1. The water that poetry embodied rose like fading ruins,
Representing the souls of people in empty times,

2. And the joys of people after decline and blessing,
Upon them time settled harshly altogether,

3. And the misery of generations who walked in their lives,
As they received it on the path of generations,

4. For poetry is nothing but what represents its people,
Transporting from a past people to the present,

5. And not all poetry I have heard is good,
Nor is all water I have come across chained,

6. If the youth's poetry is not from his feelings,
Then it is neither acceptable nor regarded,

7. And if his words fall short of his purpose,
He deserves nothing but neglect,

8. And if its meaning is pure but not its wording,
That is like a cheek with pockmarks and moles,

9. And of those before whose pursuit failed due to ignorance,
I liked nothing but their honesty, for honesty is the best attire,

10. And how wonderful this modernity would be if
It came to us with a face painted with a beauty spot,

11. And my rejection of extremists does not come
From my disposition, for desires differ,

12. The edifice of poetry has collapsed except a little,
And it had been, filling the eye, like a high mountain,

13. As for the reservoirs that were overflowing,
You will not find in them anything but a bucket or two,

14. And I do not like those whose efforts failed due to ignorance,
Like one drawing water that overflows from a sieve,

15. I saw in you, O poetry, despicable vulgarity,
And this was not among my hopes for your fate,

16. I wanted you vacant of trivial defects,
For you are to me that precious essence,

17. As if you have not ridden a horse for plunder,
Nor been girded as a dancer with anklets,

18. Those who argue with me about poetry argue not with insight,
A group of critics, all of them said,

19. Each of us is well-versed in what is right, he claims,
But the voice of the falsifiers is louder,

20. Both of us, when we plunge into confusion are soaked,
But their being soaked is not like my being soaked,

21. There, war resembles anger and acceptance,
And not all who plunged into wars were heroes,

22. I was raised on the independence of a rebellious soul,
So I accept no weaving but my own,

23. Nor do I claim to be unique in my sayings,
But I am content, like others, with my words,

24. Except that I see that if I accompany them,
I would excel, and that I am above the barefoot,

25. This poetry has remained for fifty pilgrimages
Refining my words and correcting my deeds,

26. So I walked according to the lamp it guided me,
Even if in that guidance was my own misguidance,

27. And I spoke eloquently until old age weakened me,
So I fell silent like fading ruins,

28. And I said: Carry me, O poetry, I stumbled,
For my foot slipped as it bore my burdens,

29. So turn away from me, unwilling to lighten my load,
And gloat in turning away from me and my torment,

30. If I perish, I will not have lost
Much property or wealth,

31. By your life, nothing about death frightens me,
Rather, this life of mine has terrors,

32. Moreover, after defeat, I will have another try,
With which I will show courage against every pretentious person,

33. I will declare aloud the truth they conceal,
Even if they sever my limbs with the sword for the truth, O right,

34. And I in my rage am like a growling she-wolf,
And who, do you think, in their rage is other than wolf-like?

35. God has granted life to people who missed the paths of glory,
And sought no goals but through money.