مَن لي بَمَخضوبَةِ البَنانِ

مَن لي بِمَعسولَةِ اللِسانِ

Who will grant me one with henna-dyed fingertips,

who will grant me one with a honeyed tongue—

مِن كاعِباتٍ ذَواتِ خِدرٍ

نَواعِمٍ خُرَّدٍ حِسانِ

from among nubile maidens of curtained chambers,

delicate, virginal, and fair;

بُدورُ تَمٍّ عَلى غُصونٍ

هُنَّ مِنَ النَقصِ في أَمانِ

full moons poised upon branches,

secure against all waning?

بِرَوضَةٍ مِن دِيارِ جِسمي

حَمامَةٌ فَوقَ غُصنِ بانِ

In a garden within my body’s domains,

a dove rests upon a bān-tree bough.

تَموتُ شَوقاً تَذوبُ عِشقاً

لِما دَهاها الَّذي دَهاني

She dies of yearning, melts with love

from what befell her—the very thing that befell me.

تَندُبُ إِلفاً تَذُمُّ دَهراً

رَماها قَصداً بِما رَماني

She mourns a beloved companion and condemns an age

that, taking aim, struck her with what struck me:

فِراقُ جارٍ وَنَأيُ دارٍ

فَيا زَماني عَلى زَماني

the parting of a neighbor, the remoteness of a dwelling.

O my time, how I grieve for my time!

مَن لي بِمَن يَرتَضي عَذابي

ما لي بِما يَرتَضي يَدانِ

Who will grant me one who welcomes my torment?

I have no power to resist what she desires.