أُطارِحُ كُلَّ هاتِفَةٍ بِأَيكٍ

عَلى فَنَنٍ بِأَفنانِ الشُجونِ

I converse with every calling bird in a grove,

perched on a bough amid sorrow’s many branches.

فَتَبكي إِلفَها مِن غَيرِ دَمعٍ

وَدَمعُ الحُزنِ يَهمُلُ مِن جُفوني

She weeps for her mate, yet sheds no tears,

while sorrow’s tears stream from my eyelids.

أَقولُ لَها وَقَد سَمَحَت جُفوني

بِأَدمُعِها تُخَبِّرُ عَن شُؤوني

I say to her, as my eyelids freely yield

their tears, revealing all that troubles me:

أَعِندَكِ بِالَّذي أَهواهُ عِلمٌ

وَهَل قالوا بِأَفياءِ الغُصونِ

“Have you any knowledge of the one I love?

And have they spoken beneath the boughs’ shade?”