Labīd's Lament for Arbad, read in Arabic and English translation скачать в хорошем качестве

Labīd's Lament for Arbad, read in Arabic and English translation

In which I read the "Lament for Arbad" attributed to the pre-Islamic poet Labīd bin Rabīˁa (c. 560), in Arabic and then in my English translation. Yet another translation I first wrote ten years ago when I first decided to try translating pre-Islamic poetry verse. What you hear in this recording is just my normal way of pronouncing literary Arabic. There's no reconstruction business in this video. (Edit, I should have read وأهْلُهَا at verse 5, rather than وأهْلِها. The latter is a plausible reading but the former makes better sense and is reflected in my translation). We perish and rot 　 　　but the rising stars do not. 　When we are gone, 　　　tower and mountain stay. Once I was under　 　　a coveted neighbor's wing. 　And with Arbad, that protector 　　　has passed away. I'll stand ungrieved, 　 　　though Fate force us asunder 　For every man 　　　is felled by Fate one day. I am no more enthralled　 　　by newfound riches 　than grieved by aught 　　　that Fortune wreaks or takes. For men are like desert camps: 　 　　one day, full of folk 　but, come the morrow, 　　　an unpeopled waste. They pass away in flocks, 　 　　and the land stays on: 　a trailing herdsman 　　　rounding up the strays. Yes, men are like shooting stars: 　 　　a trailing light 　collapsed to ashes 　　　after the briefest blaze. Men's wealth and kin 　 　　are but a loan of Fortune. 　All that is loaned 　　　must be at last repaid. Men are at work. 　 　　One worker razes his building 　to the ground, another 　　　raises something great. Among them are the happy 　　who seize their lot, 　and unlucky others: 　　　beggars till the grave. If my Doom be slow in coming, 　　I can look forward 　to ailing fingers 　　　clenched about a cane, While telling tales 　 　　of youth and yesteryear, 　on slow legs, trying to stand 　　　yet bent with pain. I am become a sword 　 　　whose sheath is worn 　apart by the years since smithing, 　　　though sharp the blade. Do not be gone! 　　A due date for death is meted 　to all. It is yet to come... 　　　then comes today! Reproachful woman! 　　When fine lads trek forth, 　can you say who of them 　　　shall return from the fray? Will you grieve 　 　　what fell Fortune wreaks on men? 　What noble man 　　　will disaster not waylay? No, by your lifeblood: 　 　　neither pebble-reader 　nor auguress know 　　　what fey things God ordains. If any of you would doubt me, 　 　　simply ask them 　when a lad shall taste of Doom, 　　　or the land taste rains.