that sweeps from the Syrian hills, and wrinkles our cheeks and brows.
But balmy art thou and mild to strangers, a gracious breeze
that brings from the gulf shore showers and fills with its rain our streams.
And this, of a truth, I know--no fancy it is of mine:
who holds mean his kith and kin, the meanest of men is he!
And surely a foolish tongue, when rules not its idle prate
discretion, but shows men where thou dwellest with none to guard.
A lament for the afflictions of his tribe, the 'Âmir. From the 'Diwan': Translation of C.J. Lyall.
Yea, the righteous shall keep the way of the righteous,