رَوضَةٌa garden مِنof قَرقَفٍwine أَنهارُهاits rivers
رَوضَةٌ مِن قَرقَفٍ أَنهارُها
وَغِناءُand the singing الوَرقِthe gray doves فيهاin it فيin اِرتِفاعِrising
وَغِناءُ الوَرقِ فيها في اِرتِفاعِ
A garden whose rivers are wine,
A garden of autumn leaves, rivers flowing,
And the gray doves’ song rises high within it.
The rustle of foliage ascending on high.
لاdo not تَلُمblame أَغصانَهاits branches إِنif رَقَصَتthey dance
لا تَلُم أَغصانَها إِن رَقَصَت
فَهيَfor they are ماemphatic particle بَينَbetween شَرابٍwine وَسَماعِand music
فَهيَ ما بَينَ شَرابٍ وَسَماعِ
Do not blame its branches if they dance,
Blame not the branches if they chance to sway,
For they are amid wine and music.
Drunk as they are on song and sky.
Sol 6.1