أُقاسي مِن صُدودك ما أُقاسي

أُقاسي مِن صُدودك ما أُقاسي

وَأَذكُرُك العُهود وَأَنتَ ناسي

وَأَذكُرُك العُهود وَأَنتَ ناسي

I suffer what I suffer from your turning away.

I suffer from your rejection as I suffer

And I remind you of the pledges, while you forget.

And I remember our past while you forget

وَأَشكو وَحشَتي لَكَ وَاِغتِرابي

وَأَشكو وَحشَتي لَكَ وَاِغتِرابي

وَإِني بَينَ إِخواني وَناسي

وَإِني بَينَ إِخواني وَناسي

And I complain to you of my loneliness and estrangement,

I complain of my solitude and estrangement

Though I am among my brothers and my people.

Though amidst kith and kin and friends

وَيُبدي الدَمع مِنكَ إِلَيكَ شَكوى

وَيُبدي الدَمع مِنكَ إِلَيكَ شَكوى

بَرقُّ لَها الجَماد وَأَنتَ قاسي

بَرقُّ لَها الجَماد وَأَنتَ قاسي

And tears lay before you a complaint against you,

My tears convey my plaint from me to you

At which lifeless things soften, yet you are hard-hearted.

To which even rocks respond while you remain unmoved

فَدَيتك إِن أَحزاني شِعاري

فَدَيتك إِن أَحزاني شِعاري

وَأَثواب الضَنا أَبَداً لِباسي

وَأَثواب الضَنا أَبَداً لِباسي

May I be your ransom! My sorrows are my inner garment,

I sacrifice myself! My sorrows are my banner

And robes of wasting sickness are forever my clothing.

And the raiments of grief forever my dress

أَلَيسَ لِهَذِهِ البَلوى طَبيبٌ

أَلَيسَ لِهَذِهِ البَلوى طَبيبٌ

وَلا لِجِراح هَذا القَلب آسي

وَلا لِجِراح هَذا القَلب آسي

Is there no physician for this affliction,

Is there no physician to cure this affliction

Nor a healer for the wounds of this heart?

No tender hand to dress the wounds of my heart?

سَفكت دَمي وَلَم اذنب بَطَرف

سَفكت دَمي وَلَم اذنب بَطَرف

تَزول لِسحره الشَمّ الرَواسي

تَزول لِسحره الشَمّ الرَواسي

You shed my blood, though I had done no wrong, with a glance

My blood flows though I am guilty of no crime

Whose magic dislodges the lofty, firmly rooted mountains,

My eyes under his magic lose all sleep

بِسنّ سُيوف جفنيهِ دَواماً

بِسنّ سُيوف جفنيهِ دَواماً

وَإِن لَم تَنُبُ تَرنيق النُعاس

وَإِن لَم تَنُبُ تَرنيق النُعاس

By constantly sharpening the swords of its two eyelids,

The apples of my eyes unsheathe swords

Even though they have not grown blunt with sleep's languor.

And even if sleep comes, it is brief

وَخَدٌّ فَوقَهُ وَردٌ جَنيٌّ

وَخَدٌّ فَوقَهُ وَردٌ جَنيٌّ

وَصَدغ تبتهُ مخضل آس

وَصَدغ تبتهُ مخضل آس

And a cheek bearing freshly gathered roses,

A rose-tinted cheek on which lies a bloom

And a temple-lock whose growth is moist myrtle.

And a temple torn by the fingers of a secret lover