1. Your face is where “the South” dwells in me
And builds “the nightingale” in my letters

2. And makes me, whenever I recite poems
A prince, and the horizon a majestic throne

3. And carries me the paths on palms
While today, the paths deny one like me

4. For your face, in my blood, pulses of poetry
And a passionate ode to it of a wondrous composition

5. The purity of eglantine its juice wrings a cloud
Whose drops a moist branch seizes

6. It has dawns on the peaks of bliss
In the language of love, and it has sunsets

7. It illuminates the eyelids upon its visions
Wisdom its cultivation planted, honor and wholesome

8. For your face, you are the warble of songbirds
And the whispers of lyricism and the dune

9. The clay’s shout, the sun’s fragrance
It languishes with its spell the withered meadow

10. It disappears so yearning withers in my heart
And the vast universe dims for me

11. The loaf of bread wearied me ascending
And distanced between us while I am near

12. I toiled with my stature and the water of my heart
And each in striving has a fate

13. And the journey wearied me and all my letters
And over my anguish, white hair laughed

14. And the love I have not repented from wearied me
Lovers repent, but I do not repent

15. And a heart where loved ones drown
And how many hearts have trampled upon love

16. A heart that reads the world fretfully
While its nation has been afflicted with calamities

17. It partitions its pulse in every land
So in every place, it has a beloved

18. And it screams in existence with a thousand songs
While passersby walk on and do not respond

19. Over our ruins, mansions were born
And over our brows, scars were dug

20. And under our faces, faces sprouted
On their features, pallor grew

21. And between our ribs, wars began
And over our backs, wars were sealed

22. Our fragments fly without fragments
So half the lands of our nation are desolate

23. And our letters have a deep meaning
That the censor finds too narrow, so he erases

24. We sleep on the mattress as we grew tired
And refuse to blame though we find fault

25. When the heart grows on ruins
In it, sins become virtues

26. My letters’ princess grew tired, my letters
On their banks, the brambles withered

27. So I came to your wheaten face complaining
To one who knows the grievance, the stranger complains

28. I struggle with the white letters disgrace
On the face of life, it has a brand

29. And I do not know, if I saddle a poem
Do I with it split the rubble, or the one hit?