تُقِلُّ غَناءً عَن جَهولٍ مُغَمَّرٍ

دَفاتِرُ تُلقى في الظُروفِ وَتُرفَعُ

The pages of books lie in envelopes to be mailed

Going and coming back to him in a waste

تَروحُ وَتَغدو عِندَهُ في مَضيَعَةٍ

وَكائِن رَأَينا مِن نَفيسٍ يُضَيَّعُ

Rare is what we have seen being wasted

You sing little about an ignorant flooded with darkness