غابوا فَلَم أَدرِ ما أُلاقي
مَسٌّ مِنَ الوَجدِ أَو جُنونُ
They are gone, and I do not know what I suffer:
a touch of longing—or madness?
لَيلِيَ لا يَبتَغي بَراحاً
كَأَنَّهُ أَدهَمٌ حَرونُ
My night seeks no release,
as though it were a balking black steed.
أُجيلُ في صَفحَتَيهِ عَيناً
ما تَتَلاقى لَها جُفونُ
Across its two flanks I cast an eye
whose eyelids never meet.
Sol 5.6