طَيلَسانٌ لِاِبنِ حَربٍ

ذو أَيادٍ لَيسَ تُحصى

A long sword for the son of Harb

With hands that cannot be counted

أَنا فيهِ أَشعَرُ النا

سِ إِذا ما الشِعرُ نَصّا

I feel through it the people when poetry is intimate

And I see myself become humbler

وَأَراني صِرتُ أَدنى

بَعدَما قَد كُنتُ أَقصى

After having been the furthest

And people grew wary of me and increased

وَاِتَّقاني الناسُ وَاِزدا

دوا عَلى شِعرِيَ حِرصا

Their craving for my poetry

And how much an Ardiya attained me

وَلَكَم قَد حازَلي أَردِ

يَةً تَترى وَقُمصا

You can see it and a shirt

It was a long lifetime

كانَ دَهراً طَيلَساناً

ثُمَّ قَد أَصبَحَ شِصّا

Then it has become fragmented