Al-Khansā’, born near the end of the 6th century A.D., is renowned for elegies she composed for her slain brothers Mu^āwiya and Saẖr. Line 5, midway through the poem, is notable for the brusque transition to aggrieved resignation leading into the glorifying of the fallen brother. Line 6 is interesting for its apophatic rhetoric — describing a thing, in this case the brother’s nature and character, by stating traits it does not have. An arresting image is deployed in the final line. The speaker vows enmity toward’s Saẖr’s adversaries for what amounts to forever, i.e., for the time it would take for a pivotal utensil of desert hospitality, the blackened vessel used for cooking food, to turn white.
The Arabic text is from A.J. Arberry, Arabic Poetry: A Primer for Students. The crude copy, transliteration and translation appearing here are mine.
1 I found no sleep, kept watch all night long, as if my eyes were lined with muck.
2 Watching over stars, though not assigned their tending, sometimes I wrapped myself in shreds of rags.
3 I’d heard — the news gave me no joy — a messenger come spreading word of reports,
4 Saying, “Saẖr dwells there in a tomb next to a grave, struck down between stones.”
5 Go then! May God not keep you distant, man who fended off injury, seeking blood for blood.
6 You carried a heart not wronged mounted in a lineage not weak,
7 Like a spear-point illumining the night, you, bitter in resolve, free son of free men.
8 I’ll cry tears for you while ringdoves mourn and stars light the traveler’s way,
9 And not make peace with folk you warred against until the good host’s cooking pot turns white.
2 ‘ar^ā-n-nujūm(a) wa-mā kulliftu ri^yaẗ(a)-hā | wa-tāraẗ(an) ‘ataḡaššā faḍl(a) ‘aṭmār(i)
3 wa-qad sami^tu wa-lam ‘abjaḥ bi-hi ẖabar(an) | muḥaddiṯ(an) jā’a yanmī raj^(a) ‘aẖbār(i)
5 fa-ḏhab fa-lā yub^idan-ka-l-lāh(u) min rajul(in) | tarrāk(i) ḍaim(in) wa-ṭallāb(in) bi-‘awtār(i)
6 qad kunta taḥmilu qalb(an) ḡaira muhtaḍam(in) | murakkab(an) fī niṣāb(in) ḡaira ẖawwār(i)
7 miṯla-s-sinān(i) tuḍī’u-l-lail(a) ṣūraẗ(u)-hu | murr(u)-l-marīraẗ(i) ḥurr(un) wa~bn(u) ‘aḥrār(i)
9 wa-lan ‘uṣāliḥa qaum(an) kunta ḥarba-hum | ḥattā ta^ūda bayāḍ(an) ju’naẗ(u)-l-qārī
(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved
EthicalDative 
‘The Tongue Has No Bones.’ Yeah!
There’s no mistaking a language which can uncork a grave accent, an acute accent, a circumflex accent and a dieresis, all in the space of a single written utterance, as not-French. As I coax these diacritic delicacies from my keyboard in frank extase of Francophilia, my fluent touch-typing slows to a tortoise gait.
French is called the “most Germanic” of the Romance languages, while English, intensely Gallicized, ranks as the most Roman of the Germanic languages. The swirls and eddies of the cross-tonguing, the churn and spurn of embrace, are involving.
Of questionable relevance, who doesn’t know that “yeah” isn’t written “yea”? A substantial few, it seems. Nay to “yea” except when voicing a vote, says the insufferable formalist.
The tongue has no bones is a Moroccan saying. I’m not sure what it means in that culture, but the truth of the organ’s bonelessness is non-negotiable in most circles.
That’s me for now.
(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved