هُو الهوى وقديماً كنتُ أَحْذَرُهُ

السُّقْمُ مَوْرِدُهُ والموتُ مَصْدَرُه

It is passion, though long ago I used to shun it,

Illness is its resort, and death is its source.

يا لوعةً هي أحلى منْ مُنى أملٍ

الآنَ أعْرفُ شيئاً كُنتُ أنكِرُه

Oh what sorrow that is sweeter than the joy of hope!

Now I know something I used to deny.

جدٌّ منَ الشَّوق كان الهزلُ أوَّلَه

أقلُّ شيءٍ إذا فكّرْتَ أكْثره

Serious is this longing, though it began as jest,

The least of it, if you ponder, is plentiful.

ولي حَبِيبٌ وإن شطَّ المَزَارُ به

وقدْ أقُولُ نأَى لولا تَذكُّرُه

And I have a lover, though the shrine has taken him far,

And I say he is distant, were it not for remembering him.