يا لائمي في أعرجٍ

حُلْوِ المراشف والمذاقِ

O you who blame me for loving one who limps,

Whose lips are sweet and whose conversation delightful,

ظَبيٌ أَنسْتُ نفارَهُ

وَهَوَيتُه لا للسباقِ

A gazelle I forgot his shyness

And his inclination not for running.

أَوَما رأيتَ الغُصْنَ أح

سَن ما يكونُ بفَردِ ساقِ

Have you not seen the branch is most beautiful

When it stands alone without a stem?