Mystic riddle

      How many times have I said, while drinking wine at dawn:
          Who am I to blame others, who am drunkenness's plaything,
      all alone, seconded by no one to support me,
          even as the cosmos and its beings sing my praise?
      This is the onset of the Beauty-Marked, is it not? Watch out
          for me! Our get-together is a lofty connection.
      When I am visible, the Beauty-Marked One is in view,
          and when she is concealed, I'm still exposed.
      When you want to see her, look at me,
          and buddy, when you're with her, be on guard.
      Her every meaning is my meaning, and in form
          she's like me too, and my daughter and my father she is called.

By Shaykh ‘Adi ibn Musafir (meter: basīṭ)

A weaver's song

I am informed by al-Husayn ibn Yahya, on the authority of Hammad, that Hammad's father said:

Malik ibn Abi al-Samh was staying in Mecca, at the home of a man of the Banu Makhzum who had a weaver for his slave. Someone came along and asked: "Have you heard your weaver's song?"
       "No!" the man said. "Does he sing?"
       "Yes," he was told, "with lyrics by Abu Dahbal al-Jumahi."
        The man sent for the weaver and told him to sing it. "It's no good unless I'm at my loom," the weaver said. So his master brought Malik to the weaver's room, where the weaver sat at his loom and sang (meter: ṭawīl): 

   This night goes on too long. It is not lifting.
      [I am harried and dragged down by worry with no relief.
   All night long, angst rides me. It's like 
       being stubbed in the ribs with a glowing coal.]

Malik learned the song, and when he sang it, everyone took it for his composition. "By God," he would say, "it was not I. It was none but a weaver who came up with this song."

From the Book of Songs