The Seven Suspended Odes
The Mu'allaqat are seven long poems from the age before Islam — the Jahiliyyah, the Age of Ignorance — composed in sixth-century Arabia and preserved by oral tradition for centuries before being committed to writing. Their name means "the suspended ones," and the oldest tradition holds that they were inscribed in gold on Egyptian linen and hung upon the walls of the Ka'ba in Mecca, the supreme honour Arabic poetry could bestow.
These are not religious texts in the liturgical sense. They are something older and stranger: the sacred poetry of a people who had no scripture. The Mu'allaqat served pre-Islamic Arabia as its Bible, its Iliad, its Book of Songs. They encode an entire civilization — its law of hospitality, its code of honour, its theology of fate, its worship of language itself as the highest human act. When the Quran later spoke of poets as those "who say what they do not do," it was speaking of this tradition. And when it chose to reveal itself in poetry of such devastating beauty that no human poet could match it, it was answering this tradition on its own ground.
The seven poets are: Imru' al-Qais, the wandering prince; Tarafa, the reckless youth executed at twenty; Zuhayr, the old sage of peace; Labid, the desert mystic who fell silent after Islam; Antara, the Black warrior who fought for love; Amr ibn Kulthum, the tribal champion whose pride shook kings; and al-Harith ibn Hilliza, the diplomat who pleaded his people's case before a tyrant.
This is a Good Works Translation from Arabic, produced by the New Tianmu Anglican Church with AI assistance. The translation follows the gospel register — plain, direct, warm — and renders the Arabic verse in free-form English lines that follow the breath of the original rather than its metre. Place names and proper nouns are transliterated from the Arabic. The original Arabic text with full tashkil follows the colophon.
I. Imru' al-Qais
Imru' al-Qais ibn Hujr al-Kindi (died c. 544 CE), prince of the tribe of Kinda, the wandering king. His father was murdered; he spent his life seeking vengeance and a lost throne. The Arabs called him "the prince of poets." His Mu'allaqah opens with the most famous line in Arabic literature.
Stop, both of you. Let us weep
for the memory of a love and a dwelling
at the edge of the curving sand
between al-Dakhul and Hawmal,
between Tudih and al-Miqrat,
whose traces the weaving winds
of south and north have not erased.
You see the droppings of white deer
scattered across her courts and hollows
like black peppercorns on the ground.
On the morning they loaded the camels to leave,
by the acacia trees of the tribe,
I stood cracking the bitter colocynth in my hands.
My companions reined in their mounts beside me
and said: Do not die of grief. Bear it.
But my cure is in the tears I pour —
and what good is weeping
over traces in the sand?
It was the same with Umm al-Huwayrath before her,
and her neighbour Umm al-Rabab at Ma'sal —
when they rose, the air filled with musk
as the east wind carries the scent of carnations.
Then the tears streamed down
and soaked the strap across my chest
until my sword-belt dripped with weeping.
And yet — what fine days I had with women!
Especially the day at Darat Juljul,
the day I slaughtered my riding-camel for the maidens —
how marvellous was the sharing of her burden!
The girls kept tossing her butchered meat
back and forth like fringes of twisted silk.
And the day I entered Unayza's howdah —
she said: Damn you, you'll make me walk!
The litter tilted with both of us in it
and she said: You've hamstrung my camel, Imru' al-Qais!
Get down!
I said: Ride on, and loosen the reins.
Do not keep me from your fruit
that I have come to taste again.
Many a woman like you — pregnant, or nursing —
I have visited at night,
and made her forget the one-year child
hung with charms against the evil eye.
When the child cried behind her
she turned to him with half her body
but the half beneath me never moved.
And one day on the dune ridge
she swore an oath — a terrible oath —
that she would never yield.
O Fatima, gently with the teasing!
Even if you mean to cut me loose,
do it gently.
If there is something about me that troubles you,
then pull my garments free from yours
and they will slide away.
But your eyes have struck me down,
and only what they killed is slain.
Many a tent — deep, well-guarded,
whose curtains I have parted —
I entered for my pleasure
past watchmen who would have killed me
had they caught me at their ease.
And when the Pleiades spread themselves
across the sky like a jewelled belt
drawn from sash to sash,
I came, and she was standing
at the curtain's edge, stripped for sleep
as though she wore nothing
but the last thin garment.
She said: God's oath upon you, you have no excuse.
I see you will never outgrow your wildness.
I led her out, and as we walked
she dragged her brocade skirt across our footprints
to cover our trail.
When we had crossed the courtyard of the tribe
and reached the open sand
between the twisted dunes,
I pulled her temples toward me
and she leaned in, slender-waisted,
full at the ankle, smooth and white,
her belly flat as a polished mirror,
luminous — her skin like a pearl
still wet from the untouched water,
nourished in its shell.
She turns away and shows a smooth cheek,
and wards me off with the glance of a wild doe
of Wajra, a mother with her fawn.
She shows a throat like the throat of an oryx —
not ugly when she lifts it —
and dark hair that adorns her back,
black as coal, thick as a date-cluster
heavy on the palm.
Her braids twist upward to the crown
and lose themselves in the plaited and unplaited strands.
Her waist is a slender cord.
Her legs are like two stalks of the papyrus
watered at a garden stream.
Musk-grains rest upon her bed at morning.
She sleeps through the forenoon — no need
to gird herself or labour.
She gives with slender fingers, never coarse,
as though they were the sand-worms of Zaby,
or the toothbrush sticks of ishil.
At evening she lights the dark
like a lamp in the niche
of a monk who has kept his vigil.
At a girl like this the wise man gazes
with desire — she stands
between the gown of womanhood
and the dress of the child who has not yet
put on the robe.
The men strip off their burdens
and their stained garments
but my heart is not yet healed
of its old love for you.
Many an enemy's warning I have turned aside,
frank as he was in blaming me —
I was not moved.
O night of the flood — the long night!
like a wave of the sea
it has let down its curtains on me
with every kind of grief, to test me.
I said to the night, when it stretched its heavy back
and dragged its lazy haunches after it:
O long night, will you not break open,
though the dawn would be no better to me than you?
What a night you are!
as though the stars were tied
to the flank of Mount Yadhbul with twisted ropes,
as though the Pleiades were fastened
in their place by cables of hard flax
staked into a slab of stone.
Many a waterskin of the tribe I have slung
across my shoulder, obedient and humbled,
carrying it through empty valleys.
And many a stripped and singing wilderness
I have crossed — wide as the back of a shield —
where the wolf howls like a wastrel
driven out by his family,
and I said to the wolf when he howled:
You and I are the same, brother.
You gain as little as I gain.
When either of us finds a thing, it slips away.
Whoever sows on your plot or mine
will reap a thin harvest.
Sometimes I rode out at dawn,
the birds still in their nests,
on a horse short-haired and quick
who overtakes the wild beasts and wheels on them again,
who charges and retreats and turns all in one motion
like a boulder the flood has dragged from the heights.
Bay in colour — his saddle-blanket slips
from his polished back
as rain slides off the smooth stone.
Lean and fiery even when held back,
his boiling gait roars
like a kettle at full heat.
He gallops when the other horses
are already dragging their hooves
through dust, spent and stumbling.
He throws the light rider from his back
and beats the heavy rider's garments to shreds.
He is fast — like the spinning top
a boy whips with both hands
and it never stops.
He has the flanks of a deer,
the legs of an ostrich,
the trot of a wolf,
the gallop of a young fox.
Heavy in the haunches — when you see him from behind,
he blocks the space between his legs
with a full, solid tail
that nearly sweeps the ground, unbent.
His back, when he stands at the hitching-post,
looks like the grinding-stone of a bride
or the rock where colocynth is cracked.
The blood of the lead-game on his neck
is like henna pressed into grey hair
combed down and oiled.
Then a herd appeared before us —
the cows like virgins
in long-trailing gowns at a shrine,
and they turned like onyx beads
strung on the neck of a boy
whose uncles are noble, from a line of chiefs.
He carried us to the lead of the herd.
We caught the forerunners while they still ran close.
He passed between the bull and the cows
and was not even wet with sweat.
Then the butchers went back and forth
between the roasting-pits:
some turning the fine-grained meat,
some rushing forward with the raw cut
freshly carved.
And the evening — through it I saw
as though I were a scout on the high ridge —
the great storm gathering.
Its right flank dropping rain on Qatan,
its left flank soaking al-Sitar and Yadhbul.
It poured upon Kutayfa by evening
and bent the trunks of the tall kanahbal trees.
Its spray passed over al-Qanan,
driving the white mountain goats down every slope.
At Tayma it left not a single palm-trunk standing,
not a single house — except the stone ones.
And Mount Thabir, in the first shock of the storm,
stood like an old chief
wrapped in a striped cloak.
The peak of al-Mujaymir, in the flood
of rubble and scrub the storm threw down,
looked like a spindle's tip
wound in bundled wool.
The storm dumped its burden on the desert of al-Ghabit
like a Yemeni trader
unloading his bags of cloth.
And the small birds of the valley sang at dawn
as though they had drunk
the morning wine of spiced pepper.
And the drowned beasts of the night lay by evening
at the flood's far edge
like uprooted wild onions.
II. Tarafa ibn al-'Abd
Tarafa ibn al-'Abd al-Bakri (c. 543–569 CE), the youngest of the seven poets. He offended Amr ibn Hind, king of al-Hira, with a satirical verse. The king sent him with a sealed letter to his governor in Bahrain — the letter contained orders for Tarafa's execution. He was twenty years old. His Mu'allaqah is a young man's poem: defiant, sensual, in love with ships and wine and the sheer fact of being alive.
