وِلادَتُهُ أرّخْ سُرُورِي وَأمُّهُ

نَثُورٌ وَبَدْءُ الكُتْبِ فَتْحُكُمُ يَدرِي

His birth dated my joy, and his mother

A streaming rain, your hands knowing the opening of books,

وَإكْمَالُهُ دِرعُ التَّمَامِ وَمَوْتُهُ

خَرَابٌ وَكَانَ الحَجُّ فَاضَ منَ السِرّ

His completion being the armor of perfection, his death

Ruin, the pilgrimage having overflowed from the mysteries