At Dhu Sudayr, the misery
of all who stay at al-Ghumayr
oppresses Layla in her robe,
curled like a hedgehog in its hole.
Shivers break out on my spine
and my chest is quivering
like a cat who warns her kitten.
Parched out in the wind and rain
and frigid cold that's no mere chill,
from midday to the wee small hours,
lit barely by a slip of moon
(the month is only four days in),
I fret and toss until the dawn,
drizzle-damp to my short hairs.
From road to road I'm kicked along
until, when my poor prick juts out,
in all its girth down to its trunk,
she sees the sad state of my putz.
Her grub is stashed in a dust-brown rag,
the nun who goes by Umm al-Khayr.
Disorderly her headwrap's wound.
The waist-sash round her smock is bound.
She sends her warp through heddle-eyes,
and in the convent clangs her bell
before cock-crow, when hens arise.
"I pity you!" she wails at me.
"A fugitive from the regime
you seem," to which I said, "That's me!
Without pause, I range and rove
so kids can get a meal to eat,
little ones, as bald as chicks,
and widows waiting on some food."
"I rejoice in every good!"
she said, and oiled and combed my locks
and served me bread with salted fish
pulled from the sea, or Egypt's docks,
with oil that was sour and rancid
drizzled over hulled lentils,
and some dates well desiccated.
She fixed me then with a lusty eye,
and pelted me with pebbles flung,
aimed at my bits and wayward one.
And when my little feast was through,
she joined my side and stroked my dong.
My ostrich flew! The bird had run.
"You'll need to find another one,"
I said. "Back when my strap was cut,
and I was like an ass in rut
I used to rebound like an eagle.
But now I perch beside my grave,
do I wait on my fate's direction?
Nay! by Him Who aideth me
from birth up to my resurrection!"
From Special Properties of [the Arabic] Language by Ibn Jinni