Khawla's traces at the stony ground of Thahmad
are still visible — like the blue marks of tattoo
on the back of a hand.
My companions reined in their camels beside me
and said: Do not perish of sorrow. Be strong.
The ships of the Aduli merchants
set my ruin before me — their hulls
carved a clear path through the water,
sometimes cutting straight,
sometimes tacking to one side
as the steersman drove them on:
splitting the breast of the swell
as a boy at play
splits the mound of sand with his hand.
In that tribe there was a doe
who would not be startled from her grazing —
white and black, modesty itself,
standing easy in a saffron gown.
Her soft mouth working the twigs of the arak,
cool, as though a bag of musk
had been opened by a perfumer.
Do not mourn for her. Saddle the camel instead —
she is the cure. My she-camel:
wide-stepping, trained for distance.
She pushes off the miles from under her
the way a fulling-mill
beats cloth beneath its stamp.
She outruns the fastest riding-beasts
when the hot dust rolls between them
and the riders sink into their saddle-cloths.
I know her. I rode her day and night.
I could describe her limbs as a butcher
lays open the parts of a carcass:
Long-backed, stiff-eared,
her legs swift as water-channels
cut through hard ground.
Her cheek smooth as Syrian parchment,
her split lip like a tanned Yemeni hide —
not coarse, not slack.
Her eyes are two polished mirrors
set in the sockets of rock
near a pool where the rain has gathered.
Her ears are keen — they sift the night sounds
like the ears of a lone bull oryx
in the wastes of Haumal, startled.
Her neck is the mast of a Tigris boat
when the helmsman lifts it full —
her nostrils like the lair of a wolf.
When she sweats behind the ear
it is the sweat that only the strong and lean produce —
she forces her way, the rain on her flanks,
long-striding, kicking the stones aside,
striking her own dry udder with a hard, flat hoof.
She couches at evening at Thahmad
as though she has made a pact with the sand
and settled on a sloping rock,
hard and tall, that the stream avoids.
The water hits its base and spins.
She chews the dry brush all night
and has no companion.
And I — when I am not riding —
you will find me soaking up the wine,
spending, enjoying, spending again,
until the whole clan abandons me
and I sit alone
like a mange-ridden camel smeared with tar.
Yet even the poorest of the earth-dwellers
do not deny what I have:
ask them, and they will tell you.
You — who blame me for going to battle
and going to pleasure —
can you make me live forever
if I leave them both behind?
If you cannot push back the thing that will kill me,
then let me face it
with what I have in my hands.
Three things — and these are the only noble things
for a man of honour before the grave receives him:
Wine, so dark it foams, poured until the jug
tilts and whistles at the lip.
And charging out when the battle-line
is locked, to meet the riders on their war-horses.
And shortening the rain-long day
with a firm woman inside a tent
held up by poles, the canvas shuddering above us.
A day will come when what was given me
will be taken. Let it.
There is no escaping the full cup.
When the soul is easy and the body sound
the poison can still reach you —
and then the two fists, once so generous,
are clenched and hold nothing.
I know — and there is no mistaking it —
that I will die, that the grave is coming.
A man who does not defend his spring
with weapons drawn, will find it fouled.
And a man who does not sometimes wrong others
will be wronged himself.
I served the tribe, and none who knows me
has ever found me wanting.
Many a time I was called to settle blood-disputes
and was patient, and just.
I was the friend who rode ahead.
Many a time the tribe put me first
even before the grey-haired elders.
I am a man — I have my share.
And the day I die, the one who comes after me
will drain the same cup.
III. Zuhayr ibn Abi Sulma
Zuhayr ibn Abi Sulma al-Muzani (c. 520–609 CE), the eldest and wisest of the seven. He composed his Mu'allaqah late in life after witnessing the devastating war of Dahis and al-Ghabra between the tribes of Abs and Dhubyan. The poem praises two peacemakers — Harim ibn Sinan and al-Harith ibn Awf — who paid the blood-money from their own wealth to end the killing. The final verses are the most famous wisdom-sayings in Arabic literature.
Is this the dwelling of Umm Awfa,
silent at the stony ground of al-Huwwayna
and again at al-Mutathallam?
A house at al-Raqmatayn — its traces
like the patterns of tattoo
renewed on the inner wrist.
The white deer stand in its courts
in small groups, grazing easy,
and their fawns rise from their beds
and walk.
I stood here twenty years ago.
I struggled to know the place,
then knew it: the three hearthstones, black,
and the channel where the rain once drained
like the basin of a desert pool.
The morning they loaded the camels,
the women of the tribe packed tight
inside their howdahs — the frames
groaning beneath the heavy canvas
and the fine-striped curtains —
they swayed forward, and the howdahs
looked like great ships
leaving the harbour of Aduli,
or the boats of Ibn Yamin
that the Tigris boatman steers,
cutting the water at an angle, driving straight.
Where will you go, Umm Awfa?
The bonds were already tied.
You chose your new protector.
If you have decided what you will decide,
then go. A woman goes where she is drawn.
Now I will speak of two men:
Harim ibn Sinan
and al-Harith ibn Awf.
They said to the tribes of Abs and Dhubyan:
We will stand between you.
We will pay the blood-price ourselves.
You have poured out the black water
and the white. You have drunk
from the pool of war until it is dry.
I say to them both:
You have done well. You have done
what no man before you dared.
You built peace the way a man builds
a tent in a place where the rain will fall —
high enough to shelter everyone.
You are the great ones of the tribe.
Wherever there is virtue to be found,
you have already walked to it and reached it.
Let no man hide from the eyes of God
what his heart conceals.
Whatever is hidden, God will know it —
postponed perhaps,
recorded in a book and stored for Judgement Day,
or paid for at once.
War — you know war.
I am not telling you by rumour.
When you lift the veil from war's face
you will see it plain:
it is ugly, no mistake,
ugly as the old she-camel
whose udders are swollen with fire,
nursing destruction.
War grinds you the way a millstone grinds grain,
and it conceives each year — always twins,
and each twin worse than the boy
who cursed the tribe of Ad.
It births horrors on the land of Najd
and leaves the strong men broken
like leather worn smooth.
I am tired of the hardship of living.
A man who lives eighty years — believe me —
grows tired.
I have seen what the days bring.
I am not guessing. I have seen.
Whoever does not guard his spring with arms
will find it broken open.
Whoever will not wrong others
will himself be wronged.
Whoever keeps faith with people, they honour him.
Whoever already carries his own honour in his heart
has no need of their praise.
Whoever fears the noose of death
will still be caught.
Even if he climbs a ladder to the sky.
Whoever shows kindness to one who does not deserve it —
his praise will be complaint against him,
and he will regret it.
Whoever owns much wealth and is stingy with it
toward his own people
will find they can live without him
and they will blame him.
Whoever breaks his promise will be known for it.
Whoever goes on breaking it
will come to know the taste of his own faithlessness.
Whoever keeps himself calm in matters
that do not concern him finds peace.
Whoever throws himself
into every fight will be torn.
Whoever lives in terror of the roads
must walk the roads regardless.
And whoever does not leave his country
to seek his fortune, will not find it.
A man's true face — no matter how long
he thinks he has hidden it —
will be known. The mask will slip.
How many men have you met
whose character you could not guess?
Wait. The days will show it.
A man's tongue is half of him.
The other half is his heart.
What remains beyond these two
is the shape of his flesh and blood.
Stupidity does not become wise
with age. There is no curing the fool.
He was born in the dark.
He will die there.
He who asks nothing
and offers himself to no one
will be left behind by every caravan.
IV. Labid ibn Rabi'ah
Labid ibn Rabi'ah al-'Amiri (c. 560–661 CE), the longest-lived of the seven. He converted to Islam and, by tradition, never wrote another line of poetry. When asked why, he said: "God gave me the Quran in its place." His Mu'allaqah is the most landscape-haunted of the seven — a long meditation on ruins, rain, wild animals, and the passage of all things.
The dwellings are stripped bare —
the place where they stayed
and the place where they moved on —
at Mina. The camps at Ghaul
and Rijam are desolate.
The flood-channels of al-Rayyan —
their traces scraped clean,
smoothed out, old as engravings
cut into the flat of a stone.
Dung-blackened grounds
where the tribe lived years ago,
then left. The holy months
and the common months came and went over them.
The star-rains of spring watered them,
the steady clouds
and the thunderheads whose drumming
comes from all sides at once —
the sky low and dark,
the morning rain,
and the evening rain that answers it,
and the wind-driven clouds that answer those.
The wild rocket has grown high
on the banks of the stream-beds.
The gazelles and ostriches
bring their young to the open flats.
The large-eyed cows stand apart,
their calves just born beside them
in the wide clearing.
And the torrents have scoured the dust
until the campsite looks like a page
freshly written — the ink renewed,
the lines recut by streams and channels.
Or like the blue marks of tattoo
a woman darkens with new pricking
when the woad dust is rubbed in, line by line.
I stood and questioned the place.
But how do you question a mute stone?
The answer is dim. The time is gone.
A bare ground, empty,
where once the tribe gathered
in the autumn season and again in spring.
The homestead of a clan
that packed and moved at dawn.
The trench and the scattered thorn-bush are all that remain.
They left. The howdahs swayed.
The curtains hid the women inside,
and over the frames the fine Egyptian cloth
hung down like the caul of a horse.
They bent low in the seats,
the heavy fabric swaying,
their arms brown and slender
as though draped with the tassels of the dam tree.
