بنفسي فتاةٌ يكتبُ الغصنُ إِن مَشَتْ

بنفسي فتاةٌ يكتبُ الغصنُ إِن مَشَتْ

إِلى قدِّها الميَّاسِ مِن عَبْدِ عَبْدِها

إِلى قدِّها الميَّاسِ مِن عَبْدِ عَبْدِها

My life be ransom for a maiden—when she walks, the bough writes

With myself is a girl whose branch writes

to her swaying figure: “From the servant of her servant.”

If she walked to its length from her loving servant

ولي جَسدٌ ما زال مأْسورَ صَدِّها

ولي جَسدٌ ما زال مأْسورَ صَدِّها

إِلى أَن حَكَى في السُّقْم ماسُورَ خدِّها

إِلى أَن حَكَى في السُّقْم ماسُورَ خدِّها

And I have a body that has remained captive to her rejection,

And I have a body that remains imprisoned by its impediment

until, in sickness, it resembled the tube-like lock at her cheek.

Until it recounted in sickness what adorned her cheek

أُشبِّه ذاك الخَدَّ منها بِجَمْرةٍ

أُشبِّه ذاك الخَدَّ منها بِجَمْرةٍ

وشابورةُ الماسُورِ طالعُ نَدِّهَا

وشابورةُ الماسُورِ طالعُ نَدِّهَا

I liken that cheek of hers to an ember,

I liken that cheek of hers to an ember

and the lock’s haze is the rising smoke of its incense.

And the adornment of the imprisoned is rising to meet it