يَا نَاتِفاً شَعْرَاتِ عَا

يَا نَاتِفاً شَعْرَاتِ عَا

رِضِهِ الَّتي سَاقَتْ وشَقَّتْ

رِضِهِ الَّتي سَاقَتْ وشَقَّتْ

O plucker of the hairs of his cheek-

O one who weaves strands of passion

beard, which have grown and broken through,

Through tender limbs that sway and bend

أَخَشِيتَ طُولَ حَدِيثها

أَخَشِيتَ طُولَ حَدِيثها

فَقطَعْتَها مِنْ حَيْثُ رَقَّتْ

فَقطَعْتَها مِنْ حَيْثُ رَقَّتْ

Did you fear the length of their tale,

You feared the length of her sweet talk

so you cut them off where they grew thin?

And cut it short when she was tender