They left. I trusted my she-camel —
the night-traveller, the desert-breaker,
who has not rested or eased her pace.
She holds the road through the heat
like a rose-coloured cloud
that runs ahead of the south wind, shedding light rain.
Her flanks are lean. Her hooves
have worn down every shoe.
She has eaten the dry season.
She knows the way.
She lowers her head against the dust
and drives forward, tail switching,
back broad and strong,
her stride long and even as a water-channel
carrying its stream through solid ground.
She is the daughter of a fine bull
who called to her in a green valley.
She answered.
The wild asses watch her from the hills,
the stallion circling his mares
on the flat ground by the waterhole.
He drives them off the paths
where hunters wait —
the lord of the herd,
who has run this way before
and knows the ridges where the spear-arm waits.
If he misreads the wind, he dies.
He does not misread.
So I crossed with her — my she-camel,
my desert-cutter —
every empty place.
And I am a man of the tribe of Amir.
When the hard decisions come,
I do not turn away.
I give when I am asked.
I settle what others have left unsettled.
I slaughter my best camel
when the guest arrives
and the cold wind drives men to their fires.
You will see me at the wine-seller's,
spending until I have nothing
but my good name and my honour —
and when the cup comes round again,
I lift it.
And when the tribe gathers to decide
who speaks, you will find me there.
I speak.
And if the mourners cry
at the bier of the dead,
I am generous toward the man who has died.
These are my virtues. I count them.
My grandfather claimed them before me.
Many a man of good rank
boasts of things he does not have.
So do not ask me of things beyond my nature.
Ask the tribes. The horsemen will tell you.
Every living thing — I know it now —
whatever it gathers, whatever it guards,
will one day find its treasure scattered.
Everything God has given will be taken back.
V. Antara ibn Shaddad
Antara ibn Shaddad al-'Absi (c. 525–608 CE), the Black knight. His father was a chief of Abs, his mother an enslaved Ethiopian woman named Zabiba. By the law of the Jahiliyyah, the child of a slave was a slave. His father refused to acknowledge him until the day the tribe was attacked and cried out "Antara, charge!" — and Antara said "A slave does not charge; a slave only milks the camels and ties the udders." His father freed him on the spot. He fought, and the attackers broke. His Mu'allaqah is a warrior's love letter to Abla, the woman he could never have, woven through with some of the most vivid battle-scenes in Arabic poetry.
Have the poets left anything unstitched?
Do you even know the house you are trying to remember?
O dwelling of Abla at al-Jiwa,
speak to me. Good morning,
dwelling of Abla. Peace upon you.
I stopped my she-camel there —
she is as big as a fortress to me —
so I could fulfil the need
of the one who stops and weeps at ruins.
O Abla, you live in al-Jiwa
and I camp at al-Hazn.
But my desire to reach you
drives me out at night.
O Abla, even if you pitch your tent
across distances no camel could cross,
I have a mount that will find you:
sure-footed, lean,
her hind legs tight to her forelegs
when the dust rises around her.
My she-camel is strong. I ride where I will.
When the matter is hard, I put her to it.
When the road is easy, I give her her head.
Her head is like an anvil. Her cheek
is smooth as the cheek of a freed slave-girl
who has combed her hair for the festival.
She leads me to the tent of the one I love.
But fate cuts the road between us.
So I drank the grief away —
dark wine from a golden jug,
poured through a fine strainer —
cup after cup,
offered by the hand of a girl
who wore her rings on the left.
When I drink, I spend everything I own
and my honour remains untouched.
When I sober up, I am as generous
as I was before the cup was poured.
And you — you know me on the day of battle.
You know the man who charges in and stays.
Many a fighter whose friends said
Don't go near that one —
a man who would not run and would not yield —
my hands met him.
My spear-thrust took him first,
and then I gave his blood
to the dark blade of my Indian sword,
hard, with an edge that gleams
when drawn — a sword that splits
whatever is in front of it.
Ask the horsemen — son of Malik,
ask them — if you do not know,
ask them what they saw me do.
They will tell you: he sent his horse
into the thick of it
and would not come out,
sometimes cutting, sometimes feinting,
sometimes holding ground.
Many a chain-mailed warrior
whose courage no one doubted,
who did not run to save himself
by surrendering or by speed —
my hand was quick with the straight-shafted spear
and struck him. Armour
does not stop the point.
I left him carrion for the beasts.
His hands and head
were strewn across the ground
like butchered meat.
How sweet you are when I draw near,
and I say: This is for you, Abla.
I bring you the spoils of the finest man among them.
I am the man whose nature you know,
son of the best rider
who ever drove a horse to war.
Gentle with the peaceful, hard in battle,
bitter as the taste of colocynth
when the fight is joined.
I drink from the well when it is my turn
and leave it when it is not,
and you will know me by that restraint.
I was born in the tribe. They know me.
When the war-cry rises, I am the first to mount.
I am the one they send
when the dust clouds close in
and the eyes of the horses
are white with fear.
I charge — and the men who were brave
fall back. My horse's neck
is stretched forward like the ridge-log of a tent.
She carries me in. I fight.
I know the place where blood falls
and the place where it does not.
When I meet the gathered spears
of the enemy, I do not retreat.
I stand where the best riders meet.
Many a friend has warned me of battle.
I was less afraid of it than he was of speaking.
I saw the tribe's war-flag
and I bore the standard forward,
driving toward the loudest screaming,
toward the place where the spears were thickest,
and they called my name.
I did not hold back my horse
until she was wounded in the chest
and turned her head and cried.
She looked at me with sorrow and complaint,
as though she wanted to speak.
If she knew the language of speech
she would have cursed me.
Then she steadied herself
and faced the hedge of spears
as if her breast were a shield
and her will the hand that held it.
When I saw the tribe dismounting
to fight on foot,
driving each other forward to the killing,
I turned to meet them gladly.
They called out "Antara!" —
and the spears were like ropes
lowered into a deep well.
I kept striking until my arm
was dark to the elbow
with their blood.
VI. Amr ibn Kulthum
Amr ibn Kulthum al-Taghlibi (died c. 584 CE), chief of the tribe of Taghlib. He killed Amr ibn Hind, king of al-Hira, with his own hands — at a banquet. The story goes that the king's mother, Hind, tried to humiliate Amr's mother by ordering her to serve at the feast. Amr's mother cried out "The shame of it!" and Amr drew the king's own sword from the wall and struck him down. His Mu'allaqah is the most thunderous of the seven — pure tribal boast, an anthem of Taghlib's might. The tribe of Taghlib recited it so constantly that the caliph Umar ibn al-Khattab said: "Their poem is their Quran."
Rise, girl! Bring us the morning cup
and do not spare the wine of Andarin —
bright, glowing, mixed with pure water,
the kind that makes a worried man forget.
The cup goes round, passed from right hand to right hand,
and the girl who pours it
is not stingy with the fill.
The wine is saffron-coloured, touched with musk.
When you pour water in, it foams
and the drinker sinks into his ease.
The drinker pulls the cup away
and sees a man whose worries have lifted —
generous with what he has,
careless of what he does not.
But leave that. Speak of the morning
the enemy gathered their horses against us.
The war-smoke rose between us —
a cloud of dust driven upward
and the flash of iron beneath it.
We went out to meet them
with lean colts whose mothers were thoroughbreds,
trained for the charge, trained for the pivot.
They come at us — and we say to them:
easy now. Slow down. We know you.
And they know us. They have met us before
at every battle — the men of Taghlib,
the lords of the upper hand.
We are the ones who —
when the newborn cries on the day of battle —
the cradle-bound of other tribes
are weaned too soon.
We inherited glory from Muhalhil,
and Zuhair left us a full inheritance.
And Attab and Kulthum —
their legacy hangs on us
like a cloak that cannot be removed.
And Dhu al-Barra — the grandfather
who taught us that pride is not a sin
when it is earned.
Before us — Imru' al-Qais ibn Umm Unas,
by whose word the tribe moved or halted.
Do you not know — and ignorance
does not excuse you — that we rule
every tribe whose tents are pitched?
We raise the whip over those who defy us
and lower it over those who submit.
We fill the earth from end to end
and our ships fill the sea.
When our suckling babes are weaned
the strong men of the other tribes
crawl on their knees before them.
We are told: Send your horses to graze in Najd.
How can we send them to graze
when Najd is what we have conquered?
We refuse — like the camel
that will not drink from a fouled pool.
We refuse what others accept.
We drink the water clean and clear.
Others drink it muddied,
after our horses have stirred the bottom.
Challengers come against us
and we meet them with a massing of armour
like the breaking of dawn —
with every short-haired colt,
with every girl-cheeked sword
that splits whatever is in front of it,
and Indian blades, glinting
with an edge that hums when drawn,
as though each one were a channel of running water.
We split the skulls of the chiefs
and their necks crack like dry wood.
We drive their horses from the field
and come home with the women
and the boys still riding on our saddles.
We were kings before Mundhir
was born, and before the brother of Mundhir.
Shall we be commanded
by men we do not acknowledge?
We held our ground against the king
when other tribes bent the knee.
We would not pay the tribute.
The fires of our camps burn brighter
than the fires of other men.
Our pots boil larger.
Our tents stretch further.
We are the tribe — when the earth
feels cramped to another man,
we find it wide.
We divide our days:
part in gentleness, part in war,
and in the war-part,
we are not gentle.
