مَن يَكُن ذا لِقَحٍ راِخياتِ

فَلِقاحي ما تَذُوقُ الشَّعيرا

Who has tender sprigs to graze,

My grazing is not on barley.

بَل حَوابٍ في ظِلالِ فَسيلٍ

مُلِئَت أَجوافُهُنَّ عَصيرا

Rather, slender-waisted gazelles

In the shade of torrents overflowing with juice,

فَتَهادَرنَ لِذاكَ زَماناً

ثُمَّ مُوِّتنَ فَكُنَّ قُبُورا

Who tumbled for a time,

Then died and became graves.