ياO بَنيsons of العشقpassionate love لَيسَnot نَحسبwe are reckoned أَحياalive
يا بَني العشق لَيسَ نَحسب أَحيا
أَوor بِمَوتيas dead (literally: by my death) نَعدwe are counted تَحتَbeneath الأَراضيthe earth
أَو بِمَوتي نَعد تَحتَ الأَراضي
O sons of love, we are neither reckoned alive
O children of passion, we do not count life
nor counted as dead beneath the earth.
Or with my death we calculate under the lands
تارةat times نَألَفwe grow fond of الفلاةthe wilderness وَطَوراًand at other times
تارة نَألَف الفلاة وَطَوراً
نَتَغَنىwe sing بِطيبof the sweetness of ذكرremembrance of الرِياضِthe gardens
نَتَغَنى بِطيب ذكر الرِياضِ
At times we grow fond of the wilderness, and at others
Sometimes we befriend the wilderness and at times
we sing of the sweet remembrance of gardens.
We sing the fragrance of the gardens
نَحنُwe ماthat which lies بَينbetween صحةhealth وَسقامand sickness
نَحنُ ما بَين صحة وَسقام
كَجُفونlike the eyelids of الدمىthe doll-like beauties الصحاحthe healthy المراضthe ailing
كَجُفون الدمى الصحاح المراض
We lie between health and sickness,
We are between health and sickness
Like the eyelids of doll-like beauties, sound yet ailing.
Like the eyelids of the tearful, the sane and the ill
Sol 6.1