بِنَفسِيَ مَن يَنتابُني وَيَعودُني

وَيَسأَلُ ما بي وَهوَ بِالداءِ عارِفُ

With my own self, who comes to me and returns

And asks how I am, though he knows of my pain

يَعودُ وِسادي وَهوَ جَذلانُ ناعِمٌ

وَيَرجِعُ عَنّي وَهوَ أَسوانُ لاهِفُ

Returns to my pillow, blissful and content

Then leaves me restless, fretful and stiff

وَمُعتَذِرٍ عَمّا جَنى بِصُدودِهِ

أَتى وَهوَ بَينَ الذَنبِ وَالعُذرِ واقِفُ

With excuses for the wrong he has done

He came torn between guilt and excuses

يُريدُ اِعتِذاراً وَالحَياءُ يَصُدُّهُ

وَهَل يَنفَعُ العُذرُ الفَتى وَهوَ تَالِفُ

Wanting to apologize but shyness holds him back

What good are excuses when one is in the wrong?

وَهَبتُ عِتابي كُلَّهُ لِجَفائِهِ

وَقَد كانَ عِندي لِلعِتابِ صَحائِفُ

I forgave all his coldness towards me

Though I had books filled with reproaches for him

صَحائِفُ عَتبٍ طَيُّها كامِنُ الأَسى

وَعُنوانُها فَيضٌ مِنَ الدَمعِ ذارِفُ

Books of reproach whose pages brimmed with sorrow

And were titled with copious flowing tears

جَوى مِثلُ أَطرافِ الأَسِنَّةِ كُلَّما

تَصَرَّمَ مِنهُ تالِدٌ عادَ طارِفُ

Secrets like the edges of sharp tongues, each time

One is cut by them, a new one appears, keen and slicing

إِذا قُلتُ هَذا حينَ يُؤسى جِراحُهُ

أُعيدَ لَهُ مِن لاعِجِ الحُبِّ قارِفُ

When I say this as his wound agonizes

The salve of love flows from me, healing and staunching

هُوَ الكَلمُ قَد أَعيى الأُساةَ عِلاجُهُ

فَلَيسَ لَهُ إِلّا الحَبيبُ المُساعِفُ

These words cannot cure the hurt, though I try

Except the efforts of the loving beloved to dress the wound anew