An Attempted Qasida (1)

See further down for a description. There's a lot to say and this small space isn't enough for the required explanation of what would otherwise be rather obscure, and still is, I think.

I waded through the dunes of dreams.
Here's a deserted encampment : let us halt !

Stopping my mount, I set foot and treaded the sands.
They flowed lazily along my step.
There remain few traces of the lives gone by ;
The criss-crossing of the winds
Has ground most to the finest dust.

There stood a tattered tent,
Whose torn wings fluttered in the Laawan

The robe of the dancer had been marked
By the kin and tribe of my beloved ;
They had departed but the weaving remained.

I said : "This was your abode, 
Yet the river has run dry, and my memory fails me."

Nights come back to me, under which she polished her craft.
Adorning my mind with moon-woven tales of her ilk. 

Her art fell like torrential rainfalls
That drown and flood the sands with pearls.

In the morning the desert roses would glisten like coins
Their flowers burdened with glass necklaces.

The wind whispered to me :
"Though you grieve not, why be so listless ?

Your love was a peak, but time has ground it away.
Your companions went with you, but I have erased their steps.

Go ; you have forgotten,
Therefore you are freed." 

I started anew ; like the branches of a willow,
My hair flailed against the wind.

When the sun finally set, and the moon rose, 
One could have sworn ! that the night was dawning.

I sat gazing in the fire I had lit
And there wandered in a hooded woman ;

Going on foot, she kicked up dust ;
It had dyed her lilac dress grey.

Without a word, she joined me,
Cast upon me eyes that shone harsher than my sword's edge.

In her arms, a war drum rumbled
Still quivering from the strokes of heavy spearheads ;

It had known the milling wheel of battle,
Seen it crush souls as so many grains of bâjarâ.

I told her : "" you who wanders among the dunes, 
Verily you have a fine instrument.

Play it for us, that this night and this sand
And my quill, may bear witness to your passage."

She turned to me her most wisened head
An aged face whose still moist lips concealed the teeth.

Silently still, she lifted her soul skyward
As if to consecrate its voice, making it holy ;

Drawing fine, sun-dyed arms upon the stretched leather, 
She struck a blow, and its brothers followed ;

Each a swing from a primal shield-shattering sword,
A thrust of an ancient invincible steel tip,

An arrow fired towards the sun, black-fletched ;
The thundering hooves of a dune-splitting steed.

I sung with her while she battered her drum,
Both in trance as if completing a ritual.

When we were done, the moon had leapt towards the West ;
Exhausted, I fell in a world where light meets its shadow.

In the morn, my wellwisher had vanished, 
Leaving no trace, for surely the wind was her companion.

I, me, a mirror of her !
I looked in myself and saw I was the same mettle.

Oh, humans ! Your enterprises are vain.
You carry as much purpose as a dry well.

Did you mean to shed light ? 
You carry with you a flameless lamp.

It casts about an aura of darkness.
In its radiance, you become the most misguided kind.

My coldness rebukes you ; but it belies a tempered spirit !
I am as an inviting night, serenely even.

I've seem so many conceal and hatch venomous tempests
In the folds of a coat of warmth ! 

Its cries howl hatred for someone's will !
It will rage 'till it has stripped a soul down to indignity.

And he who is cowardly, is most virtuous in battle,
For he sullies not his hands with a bloodied sword ;

And he who wages war, his soul is tarnished ;
May his ink turn to tar and his prayers to curses.

He who contemplates in solitary silence, heed him :
He has listened to himself and heard his own wisdom ;

He who is dead, should be forgotten,
For life thrives on his sacrifice, and humanity on his bones ;

He who was never born is blessed, 
For he has not turned his own suffering against his own brother !

He who strives to advance his kin
Builds a house of wind for someone else to dispel ;

He who reads and follows the poets,
Throws a moon in the well and increases his wisdom.

He who rebels against his own nature,
Forges weapons of clay and leaves !

He who lives knowing that all will whither
Is a wise seer, but preaches in the desert !

None will hear him but the stones.
They saw us rise, they will see us decay.

Humanity may well be a great peak ; she is for naught.
Time is an immortal djinn that'll grind her to dust.

Author's Note

This very long poem would require some explanation. I used (partly) a form from classical Arabic poetry. The qasida, that's its name, is a kind of long tripartite ode. I followed neither the imperative to keep a single meter, nor the imperative to keep a single rhyme that appears at the end of every couple of verses. I used some tropes from the genre, such as the deserted encampment, which is in itself almost a clichée.

The finale of a qasida (gharad) is the core message of the poem, and it doesn't have to be connected to the two other parts. The finale can be praise (of oneself or of the tribe), violent satire, elegy, or, as I did myself, a series of sentencious statements.

Now, this isn't QUITE a qasida, as I took liberty with the form, but I tried to follow the model in spirit.