God! You sent an orphan child
into the world to stand up
for the right, for what is just.
He was kind to us,
we remember him tonight.
Aren't we here to honor in mind
all those without a thing in the world?
In the people's market on the other side
of the square there's trumpet and drum
shouting up hunger and its cure,
a tiny kingdom revolving
around its famous kettle of stew
which grabs our eyes
and steals away thought:
and why not? tell me,
pleasure of the night
mistress of attraction?
From where he stands
the stall-owner looks around,
a barker, a pitchman,
at the huge crowd
sniffing up the meat smoke
whirling from his fiery grill:
O! a flame that found
none of us disobedient when it
called us to the dinner
it laid in our thoughts.
All around king chef
stately braziers fumed,
putting up with skewers
strung with meat cubes,
fat and dripping.
It was a kitchen
we'd entered
busier, noisier
than a prince's court,
its substantial owner
so full of good wit
one circle of diners
after another visited him.
We ate and were at peace,
we drank and felt so full
eating and drinking
no longer made sense.
Then we left and walked,
sleep dragging at our heels
if only we felt like this always,
how we'd thank fate!
And so the night went by;
bed called me and I obeyed,
leaving feasting behind,
and the thousands who hoped
for life's full food:
but no rains came,
each soul faint,
thirsty in the dust.
Echo recalled distant drums
like a crying child
all alone at night.
A snatch of song flew into my ear,
in the darkness already signifying
new dawn on the horizon,
new promises coming true tomorrow!
In my Muslim land, God,
we have returned to You;
depending, O my God, solely on You,
we remember tonight the Chosen Guide
who filled our spirit
with his purity and patience.
Hand on the Prophet, God,
look not upon my sins
but help me to greater repentance!
look not upon my sins
but help me to greater repentance!
For those alive with me
love the forbidden.
We used to go the unguided road
without God's hand showing the way,
and so we quarreled, we fought
on the purposeless path so long
we didn't care since we were living death
if we were going toward peace
or lost ourselves in void.
Can good combine with evil?
Power spring from the atom?
Pregnant with death's cypher
can it slay war and escape with peace?
Can weakness be upright and just
as strength so that we can pursue it?
Will Earth return to love and joy?
Praise to You, God!
Powerful Willful God,
You sent us a herald,
a warning sign of light,
a great flame to guide us,
a messenger of Your Eye
without whose light
we wouldn't have seen you,
the Maker of all things,
in so many of this world's things:
yes, Your Prophet
who made death hope
and deathlessness a tree
whose flowers refusing to wither
never die.
Hand on the Prophet, God,
On the Prophet, the best among us,
who on the night of Hira'
saddled a moon,
flower of the full moon in the sky,
by whose light we read life's wisdom,
the secrets of permanence,
thanks to a God who guides us,
teaching with the words of his pen
what we did not know.
Hand on the Prophet, God:
overlook my sins,
help me to greater sorrow for them!
Maulid Night
secret of all nights, of all beauty,
spring enchanting me with virtue's charm
tonight my Muslim land burns bright
with the works of imagination
it circles the shaikb' s pillar,
blossoming with cluster lights
like Pleiades' light,
unveils woman's magic luster
in countless ways,
her loveliness fashioned by light
light reveals.
On " Abdul Mun " im's Square
(who loved the people —
rain fall on his grave and bless him!)
the thousands who meet here
only on this holy day rejoice,
their painted tents granted
this one passionate night.
For it's here an old man
rocks to and fro, circling,
pounding the naba dancers
keep circling, bowing,
like waves, back, forth,
up, down, their leaping
filling the night
under the long banners
that float from tent poles
like a drunken ship
on the mountain sea.
They meet, join souls
hand on shoulder greeting, feasting
they dance! they dance!
finding they drink together
the taste of joy:
eager feet stepping in,
treading out the dance!
so swift they move like birds,
kicking up jallabies ,
dervishes turning,
never stopping spinning!
feet jerking, swaying
in the nets of their robes
like fires of flame!
Karir drum beats louder
than nuba's echo,
each dancer rippling, bubbling,
rising like a fountain!
Now a moment of peace
quells the ringing dance,
now body forgets self,
spirit radiant with light
relaxes, the old man's eyes
close on a universe still
dreaming its great dream.
The muqaddam , that great shaikb ,
raises his voice in song,
drawing near he pounds the sweating drum,
from his mouth scattering
the holy words of the rites:
everywhere the circle of his dancing
bending where he bends,
his drum a fire on fire!
. . . . .
Hand on the Prophet, God
Help and support me with him
who speaks for the people
on Judgment Day —
with him who drinks pure water
from al-Kauthar, Paradise river.
On the square's other side
clear light spreads
a rainbow of hope and joy,
a spring flowing through
the darkness of night,
dance driving souls here
slowly one moment,
another faster than breath!
Here a girl dark as
the shadows her veil draws
sways on young hips
shyly, modestly, possibly
saying hello, calling you
with the fringe of her thaub
In chains, she is free,
in harmony, she is chaos.
But see there,
that pretty Maulid candy doll
vendors hawk, that princess
robed in hue of every color
A little thing, but how pretty!
Braced there on her throne
in the carnival high above
islands of sweets,
that seem to the eye
mythical treasures of imaginary pearls.
Though she does not
her downcast eyes speak!
Children turn around her,
dark eyes glinting rainbows
beam their hopes for her,
joyfully misted in tears.
God! How their poverty wastes them!
The tiny children who come here
on Your Prophet's Birthday,
longing for joy, but went home,
taste of dust in their mouths.
Weep for the mother
who'd give them stars
if they asked! Yes,
weep for her:
she carries nights without sleep
all through the brightness of the day.
God! You sent an orphan child
into the world to stand up
for the right, for what is just.
He was kind to us,
we remember him tonight.
Aren't we here to honor in mind
all those without a thing in the world?
In the people's market on the other side
of the square there's trumpet and drum
shouting up hunger and its cure,
a tiny kingdom revolving
around its famous kettle of stew
which grabs our eyes
and steals away thought:
and why not? tell me,
pleasure of the night
mistress of attraction?
From where he stands
the stall-owner looks around,
a barker, a pitchman,
at the huge crowd
sniffing up the meat smoke
whirling from his fiery grill:
O! a flame that found
none of us disobedient when it
called us to the dinner
it laid in our thoughts.
All around king chef
stately braziers fumed,
putting up with skewers
strung with meat cubes,
fat and dripping.
It was a kitchen
we'd entered
busier, noisier
than a prince's court,
its substantial owner
so full of good wit
one circle of diners
after another visited him.
We ate and were at peace,
we drank and felt so full
eating and drinking
no longer made sense.
Then we left and walked,
sleep dragging at our heels
if only we felt like this always,
how we'd thank fate!
And so the night went by;
bed called me and I obeyed,
leaving feasting behind,
and the thousands who hoped
for life's full food:
but no rains came,
each soul faint,
thirsty in the dust.
Echo recalled distant drums
like a crying child
all alone at night.
A snatch of song flew into my ear,
in the darkness already signifying
new dawn on the horizon,
new promises coming true tomorrow!
In my Muslim land, God,
we have returned to You;
depending, O my God, solely on You,
we remember tonight the Chosen Guide
who filled our spirit
with his purity and patience.
Hand on the Prophet, God,
look not upon my sins
but help me to greater repentance!
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.