1. Why do you turn away, while I see that
you always yield to desire, O bending bough?
١. عَلام تَصُدُّني وَأَراكَ دَوماً
تَميلُ مَعَ الهَوى يا غُصن بان
2. Your turning has killed me with longing -
and that is my blood on the tips of the branches.
٢. رُوَيدَكَ قَد قَتَلتَ مِنَ التَصابي
وَذاكَ دمى بِاِطراف البنان