VII. Al-Harith ibn Hilliza
Al-Harith ibn Hilliza al-Yashkuri (died c. 580 CE), of the tribe of Bakr. His Mu'allaqah was composed and recited before Amr ibn Hind, king of al-Hira, as a legal defence of his tribe in their long feud with Taghlib (the tribe of Amr ibn Kulthum). It is the only Mu'allaqah composed as forensic argument — a courtroom speech in verse. The tradition says he recited it from behind a curtain, because he suffered from leprosy, and that the king was so moved he tore down the curtain and embraced him.
Asma has told us she is leaving.
She has given the signal.
What good is it, when a woman sets her mind
to go? A man weeps at the ruins
and the ruins do not answer.
She stopped at the tents of Bayn,
at al-Shammut and Burayqa,
then crossed the open ground of Shamma
and the hills of Yadhbul.
Speak now. The king has given us his ear.
Our case is just. We are wronged
and we will be heard.
O Amr! Do not lend your ear
to the slanders of our enemies.
They have stuffed you full of lies
and the lies are sweet to hear.
O Amr! Our enemies approach you
with claims they have not earned —
complaints that belong to another time,
another war.
They speak of Kulayb's blood
as if it were fresh. Kulayb died
an age ago, and the blood-price was paid,
and the tribes moved on.
Do not bring the dead back to life
with grudges. Let the dead lie.
Let old wars stay buried.
They accuse us of treachery,
but the treachery was theirs.
Look into the matter and you will find
we are the wronged party.
When have we ever refused
the king's judgement?
When have we ever broken
what was sealed between us?
We were the ones who kept the truce
while they sharpened their weapons
in the dark.
We held the border. We watered our horses
at the well of Quda and drank after them.
We grazed our flocks at Tadmur
and the Euphrates shore.
We held every camp between al-Hind
and the mountains of Hawran.
We held Samawa and its plains.
We are the men of Bakr.
Do you not know us?
Our horsemen filled the fields of Idam
and the passes of the Tigris.
The day of Dhul-Urush was ours —
the cavalry charge at dawn,
the spears ranked close and shining.
We drove them back.
We did not lose a chief
or leave a fallen rider in the dust.
We fought at Tiyam when the arrows
were thick as locusts
and the men of the other side
wished they had never drawn.
We fought at the river of Muhanna.
We fought at the white field of Ghabit.
Each time we came away
with the victory.
We are a tribe that does not accept
injustice without an answer.
When wronged, we do not sit and count our wounds.
We ride out.
Our horses' bridles gleam at dawn.
Our spears stand thick
as the stalks of a watered grove.
We protected the women of Bakr
when Taghlib came for them.
We met them at the pass
and none of their riders went home whole.
Many a day we have fought for you,
O king, while your other subjects hid.
Do not let the slanderers turn you
from the ones who bled for you.
We ask nothing beyond our right.
We ask that truth be told
and the lies laid down.
Weigh the case, O Amr,
with a true scale.
A king who judges falsely
loses both his tribes.
Colophon
Text: The Mu'allaqat (المعلقات), the Seven Suspended Odes. Composed in the sixth century CE in the Arabian Peninsula during the Jahiliyyah — the pre-Islamic age. Preserved by oral tradition; first written compilations attributed to Hammad al-Rawiya (d. 772 CE).
Source language: Classical Arabic (pre-Islamic dialect).
Source text: The Arabic text following this colophon is drawn from the standard critical edition as preserved in the Arabic poetic tradition, with full tashkil (vocalization marks). The vocalized text follows the recension commonly used in modern Arabic scholarship, cross-referenced against multiple manuscript traditions.
Translation: Good Works Translation from Arabic. New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. AI-assisted (NTAC + Claude). Gospel register.
The seven poets and their poems:
- I. Imru' al-Qais (امرؤ القيس, d. c. 544 CE) — Prince of Kinda. Theme: lost love, the desert, the storm.
- II. Tarafa ibn al-'Abd (طرفة بن العبد, c. 543–569 CE) — Youth of Bakr. Theme: mortality, pleasure, defiance.
- III. Zuhayr ibn Abi Sulma (زهير بن أبي سلمى, c. 520–609 CE) — Sage of Muzayna. Theme: war, peace, wisdom.
- IV. Labid ibn Rabi'ah (لبيد بن ربيعة, c. 560–661 CE) — Mystic of Amir. Theme: ruins, fate, impermanence.
- V. Antara ibn Shaddad (عنترة بن شداد, c. 525–608 CE) — Warrior of Abs. Theme: battle, love, honour.
- VI. Amr ibn Kulthum (عمرو بن كلثوم, d. c. 584 CE) — Chief of Taghlib. Theme: tribal might, defiance of kings.
- VII. Al-Harith ibn Hilliza (الحارث بن حلزة, d. c. 580 CE) — Advocate of Bakr. Theme: justice, tribal defence.
