ما أحْسَنَ ما بُلْبلَ مِنْهُ الصُّدْغُ

ما أحْسَنَ ما بُلْبلَ مِنْهُ الصُّدْغُ

قَدْ بَلْبَلَ عَقْلِي وَعَذُولي يلغو

قَدْ بَلْبَلَ عَقْلِي وَعَذُولي يلغو

How lovely his tousled temple-lock is!

How fair the nightingale's song into my heart it stings!

It has bewildered my mind, and my reprover prattles.

My sense is reft by him, my patience he unstrings.

ما بِتُّ لَدِيغاً مِنْ هَوَاهُ وَحْدِي

ما بِتُّ لَدِيغاً مِنْ هَوَاهُ وَحْدِي

من عَقْرَبَهِ في كلِّ قلبٍ لَدْغُ

من عَقْرَبَهِ في كلِّ قلبٍ لَدْغُ

Not I alone have spent the night stung by love for him;

No rest, because of him, at all my spirit wings;

From his scorpion comes a sting in every heart.

Within each heart his nearness is a wound that rings.