لِمَنِ الصَبِيُّ بِجانِبِ البَطحاءِ

مُلقىً عَلَيهِ غَيرَ ذي مَهدِ

For whom is the boy by the meadow’s side

Laid without a cradle’s comfort?

نَجَلَت بِهِ بَيضاءُ آنِسَةٌ

مِن عَبدِ شَمسٍ صَلتَهُ الخَدِّ

He was brought by a fair, gentle maid

From a Sun-worshipping slave with curly locks.

تَسعى إِلى الصَباحِ مُعوِلَةً

يا هِندُ إِنَّكَ صُلبَةُ الهَردِ

She hastens to the morning burdened

O Hind, you are made of unyielding oak

فَإِذا تَشاءُ دَعَت بِمِقطَرَةٍ

تُذكى لَها بِأَلُوَّةِ الهِندِ

If you wish, you could summon with a sprinkling

To be lit for you India’s beacon.

غَلِبَت عَلى شَبَهِ الغُلامِ وَقَد

بانَ السَوادُ لِحالِكٍ جَعدِ

She prevailed over the boy’s youth, though

Blackness was apparent on your tanned skin

أَشِرَت لَكاعِ وَكانَ عادَتَها

دَقُّ المُشاشِ بِناجِذٍ جَلدِ

She gestured to refuse though her habit was

To tap the flint with bold, calloused hands.