1. The branches softly rustled over it,
The grass covered it with its blossoms.

2. This is a grave untouched by death,
Rather the poetry built it with its traces.

3. It was made from the bricks of arts,
Adorned by glory with its stones.

4. The poet unloaded his burden of yearning in it,
And deposited his heart with its secrets.

5. A tall palm tree neighbored it,
Crouching in the valley next to it.

6. As if it was the bereaved woman,
Spending a lifetime near it.

7. The fluttering breeze moans in it,
As if it flaps about its heart.

8. And sends the yearning melody,
Moonlike, shaded over his love.

9. And the delicate dawn kisses it,
Inclining over the grave with its lights.

10. As if it is reciting under the soil,
For a pearl that glitters with its glittering.

11. Death took from it that flame,
Except for a ray, wandering in the darkness.

12. It remains hovering over those cliffs,
Circling the spring from its water.

13. The light goes and the darkness comes,
And the stars shine in their positions.

14. Bewildered, they hover around the night,
Kept awake by the passionate longing for him.

15. They search for a star in those sands,
Fate made it fall from its horizon.

16. A brother to it in the land, he preferred the West over his East.
And at dawn the birds sing their morning song

17. In a melody issuing from their sadness.
They spread their wings over his grave

18. And thrust their beaks into its corner.
They pour out their laments for the sleeper in it,

19. That he was the inspirer of their art.
From his rhymes the elegies drew,

20. And from his songs the echo of his melody.
When the winds of autumn pass,

21. And the gales of winter fill the land.
When the frightening dark night comes,

22. And no star lights up the sky.
No branch rustles over it,

23. Nor does any bird arouse song.
The dense darkness shades the land,

24. As if it descends into the valley of annihilation.
O poet, neither the stars of night nor sun of day,

25. Brought me together with you.
But you are the East, and in my love for you,

26. Yearning draws me near and the homelands grow close.
You poured from your longing into its heart,

27. And from your tragedies copious tears.
He wished that if only he had slept in its soil,

28. To find solace in this companionship.
You portrayed for me the grave into which you descend,

29. The imagination of poetry and the intuition of emotion.
So I came to the grave with what adorns it,

30. From the charming images of the world, the deceitful luxuries.
Tell me, by the right of death, what does death do,

31. To the poet, and what do these graves do?
And is there beyond death what we do not know,

32. Of the world of return and the Day of Resurrection?
Your death alarmed me, my poet,

33. In the prime of life and the dawn of youth.
And it shook me, what overflowed from your mind,

34. It was the fountains of eloquence, agony.
And the breaths of the magic pen,

35. In your horizon's breadth, and the folding of the clouds.
And it stood with the wandering planet,

36. It saw the carpet of wind approach, so it shied away.
But your poetry still does not cease,

37. For the universe to echo back its hymns.
Poetry, wherever it descended like rain clouds,

38. Danced its tunes in the meadow.
And it taught the birds love and courtship,

39. So it made the flowers hear its songs.
And the wind sang it on the mountain,

40. Stirring its stillness.
O grave, my eyes did not see you, nor

41. Did they envision you except in the fringes of imagination.
You filled an empty heart with awe,

42. Empty except for love and the light of beauty.
You inspired in me the secret of decay, so

43. Doubt cleared from my eyes and the night of misguidance.
Tomorrow, the hands of erosion will fold the heart,

44. And the talons of nights will hunt down the stars.
And so pass the nights of life,

45. While the grave remains as it was.
A world of illusion and a time you see,

46. That fools the heart with its hopes.
It ridicules the smiles of lips,

47. And the frozen tear and its flowing.
A time that turned the wheel of well-being on the world,

48. Yet left no trace of its ruins.