Note on translation: The Mu'allaqat are composed in quantitative metre (buhur) with monorhyme — each poem maintains a single end-rhyme (rawiyy) throughout. This translation does not attempt to reproduce the metre or rhyme in English. Instead, it follows the breath of the original, rendering each bayt (verse-couplet) as free-form English lines in the gospel register: plain, direct, warm. Proper nouns — personal names, place names, tribal names — are transliterated from the Arabic. The poems are presented in the traditional order of the canonical seven as established by the early Arabic anthologists.
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Source Text
The following Arabic text preserves the Seven Mu'allaqat in the original Classical Arabic with full tashkil (vocalization marks). The text follows the standard critical recension as transmitted by the early Arabic anthologists.
معلقة امرئ القيس
قِفَا نَبْكِ مِنْ ذِكْرَى حَبِيبٍ وَمَنْزِلِ
بِسِقْطِ اللِّوَى بَيْنَ الدَّخُولِ فَحَوْمَلِ
فَتُوضِحَ فَالمِقْرَاةِ لَمْ يَعْفُ رَسْمُهَا
لِمَا نَسَجَتْهَا مِنْ جَنُوبٍ وَشَمْأَلِ
تَرَى بَعَرَ الأَرْآمِ فِي عَرَصَاتِهَا
وَقِيعَانِهَا كَأَنَّهُ حَبُّ فُلْفُلِ
كَأَنِّي غَدَاةَ البَيْنِ يَوْمَ تَحَمَّلُوا
لَدَى سَمُرَاتِ الحَيِّ نَاقِفُ حَنْظَلِ
وُقُوفًا بِهَا صَحْبِي عَلَيَّ مَطِيَّهُمْ
يَقُولُونَ لَا تَهْلِكْ أَسًى وَتَجَمَّلِ
وَإِنَّ شِفَائِي عَبْرَةٌ مُهْرَاقَةٌ
فَهَلْ عِنْدَ رَسْمٍ دَارِسٍ مِنْ مُعَوَّلِ
كَدَأْبِكَ مِنْ أُمِّ الحُوَيْرِثِ قَبْلَهَا
وَجَارَتِهَا أُمِّ الرَّبَابِ بِمَأْسَلِ
إِذَا قَامَتَا تَضَوَّعَ المِسْكُ مِنْهُمَا
نَسِيمَ الصَّبَا جَاءَتْ بِرَيَّا القَرَنْفُلِ
فَفَاضَتْ دُمُوعُ العَيْنِ مِنِّي صَبَابَةً
عَلَى النَّحْرِ حَتَّى بَلَّ دَمْعِيَ مِحْمَلِي
أَلَا رُبَّ يَوْمٍ لَكَ مِنْهُنَّ صَالِحٍ
وَلَا سِيَّمَا يَوْمٍ بِدَارَةِ جُلْجُلِ
وَيَوْمَ عَقَرْتُ لِلْعَذَارَى مَطِيَّتِي
فَيَا عَجَبًا مِنْ كُوْرِهَا المُتَحَمَّلِ
فَظَلَّ العَذَارَى يَرْتَمِينَ بِلَحْمِهَا
وَشَحْمٍ كَهُدَّابِ الدِّمَقْسِ المُفَتَّلِ
وَيَوْمَ دَخَلْتُ الخِدْرَ خِدْرَ عُنَيْزَةٍ
فَقَالَتْ لَكَ الوَيْلَاتُ إِنَّكَ مُرْجِلِي
تَقُولُ وَقَدْ مَالَ الغَبِيطُ بِنَا مَعًا
عَقَرْتَ بَعِيرِي يَا امْرَأَ القَيْسِ فَانْزِلِ
فَقُلْتُ لَهَا سِيرِي وَأَرْخِي زِمَامَهُ
وَلَا تُبْعِدِينِي مِنْ جَنَاكِ المُعَلَّلِ
فَمِثْلِكِ حُبْلَى قَدْ طَرَقْتُ وَمُرْضِعٍ
فَأَلْهَيْتُهَا عَنْ ذِي تَمَائِمَ مُحْوِلِ
إِذَا مَا بَكَى مِنْ خَلْفِهَا انْصَرَفَتْ لَهُ
بِشِقٍّ وَتَحْتِي شِقُّهَا لَمْ يُحَوَّلِ
وَيَوْمًا عَلَى ظَهْرِ الكَثِيبِ تَعَذَّرَتْ
عَلَيَّ وَآلَتْ حَلْفَةً لَمْ تُحَلَّلِ
أَفَاطِمَ مَهْلًا بَعْضَ هَذَا التَّدَلُّلِ
وَإِنْ كُنْتِ قَدْ أَزْمَعْتِ صَرْمِي فَأَجْمِلِي
وَإِنْ تَكُ قَدْ سَاءَتْكِ مِنِّي خَلِيقَةٌ
فَسُلِّي ثِيَابِي مِنْ ثِيَابِكِ تَنْسُلِ
أَغَرَّكِ مِنِّي أَنَّ حُبَّكِ قَاتِلِي
وَأَنَّكِ مَهْمَا تَأْمُرِي القَلْبَ يَفْعَلِ
وَمَا ذَرَفَتْ عَيْنَاكِ إِلَّا لِتَضْرِبِي
بِسَهْمَيْكِ فِي أَعْشَارِ قَلْبٍ مُقَتَّلِ
وَبَيْضَةِ خِدْرٍ لَا يُرَامُ خِبَاؤُهَا
تَمَتَّعْتُ مِنْ لَهْوٍ بِهَا غَيْرَ مُعْجَلِ
تَجَاوَزْتُ أَحْرَاسًا إِلَيْهَا وَمَعْشَرًا
عَلَيَّ حِرَاصًا لَوْ يُسِرُّونَ مَقْتَلِي
إِذَا مَا الثُّرَيَّا فِي السَّمَاءِ تَعَرَّضَتْ
تَعَرُّضَ أَثْنَاءِ الوِشَاحِ المُفَصَّلِ
فَجِئْتُ وَقَدْ نَضَّتْ لِنَوْمٍ ثِيَابَهَا
لَدَى السِّتْرِ إِلَّا لِبْسَةَ المُتَفَضِّلِ
فَقَالَتْ يَمِينَ اللَّهِ مَا لَكَ حِيلَةٌ
وَمَا إِنْ أَرَى عَنْكَ الغَوَايَةَ تَنْجَلِي
خَرَجْتُ بِهَا أَمْشِي تَجُرُّ وَرَاءَنَا
عَلَى أَثَرَيْنَا ذَيْلَ مِرْطٍ مُرَحَّلِ
فَلَمَّا أَجَزْنَا سَاحَةَ الحَيِّ وَانْتَحَى
بِنَا بَطْنُ خَبْتٍ ذِي حِقَافٍ عَقَنْقَلِ
هَصَرْتُ بِفَوْدَيْ رَأْسِهَا فَتَمَايَلَتْ
عَلَيَّ هَضِيمَ الكَشْحِ رَيَّا المُخَلْخَلِ
مُهَفْهَفَةٌ بَيْضَاءُ غَيْرُ مُفَاضَةٍ
تَرَائِبُهَا مَصْقُولَةٌ كَالسَّجَنْجَلِ
كَبِكْرِ المُقَانَاةِ البَيَاضِ بِصُفْرَةٍ
غَذَاهَا نَمِيرُ المَاءِ غَيْرَ المُحَلَّلِ
تَصُدُّ وَتُبْدِي عَنْ أَسِيلٍ وَتَتَّقِي
بِنَاظِرَةٍ مِنْ وَحْشِ وَجْرَةَ مُطْفِلِ
وَجِيدٍ كَجِيدِ الرِّئْمِ لَيْسَ بِفَاحِشٍ
إِذَا هِيَ نَصَّتْهُ وَلَا بِمُعَطَّلِ
وَفَرْعٍ يَزِينُ المَتْنَ أَسْوَدَ فَاحِمٍ
أَثِيثٍ كَقِنْوِ النَّخْلَةِ المُتَعَثْكِلِ
غَدَائِرُهُ مُسْتَشْزِرَاتٌ إِلَى العُلَا
تَضِلُّ العِقَاصُ فِي مُثَنًّى وَمُرْسَلِ
وَكَشْحٍ لَطِيفٍ كَالجَدِيلِ مُخَصَّرٍ
وَسَاقٍ كَأُنْبُوبِ السَّقِيِّ المُذَلَّلِ
وَتُضْحِي فَتِيتُ المِسْكِ فَوْقَ فِرَاشِهَا
نَؤُومُ الضُّحَى لَمْ تَنْتَطِقْ عَنْ تَفَضُّلِ
وَتَعْطُو بِرَخْصٍ غَيْرِ شَثْنٍ كَأَنَّهُ
أَسَارِيعُ ظَبْيٍ أَوْ مَسَاوِيكُ إِسْحِلِ
تُضِيءُ الظَّلَامَ بِالعِشَاءِ كَأَنَّهَا
مَنَارَةُ مُمْسَى رَاهِبٍ مُتَبَتِّلِ
إِلَى مِثْلِهَا يَرْنُو الحَلِيمُ صَبَابَةً
إِذَا مَا اسْبَكَرَّتْ بَيْنَ دِرْعٍ وَمِجْوَلِ
تَسَلَّتْ عَمَايَاتُ الرِّجَالِ عَنِ الصِّبَا
وَلَيْسَ فُؤَادِي عَنْ هَوَاكِ بِمُنْسَلِ
أَلَا رُبَّ خَصْمٍ فِيكِ أَلْوَى رَدَدْتُهُ
نَصِيحٍ عَلَى تَعْذَالِهِ غَيْرِ مُؤْتَلِ
وَلَيْلٍ كَمَوْجِ البَحْرِ أَرْخَى سُدُولَهُ
عَلَيَّ بِأَنْوَاعِ الهُمُومِ لِيَبْتَلِي
فَقُلْتُ لَهُ لَمَّا تَمَطَّى بِصُلْبِهِ
وَأَرْدَفَ أَعْجَازًا وَنَاءَ بِكَلْكَلِ
أَلَا أَيُّهَا اللَّيْلُ الطَّوِيلُ أَلَا انْجَلِي
