شافَهُ كَفّي رَشَأ

شافَهُ كَفّي رَشَأ

بِقُبلَةٍ ما شَفتِ

بِقُبلَةٍ ما شَفتِ

A gazelle fawn touched my palm with his lips,

My hands she lightly sprayed

With a kiss that brought no relief.

With a kiss I'd never tasted

فَقُلتُ إِذ قَبّلها

فَقُلتُ إِذ قَبّلها

يا لَيتَ كَفّي شَفَتي

يا لَيتَ كَفّي شَفَتي

So I said, as he kissed it:

So I told her when she'd kissed them

“Oh, if only my palm were my lip!”

Would my hands were lips embraced