The sun that lights us to the zenith climbs, Then gains the west. It disappears from sight When it has gained the summit of the vault Celestial. And the moon, which comes and shines At Ramadan, beholds the hour approach Of sleep, and says farewell to all the world. To these would I compare the lovely queen Of all this age, the daughter of Ahmed, Descendant of a race illustrious, The daughter of Donaonda. Such is The will of God, all-powerful Lord of men. The Lord hath shown his will and borne away Hyzyya. Grant me patience, O my Lord! My heart dies of its hurt. Hyzyya's love Did tear it from me when she left the earth. She's worth a hundred steeds of noble race, A thousand camels, and a grove of palms In Zyban. Yes, all Djryd is she worth, From near to far. The country of the blacks, Haoussa and its people is she worth, Arabians of Tell and dry Sahara, And the encampments of the tribes, as far As caravans can reach by all the ways, All nomads and all travellers, she's worth, And those who settle down as citizens. The treasurer of all riches is she worth, My black-eyed beauty. And if thou dost think This all too small, add all the cities' folk. She's worth all flocks and nicely chisel'd gold, She's worth the palms of Dra and Chaouyya; All that the sea contains, my love is worth, The fields and cities from beyond Djebel Amour, as far as Ghardaya. She is worth All Mzab, the plains of Zab. She pleases, too, The people of the Goubba, holy folk, And friends of God. She's worth all noble steeds However richly housed--or evening's star When twilight comes. Too small--'tis all too small For my sweet love, sole cure of all my woes. O God majestic, pardon this poor wretch! Pardon, O Lord and Master, him who grieves! Just three-and-twenty years! That was the age Of her who wore the silken sash. My love Has followed her, ne'er to revive within My widowed heart. Console me, Mussulmans, My brothers, for the loss of my sweet one, Gazelle of all gazelles, who dwelleth now In her cold, dark, eternal home. Console me, O young friends, for having lost Her whom you'd call a falcon on its nest. Naught but a name she left behind which I Gave to the camp wherein she passed away. Console me, men, for I have lost my fair, Dear one, that silver _khelkals_ wore. Now is she covered with a veil of stone, On strong foundation laid. Console me, friends, For all this loss, for she loved none but me. With my own hands my love's chest I tattooed, Likewise her wrists, with checkered patterns odd, Blue as the collar of the gentle dove. Their outlines did not clash, so deftly drawn, Although without _galam_--my handiwork. I drew them 'twixt her breasts, and on her wrists I marked my name. Such is the sport of fate!