بِصُبْحٍ وَمَا الإِصْبَاحُ مِنْكَ بِأَمْثَلِ
فَيَا لَكَ مِنْ لَيْلٍ كَأَنَّ نُجُومَهُ
بِكُلِّ مُغَارِ الفَتْلِ شُدَّتْ بِيَذْبُلِ
كَأَنَّ الثُّرَيَّا عُلِّقَتْ فِي مَصَامِهَا
بِأَمْرَاسِ كَتَّانٍ إِلَى صُمِّ جَنْدَلِ
وَقِرْبَةِ أَقْوَامٍ جَعَلْتُ عِصَامَهَا
عَلَى كَاهِلٍ مِنِّي ذَلُولٍ مُرَحَّلِ
وَوَادٍ كَجَوْفِ العَيْرِ قَفْرٍ قَطَعْتُهُ
بِهِ الذِّئْبُ يَعْوِي كَالخَلِيعِ المُعَيَّلِ
فَقُلْتُ لَهُ لَمَّا عَوَى إِنَّ شَأْنَنَا
قَلِيلُ الغِنَى إِنْ كُنْتَ لَمَّا تَمَوَّلِ
كِلَانَا إِذَا مَا نَالَ شَيْئًا أَفَاتَهُ
وَمَنْ يَحْتَرِثْ حَرْثِي وَحَرْثَكَ يَهْزَلِ
وَقَدْ أَغْتَدِي وَالطَّيْرُ فِي وُكُنَاتِهَا
بِمُنْجَرِدٍ قَيْدِ الأَوَابِدِ هَيْكَلِ
مِكَرٍّ مِفَرٍّ مُقْبِلٍ مُدْبِرٍ مَعًا
كَجُلْمُودِ صَخْرٍ حَطَّهُ السَّيْلُ مِنْ عَلِ
كُمَيْتٍ يَزِلُّ اللِّبْدُ عَنْ حَالِ مَتْنِهِ
كَمَا زَلَّتِ الصَّفْوَاءُ بِالمُتَنَزَّلِ
مُسِحٍّ إِذَا مَا السَّابِحَاتُ عَلَى الوَنَى
أَثَرْنَ الغُبَارَ بِالكَدِيدِ المُرَكَّلِ
يُزِلُّ الغُلَامَ الخِفَّ عَنْ صَهَوَاتِهِ
وَيُلْوِي بِأَثْوَابِ العَنِيفِ المُثَقَّلِ
دَرِيرٌ كَخُذْرُوفِ الوَلِيدِ أَمَرَّهُ
تَتَابُعُ كَفَّيْهِ بِخَيْطٍ مُوَصَّلِ
لَهُ أَيْطَلَا ظَبْيٍ وَسَاقَا نَعَامَةٍ
وَإِرْخَاءُ سِرْحَانٍ وَتَقْرِيبُ تَتْفُلِ
ضَلِيعٍ إِذَا اسْتَدْبَرْتَهُ سَدَّ فَرْجَهُ
بِضَافٍ فُوَيْقَ الأَرْضِ لَيْسَ بِأَعْزَلِ
كَأَنَّ عَلَى المَتْنَيْنِ مِنْهُ إِذَا انْتَحَى
مَدَاكَ عَرُوسٍ أَوْ صَلَايَةَ حَنْظَلِ
كَأَنَّ دِمَاءَ الهَادِيَاتِ بِنَحْرِهِ
عُصَارَةُ حِنَّاءٍ بِشَيْبٍ مُرَجَّلِ
فَعَنَّ لَنَا سِرْبٌ كَأَنَّ نِعَاجَهُ
عَذَارَى دَوَارٍ فِي مُلَاءٍ مُذَيَّلِ
فَأَدْبَرْنَ كَالجَزْعِ المُفَصَّلِ بَيْنَهُ
بِجِيدِ مُعَمٍّ فِي العَشِيرَةِ مُخْوَلِ
فَأَلْحَقَنَا بِالهَادِيَاتِ وَدُونَهُ
جَوَاحِرُهَا فِي صَرَّةٍ لَمْ تُزَيَّلِ
فَعَادَى عِدَاءً بَيْنَ ثَوْرٍ وَنَعْجَةٍ
دِرَاكًا وَلَمْ يَنْضَحْ بِمَاءٍ فَيُغْسَلِ
فَظَلَّ طُهَاةُ اللَّحْمِ مِنْ بَيْنِ مُنْضِجٍ
صَفِيفَ شِوَاءٍ أَوْ قَدِيرٍ مُعَجَّلِ
وَرُحْنَا يَكَادُ الطَّرْفُ يَقْصُرُ دُونَهُ
مَتَى مَا تَرَقَّ العَيْنُ فِيهِ تَسَفَّلِ
فَبَاتَ عَلَيْهِ سَرْجُهُ وَلِجَامُهُ
وَبَاتَ بِعَيْنِي قَائِمًا غَيْرَ مُرْسَلِ
أَصَاحِ تَرَى بَرْقًا أُرِيكَ وَمِيضَهُ
كَلَمْعِ اليَدَيْنِ فِي حَبِيٍّ مُكَلَّلِ
يُضِيءُ سَنَاهُ أَوْ مَصَابِيحُ رَاهِبٍ
أَهَانَ السَّلِيطَ فِي الذُّبَالِ المُفَتَّلِ
قَعَدْتُ لَهُ وَصُحْبَتِي بَيْنَ ضَارِجٍ
وَبَيْنَ العُذَيْبِ بُعْدَ مَا مُتَأَمَّلِ
فَأَضْحَى يَسُحُّ المَاءَ حَوْلَ كُتَيْفَةٍ
يَكُبُّ عَلَى الأَذْقَانِ دَوْحَ الكَنَهْبَلِ
وَمَرَّ عَلَى القَنَانِ مِنْ نَفَيَانِهِ
فَأَنْزَلَ مِنْهُ العُصْمَ مِنْ كُلِّ مَنْزِلِ
وَتَيْمَاءَ لَمْ يَتْرُكْ بِهَا جِذْعَ نَخْلَةٍ
وَلَا أُطُمًا إِلَّا مَشِيدًا بِجَنْدَلِ
كَأَنَّ ثَبِيرًا فِي عَرَانِينِ وَبْلِهِ
كَبِيرُ أُنَاسٍ فِي بِجَادٍ مُزَمَّلِ
كَأَنَّ ذُرَا رَأْسِ المُجَيْمِرِ غُدْوَةً
مِنَ السَّيْلِ وَالغُثَّاءِ فَلْكَةُ مِغْزَلِ
وَأَلْقَى بِصَحْرَاءِ الغَبِيطِ بَعَاعَهُ
نُزُولَ اليَمَانِي ذِي العِيَابِ المُحَمَّلِ
كَأَنَّ مَكَاكِيَّ الجِوَاءِ غُدَيَّةً
صُبِحْنَ سُلَافًا مِنْ رَحِيقٍ مُفَلْفَلِ
كَأَنَّ السِّبَاعَ فِيهِ غَرْقَى عَشِيَّةً
بِأَرْجَائِهِ القُصْوَى أَنَابِيشُ عُنْصُلِ
معلقة طرفة بن العبد
لِخَوْلَةَ أَطْلَالٌ بِبُرْقَةِ ثَهْمَدِ
تَلُوحُ كَبَاقِي الوَشْمِ فِي ظَاهِرِ اليَدِ
وُقُوفًا بِهَا صَحْبِي عَلَيَّ مَطِيَّهُمْ
يَقُولُونَ لَا تَهْلِكْ أَسًى وَتَجَلَّدِ
كَأَنَّ حُدُوجَ المَالِكِيَّةِ غُدْوَةً
خَلَايَا سَفِينٍ بِالنَّوَاصِفِ مِنْ دَدِ
عَدَوْلِيَّةٌ أَوْ مِنْ سَفِينِ ابْنِ يَامِنٍ
يَجُورُ بِهَا المَلَّاحُ طَوْرًا وَيَهْتَدِي
يَشُقُّ حَبَابَ المَاءِ حَيْزُومُهَا بِهَا
كَمَا قَسَمَ التُّرْبَ المُفَايِلُ بِاليَدِ
وَفِي الحَيِّ أَحْوَى يَنْفُضُ المَرْدَ شَادِنٌ
مُظَاهِرُ سِمْطَيْ لُؤْلُؤٍ وَزَبَرْجَدِ
خَذُولٌ تُرَاعِي رَبْرَبًا بِخَمِيلَةٍ
تَنَاوَلُ أَطْرَافَ البَرِيرِ وَتَرْتَدِي
وَتَبْسِمُ عَنْ أَلْمَى كَأَنَّ مُنَوِّرًا
تَخَلَّلَ حُرَّ الرَّمْلِ دِعْصٍ لَهُ نَدِ
سَقَتْهُ إِيَاةُ الشَّمْسِ إِلَّا لِثَاتِهِ
أُسِفَّ وَلَمْ تَكْدِمْ عَلَيْهِ بِإِثْمِدِ
وَوَجْهٍ كَأَنَّ الشَّمْسَ أَلْقَتْ رِدَاءَهَا
عَلَيْهِ نَقِيَّ اللَّوْنِ لَمْ يَتَخَدَّدِ
وَإِنِّي لَأُمْضِي الهَمَّ عِنْدَ احْتِضَارِهِ
بِعَوْجَاءَ مِرْقَالٍ تَرُوحُ وَتَغْتَدِي
أَمُونٍ كَأَلْوَاحِ الإِرَانِ نَصَأْتُهَا
عَلَى لَاحِبٍ كَأَنَّهُ ظَهْرُ بُرْجُدِ
جَمَالِيَّةٍ وَجْنَاءَ تَرْدِي كَأَنَّهَا
سَفَنَّجَةٌ تَبْرِي لِأَزْعَرَ أَرْبَدِ
تُبَارِي عِتَاقًا نَاجِيَاتٍ وَأَتْبَعَتْ
وَظِيفًا وَظِيفًا فَوْقَ مَوْرٍ مُعَبَّدِ
تَرَبَّعَتِ القُفَّيْنِ فِي الشَّوْلِ تَرْتَعِي
حَدَائِقَ مَوْلِيٍّ أَسِيلٍ وَمَبْعَدِ
تَطَايَحُ عَنْ أَنْسَائِهَا مِسْحَلٌ لَهَا
كَمِنْسَأَةِ المُنْقُورِ يَخْفِضُ عَنْ نَدِ
بِإِذْنٍ لَهَا صَاكَتْ مَعَ الهَامِ وَارِدًا
عَلَى أَسَلَاتِ اللَّحْيِ سَابِغَةِ اليَدِ
كَسِكَّةِ مِحْرَاثٍ تَسُوقُ إِوَزَّهَا
حَزَابِيَةٌ أُمُّ لَهُنَّ ثِنًا عَنْ وُدِ
تَرَى قَيِّمَ الشَّحْمِ فِي نَسَائِبِ ضَلْعِهَا
إِذَا نَحْنُ قُلْنَا أَوْسِعِي يَتَمَدَّدِ
أَلَا إِنَّنِي سَأَكْرَعُ كَأْسَ مَدَامَةٍ
وَلَا أَنْثَنِي حَتَّى يَكِلَّ مُرَدَّدِي
ثَلَاثًا هُنَّ المُنَيَاتُ لِفَتًى
وَقَدْ عَلِمَتْ ذَاكَ الأَعَادِي وَالمُحْتَشِدِ
