بِقَلبي سَقام لَستُ أُحسن وَصفه

عَلى أَنَّهُ ما كانَ فَهوَ شَديدُ

My aching heart I cannot well describe

In my heart is a malady I cannot well describe,

Though fierce it was, and yet more fierce doth bide

Save that, whatever it is, it is severe.

تمرّ به الأَيّام تسحب ذيلها

فَتبلى بِهِ الأَيامُ وَهوَ جَديد

The days glide by, dragging their skirts along

The days pass over it, dragging their trailing robes,

And bare their passage, but itself doth 'bide

And the days wear out, while it remains new.