إذا سألوني عن سوادِ عذارِ مَنْ

غَدا لا يُصافيني وظلتْتُ أُصافيهِ

If they ask me of the darkness of one

Who dawned no longer greeting me, though I greeted him,

أجبتُ نمالُ المسكِ دبّتْ بوجههِ

فساخَ لِلُطْفِ الجِلدِ أَنملُها فيهِ

I answer, "The musk's blots crept on his cheek;

So the softness of his face made its moles crawl over it."