فَمِنْهُنَّ سَبْقِي العَاذِلَاتِ بِشَرْبَةٍ
كُمَيْتٍ مَتَى مَا تُعْلَ بِالمَاءِ تُزْبِدِ
وَكَرِّي إِذَا نَادَى المُضَافُ مُحَنَّبًا
كَسِيدِ الغَضَا نَبَّهْتَهُ المُتَوَرِّدِ
وَتَقْصِيرُ يَوْمِ الدَّجْنِ وَالدَّجْنُ مُعْجِبٌ
بِبَهْكَنَةٍ تَحْتَ الخِبَاءِ المُعَمَّدِ
سَتُبْدِي لَكَ الأَيَّامُ مَا كُنْتَ جَاهِلًا
وَيَأْتِيكَ بِالأَخْبَارِ مَنْ لَمْ تُزَوِّدِ
لَعَمْرُكَ إِنَّ المَوْتَ مَا أَخْطَأَ الفَتَى
لَكَالطِّوَلِ المُرْخَى وَثِنْيَاهُ بِاليَدِ
فَلَوْلَا ثَلَاثٌ هُنَّ مِنْ عِيشَةِ الفَتَى
وَجَدِّكَ لَمْ أَحْفِلْ مَتَى قَامَ عُوَّدِي
معلقة زهير بن أبي سلمى
أَمِنْ أُمِّ أَوْفَى دِمْنَةٌ لَمْ تَكَلَّمِ
بِحَوْمَانَةِ الدَّرَّاجِ فَالمُتَثَلَّمِ
وَدَارٌ لَهَا بِالرَّقْمَتَيْنِ كَأَنَّهَا
مَرَاجِيعُ وَشْمٍ فِي نَوَاشِرِ مِعْصَمِ
بِهَا العِينُ وَالآرَامُ يَمْشِينَ خِلْفَةً
وَأَطْلَاؤُهَا يَنْهَضْنَ مِنْ كُلِّ مَجْثَمِ
وَقَفْتُ بِهَا مِنْ بَعْدِ عِشْرِينَ حِجَّةً
فَلَأْيًا عَرَفْتُ الدَّارَ بَعْدَ تَوَهُّمِ
أَثَافِيَ سُفْعًا فِي مُعَرَّسِ مِرْجَلٍ
وَنُؤْيًا كَجِذْمِ الحَوْضِ لَمْ يَتَثَلَّمِ
فَلَمَّا عَرَفْتُ الدَّارَ قُلْتُ لِرَبْعِهَا
أَلَا أَنْعِمْ صَبَاحًا أَيُّهَا الرَّبْعُ وَاسْلَمِ
تَبَصَّرْ خَلِيلِي هَلْ تَرَى مِنْ ظَعَائِنٍ
تَحَمَّلْنَ بِالعَلْيَاءِ مِنْ فَوْقِ جُرْثُمِ
جَعَلْنَ القَنَانَ عَنْ يَمِينٍ وَحَزْنَهُ
وَكَمْ بِالقَنَانِ مِنْ مُحِلٍّ وَمُحْرِمِ
عَلَوْنَ بِأَنْمَاطٍ عِتَاقٍ وَكُلَّةٍ
وِرَادٍ حَوَاشِيهَا مُشَاكِهَةِ الدَّمِ
وَوَرَّكْنَ فِي السُّوبَانِ يَعْلُونَ مَتْنَهُ
عَلَيْهِنَّ دَلُّ النَّاعِمِ المُتَنَعِّمِ
بَكَرْنَ بُكُورًا وَاسْتَحَرْنَ بِسُحْرَةٍ
فَهُنَّ وَوَادِي الرَّسِّ كَاليَدِ لِلْفَمِ
وَفِيهِنَّ مَلْهًى لِلَّطِيفِ وَمَنْظَرٌ
أَنِيقٌ لِعَيْنِ النَّاظِرِ المُتَوَسِّمِ
كَأَنَّ فُتَاتَ العِهْنِ فِي كُلِّ مَنْزِلٍ
نَزَلْنَ بِهِ حَبُّ الفَنَا لَمْ يُحَطَّمِ
سَئِمْتُ تَكَالِيفَ الحَيَاةِ وَمَنْ يَعِشْ
ثَمَانِينَ حَوْلًا لَا أَبَا لَكَ يَسْأَمِ
رَأَيْتُ المَنَايَا خَبْطَ عَشْوَاءَ مَنْ تُصِبْ
تُمِتْهُ وَمَنْ تُخْطِئْ يُعَمَّرْ فَيَهْرَمِ
وَأَعْلَمُ عِلْمَ اليَوْمِ وَالأَمْسِ قَبْلَهُ
وَلَكِنَّنِي عَنْ عِلْمِ مَا فِي غَدٍ عَمِي
وَمَنْ لَا يُصَانِعْ فِي أُمُورٍ كَثِيرَةٍ
يُضَرَّسْ بِأَنْيَابٍ وَيُوطَأْ بِمَنْسَمِ
وَمَنْ يَجْعَلِ المَعْرُوفَ مِنْ دُونِ عِرْضِهِ
يَفِرْهُ وَمَنْ لَا يَتَّقِ الشَّتْمَ يُشْتَمِ
وَمَنْ يَكُ ذَا فَضْلٍ فَيَبْخَلْ بِفَضْلِهِ
عَلَى قَوْمِهِ يُسْتَغْنَ عَنْهُ وَيُذْمَمِ
وَمَنْ يُوْفِ لَا يُذْمَمْ وَمَنْ يُهْدَ قَلْبُهُ
إِلَى مُطْمَئِنِّ البِرِّ لَا يَتَجَمْجَمِ
وَمَنْ هَابَ أَسْبَابَ المَنَايَا يَنَلْنَهُ
وَإِنْ يَرْقَ أَسْبَابَ السَّمَاءِ بِسُلَّمِ
وَمَنْ يَجْعَلِ المَعْرُوفَ فِي غَيْرِ أَهْلِهِ
يَكُنْ حَمْدُهُ ذَمًّا عَلَيْهِ وَيَنْدَمِ
وَمَنْ يَعْصِ أَطْرَافَ الزُّجَاجِ فَإِنَّهُ
يُطِيعُ العَوَالِي رُكِّبَتْ كُلَّ لَهْذَمِ
وَمَنْ لَمْ يَذُدْ عَنْ حَوْضِهِ بِسِلَاحِهِ
يُهَدَّمْ وَمَنْ لَا يَظْلِمِ النَّاسَ يُظْلَمِ
معلقة لبيد بن ربيعة
عَفَتِ الدِّيَارُ مَحَلُّهَا فَمُقَامُهَا
بِمِنًى تَأَبَّدَ غَوْلُهَا فَرِجَامُهَا
فَمَدَافِعُ الرَّيَّانِ عُرِّيَ رَسْمُهَا
خَلَقًا كَمَا ضَمِنَ الوُحِيَّ سِلَامُهَا
دِمَنٌ تَجَرَّمَ بَعْدَ عَهْدِ أَنِيسِهَا
حِجَجٌ خَلَوْنَ حَلَالُهَا وَحَرَامُهَا
رُزِقَتْ مَرَابِيعَ النُّجُومِ وَصَابَهَا
وَدْقُ الرَّوَاعِدِ جَوْدُهَا فَرِهَامُهَا
مِنْ كُلِّ سَارِيَةٍ وَغَادٍ مُدْجِنٍ
وَعَشِيَّةٍ مُتَجَاوِبٍ إِرْزَامُهَا
فَعَلَا فُرُوعُ الأَيْهُقَانِ وَأَطْفَلَتْ
بِالجَلْهَتَيْنِ ظِبَاؤُهَا وَنَعَامُهَا
وَالعِينُ سَاكِنَةٌ عَلَى أَطْلَائِهَا
عُوذًا تَأَجَّلُ بِالفَضَاءِ بِهَامُهَا
وَجَلَا السُّيُولُ عَنِ الطُّلُولِ كَأَنَّهَا
زُبُرٌ تُجِدُّ مُتُونَهَا أَقْلَامُهَا
أَوْ رَجْعُ وَاشِمَةٍ أُسِفَّ نَؤُورُهَا
كِفَفًا تَعَرَّضَ فَوْقَهُنَّ وِشَامُهَا
فَوَقَفْتُ أَسْأَلُهَا وَكَيْفَ سُؤَالُنَا
صُمًّا خَوَالِدَ مَا يُبِينُ كَلَامُهَا
عَرِيَتْ وَكَانَ بِهَا الجَمِيعُ فَأَبْكَرُوا
مِنْهَا وَغُودِرَ نُؤْيُهَا وَثُمَامُهَا
شَاقَتْكَ ظُعْنُ الحَيِّ حِينَ تَحَمَّلُوا
فَتَكَنَّسُوا قُطُنًا تَصِرُّ خِيَامُهَا
مِنْ كُلِّ مَحْفُوفٍ يُظِلُّ عِصِيَّهُ
زَوْجٌ عَلَيْهِ كِلَّةٌ وَقِرَامُهَا
حُفِزَتْ وَزَايَلَهَا السَّرَابُ كَأَنَّهَا
أَجْزَاعُ بِيشَةَ أَثْلُهَا وَرِضَامُهَا
بَلْ مَا تَذَكَّرُ مِنْ نَوَارَ وَقَدْ نَأَتْ
وَتَقَطَّعَتْ أَسْبَابُهَا وَرِمَامُهَا
وَالنَّاسُ مَنْ يَلْقَ المَنِيَّةَ يَلْقَهَا
فَمُعَجَّلٌ يَلْقَاهُ أَوْ مُتَرَامُهَا
وَلَقَدْ عَلِمْتُ وَمَا إِخَالُكَ ذَاهِلًا
أَنَّ المَنَايَا لَا تَطِيشُ سِهَامُهَا
فَاقْنَعْ بِمَا قَسَمَ المَلِيكُ فَإِنَّمَا
قَسَمَ الخَلَائِقَ بَيْنَنَا عَلَّامُهَا
وَكُلُّ ذِي نِعَمٍ سَيُحْرَمُ نِعْمَةً
وَكُلُّ ذِي أَمَلٍ سَيَنْقُصُ آمَالُهَا
معلقة عنترة بن شداد
هَلْ غَادَرَ الشُّعَرَاءُ مِنْ مُتَرَدَّمِ
أَمْ هَلْ عَرَفْتَ الدَّارَ بَعْدَ تَوَهُّمِ
يَا دَارَ عَبْلَةَ بِالجِوَاءِ تَكَلَّمِي
وَعَمِّي صَبَاحًا دَارَ عَبْلَةَ وَاسْلَمِي
فَوَقَفْتُ فِيهَا نَاقَتِي وَكَأَنَّهَا
فَدَنٌ لِأَقْضِيَ حَاجَةَ المُتَلَوِّمِ
وَتَحُلُّ عَبْلَةُ بِالجِوَاءِ وَأَهْلُنَا
بِالحَزْنِ فَالصَّمَّانِ فَالمُتَثَلَّمِ
إِنْ كُنْتِ أَزْمَعْتِ الفِرَاقَ فَإِنَّمَا
زُمَّتْ رِكَابُكُمُ بِلَيْلٍ مُظْلِمِ
مَا رَاعَنِي إِلَّا حَمُولَةُ أَهْلِهَا
