يا اِبنَ حَربٍ كَسَوتَني طَيلَساناً

مَلَّ مِن صُحبَةِ الزَمانِ وَصَدّا

O son of war, you have clothed me in a worn-out garment,

Filled with the company of time and turned rigid.

فَحَسبِنا نَسجَ العَناكِبِ لَو قي

سَ إِلى ضُعفِ طَيلَسانِكَ سُدّا

It would suffice that the spider's web were woven

To the weakness of your worn-out garment as a patch.

إِن تَنَفَّستُ فيهِ يَنشَقُّ شَقّا

أَو تَنَحنَحتُ فيهِ يَنقَدُّ قَدّا

If I breathe in it, it splits into pieces,

Or if I sneeze in it, it falls apart in shreds.

طالَ تَردادُهُ إِلى الرَفوِ حَتّى

لَو بَعَثناهُ وَحدَهُ لَتَهَدّى

Its swaying back and forth to patching has been so prolonged

That if we sent it alone, it would collapse.