Your singer to hate has a poison – the poet Al-Buhtari

sing you, to hate, in which he poisoned,
looming over an ambiguous creation
insult increases his
good, benevolence spoils him
he trembles his beard when he is rich
As if the painful slanderer
as if the thorns were on his thorns,
the criminal’s beard
nose, If he blushes in his face
And you deceived him by restraining him
And the throat is spread, and God is weak
e, if they tighten, obscene gypsy
If he yells, ask him a plan
on the lute, and pulled out his phlegm
How many then forgotten fragments,
was overthrown, How many slurred tone
the people oppress him out of his hatred
loudly, and told him the clitoris
His gods are never great,
And his manners are a poke, darkened
arrogant and arrogant
z, very distracted and carefree
If we quarantine him from a companion,
get away, and tried to deliver him
As if we have slept with our needs
to the pure, or to Harthama
We suffer all day long
R, So we sat with him in his epic
brings what is worthy of him,
Had it not been for modesty, we would have broken his mouth.