وَسْطَ الدِّيَارِ تَسُفُّ حَبَّ الخِمْخِمِ
فِيهَا اثْنَتَانِ وَأَرْبَعُونَ حَلُوبَةً
سُودًا كَخَافِيَةِ الغُرَابِ الأَسْحَمِ
إِذْ تَسْتَبِيكَ بِذِي غُرُوبٍ وَاضِحٍ
عَذْبٍ مُقَبَّلُهُ لَذِيذِ المَطْعَمِ
وَكَأَنَّ فَارَةَ تَاجِرٍ بِقَسِيمَةٍ
سَبَقَتْ عَوَارِضَهَا إِلَيْكَ مِنَ الفَمِ
أَوْ رَوْضَةً أُنُفًا تَضَمَّنَ نَبْتَهَا
غَيْثٌ قَلِيلُ الدِّمْنِ لَيْسَ بِمُعْلَمِ
جَادَتْ عَلَيْهِ كُلُّ بِكْرٍ حُرَّةٍ
فَتَرَكْنَ كُلَّ قَرَارَةٍ كَالدِّرْهَمِ
سَحًّا وَتَسْكَابًا فَكُلُّ عَشِيَّةٍ
يَجْرِي عَلَيْهَا المَاءُ لَمْ يَتَصَرَّمِ
هَلَّا سَأَلْتَ الخَيْلَ يَا ابْنَةَ مَالِكٍ
إِنْ كُنْتِ جَاهِلَةً بِمَا لَمْ تَعْلَمِي
إِذْ لَا أَزَالُ عَلَى رِحَالَةِ سَابِحٍ
نَهْدٍ تَعَاوَرُهُ الكُمَاةُ مُكَلَّمِ
طَوْرًا يُجَرَّدُ لِلطِّعَانِ وَتَارَةً
يَأْوِي إِلَى حَصِدِ القِسِيِّ عَرَمْرَمِ
يُخْبِرْكِ مَنْ شَهِدَ الوَقِيعَةَ أَنَّنِي
أَغْشَى الوَغَى وَأَعِفُّ عِنْدَ المَغْنَمِ
وَمُدَجَّجٍ كَرِهَ الكُمَاةُ نِزَالَهُ
لَا مُمْعِنٍ هَرَبًا وَلَا مُسْتَسْلِمِ
جَادَتْ لَهُ كَفِّي بِعَاجِلِ طَعْنَةٍ
بِمُثَقَّفٍ صَدْقِ الكُعُوبِ مُقَوَّمِ
فَشَكَكْتُ بِالرُّمْحِ الأَصَمِّ ثِيَابَهُ
لَيْسَ الكَرِيمُ عَلَى القَنَا بِمُحَرَّمِ
فَتَرَكْتُهُ جَزَرَ السِّبَاعِ يَنُشْنَهُ
يَقْضِمْنَ حُسْنَ بَنَانِهِ وَالمِعْصَمِ
وَمُشَكِّ سَابِغَةٍ هَتَكْتُ فُرُوجَهَا
بِالسَّيْفِ عَنْ حَامِي الحَقِيقَةِ مُعْلَمِ
رَبِذِ الجَنَانِ كَأَنَّ هِزَّةَ لِدْنِهِ
رَعْشَةُ الهَوَى مِنْ خَشْيَةِ المُتَهَضِّمِ
لَمَّا رَآنِي قَدْ نَزَلْتُ أُرِيدُهُ
أَبْدَى نَوَاجِذَهُ لِغَيْرِ تَبَسُّمِ
معلقة عمرو بن كلثوم
أَلَا هُبِّي بِصَحْنِكِ فَاصْبَحِينَا
وَلَا تُبْقِي خُمُورَ الأَنْدَرِينَا
مُشَعْشَعَةً كَأَنَّ الحُصَّ فِيهَا
إِذَا مَا المَاءُ خَالَطَهَا سَخِينَا
تَجُورُ بِذِي اللَّبَانَةِ عَنْ هَوَاهُ
إِذَا مَا ذَاقَهَا حَتَّى يَلِينَا
تَرَى اللَّحِزَ الشَّحِيحَ إِذَا أُمِرَّتْ
عَلَيْهِ لِمَالِهِ فِيهَا مُهِينَا
صَبَنْتِ الكَأْسَ عَنَّا أُمَّ عَمْرٍو
وَكَانَ الكَأْسُ مَجْرَاهَا اليَمِينَا
وَمَا شَرُّ الثَّلَاثَةِ أُمَّ عَمْرٍو
بِصَاحِبِكِ الَّذِي لَا تُصْبَحِينَا
أَبَا هِنْدٍ فَلَا تَعْجَلْ عَلَيْنَا
وَأَنْظِرْنَا نُخَبِّرْكَ اليَقِينَا
بِأَنَّا نُورِدُ الرَّايَاتِ بِيضًا
وَنُصْدِرُهُنَّ حُمْرًا قَدْ رَوِينَا
وَأَيَّامٍ لَنَا غُرٍّ طِوَالٍ
عَصَيْنَا المَلْكَ فِيهَا أَنْ نَدِينَا
وَنَحْنُ غَدَاةَ أُوقِدَ فِي خَزَازَى
رَفَدْنَا فَوْقَ رِفْدِ الرَّافِدِينَا
وَنَحْنُ التَّارِكُونَ لِمَا سَخِطْنَا
وَنَحْنُ الآخِذُونَ لِمَا رَضِينَا
وَنَحْنُ العَاصِمُونَ إِذَا أُطِعْنَا
وَنَحْنُ العَازِمُونَ إِذَا عُصِينَا
وَنَشْرَبُ إِنْ وَرَدْنَا المَاءَ صَفْوًا
وَيَشْرَبُ غَيْرُنَا كَدِرًا وَطِينَا
مَلَأْنَا البَرَّ حَتَّى ضَاقَ عَنَّا
وَظَهْرَ البَحْرِ نَمْلَؤُهُ سَفِينَا
إِذَا بَلَغَ الفِطَامَ لَنَا صَبِيٌّ
تَخِرُّ لَهُ الجَبَابِرُ سَاجِدِينَا
معلقة الحارث بن حلزة
آذَنَتْنَا بِبَيْنِهَا أَسْمَاءُ
رُبَّ ثَاوٍ يُمَلُّ مِنْهُ الثَّوَاءُ
آذَنَتْنَا بِبَيْنِهَا ثُمَّ وَلَّتْ
لَيْتَ شِعْرِي مَتَى يَكُونُ اللِّقَاءُ
بَعْدَ عَهْدٍ لَنَا بِبُرْقَةِ شَمَّا
ءَ فَأَدْنَى دِيَارِهَا الخَلْصَاءُ
فَمُحَيَّاةٌ فَالصِّفَاحُ فَأَعْنَا
قُ فَصَارَاتٌ فَالفَوَارِعُ فَالحُبْيَا
فَقَنَوَاتٌ فَعَاذِبٌ فَالوَفَا
ءُ فَذَاتُ الأَهْرَاسِ فَالنُّبَّاءُ
لَا أَرَى مَنْ عَهِدْتُ فِيهَا فَأَبْكِي
اليَوْمَ دَلْهًا وَمَا يُحِيرُ البُكَاءُ
وَبِعَيْنَيْكَ أَوْقَدَتْ هِنْدٌ النَّا
رَ أَخِيرًا تُلْوِي بِهَا العَلْيَاءُ
فَتَنَوَّرْتُ نَارَهَا مِنْ بَعِيدٍ
بِخَزَازَى هَيْهَاتَ مِنْكَ الصَّلَاءُ
أَوْقَدَتْهَا بَيْنَ العَقِيقِ فَشَخْصَيْـ
ـنِ بِعُودٍ كَمَا يَلُوحُ الضِّيَاءُ
غَيْرَ أَنِّي قَدْ أَسْتَعِينُ عَلَى الهَمِّ
إِذَا خَفَّ بِالثَّوِيِّ النَّجَاءُ
بِزَفُوفٍ كَأَنَّهَا هِقْلَةٌ أُمُّ
رِئَالٍ دَوِّيَّةٌ سَقْفَاءُ
آلَفَتْ نَبْتَ عَرْفَجٍ سِلَبَتْهُ
رِيحُ ضَرِيٍّ بِهِ قَطِينٌ وَمَاءُ
أَتَلَهَّى بِهَا الهَوَاجِرَ إِذْ كُلُّ
ابْنِ هَمٍّ بَلِيَّةٌ عَمْيَاءُ
وَأَتَانَا مِنَ الحَدِيثِ صَرِيحٌ
لَيْسَ مِنْهُ سُقْيَا وَلَا إِرْوَاءُ
زَعَمُوا أَنَّ كُلَّ مَنْ ضَرَبَ العِيـ
ـرَ مَوَالٍ لَنَا وَأَنَّا الوَلَاءُ
فَإِذَا مَا أُتِيحَ مِنْ تِلْكَ يَوْمًا
لَمْ نُقِمْ فِي مَقَامِنَا يَوْمَ سَوْءِ
فَبَقِينَا عَلَى الشَّنَاءَةِ نَنْمِي
قَدْ أُخِذْنَا بِذَنْبِ قَوْمٍ أَبَاءُ
فَلَيَسْأَلْ أَمِيرَنَا عَنْ جَدِيرَا
تِ دِمَاءٍ أَقَامَهُنَّ الدِّمَاءُ
Source Colophon
Text: المعلقات السبع (al-Mu'allaqat al-Sab', The Seven Suspended Odes). Composed sixth century CE, Arabian Peninsula. First compiled by Hammad al-Rawiya (d. 772 CE). Arabic text with full tashkil drawn from the standard critical recension as transmitted in the Arabic manuscript tradition and preserved in modern scholarly editions.
Language: Classical Arabic (pre-Islamic Jahili dialect).
Note: The Arabic source text above presents selected core verses from each Mu'allaqah following the most widely attested recension. Verse counts vary between manuscript traditions — some recensions of Imru' al-Qais contain 78 verses, others 81 or 92. The text here follows the most commonly taught and referenced verses of each poem as established in the major Arabic anthologies.
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