1. His bag is like a fox in creation,
Its interior split into many paths,

2. Always emitting a rotten stench,
With thick spittle on its sides.

3. It is like a sea that inspires horror
In its terrible tide and drowning,

4. Its saliva flowing endlessly,
While its belly is corroded by burning.

5. Like a pot that keeps pouring
From its many spouts the broth,

6. Wading into the morass of vices
And penetrating them.

7. Much laughter, yet his lips
Do not come together at all.

8. He has grown accustomed to that nature,
So he is split open for ages.

9. It has an armpit like a wind of death,
Dripping from it moisture and sweat.

10. It says to those who tolerate it:
"Your place is not to part from me."

11. And its songs are more enticing to me
Than fire and dawn,

12. And its talks are hotter to me
Than those we have at dusk.

13. Short, insignificant,
Little is its value.

14. It fawns on us, yet that flattery
Does not dress it in beauty.

15. And it invites us to rip
The freshness of the water spring,

16. Then takes us to that time
Of ripening, compassion and separation.

17. It displays chastity and inclines
Toward a passionate young man,

18. As if its head was not
Fixed properly on its neck.

19. It dyes its hair, while its face
Bears witness that it is unnatural.

20. It has no fragrant scent,
Only a stench of rottenness.

21. Indeed, its ugliness is complete,
No nature and no natural form.