وَحمَّلتُ شعري كاهلَ الريح بعد ما

كَسَتهُ صُروفُ الدَّهرِ حُلَّةَ مُقعَدِ

I set my poetry upon the wind’s shoulder, after

the vicissitudes of Time had clothed it in the garb of one immobilized.

وما الشعرُ إلا جمرةٌ إن سَعَرتَها

أَضاءت وإن أهملتها لم تَوَقَّدِ

Poetry is nothing but an ember: if you kindle it,

it shines; but if you neglect it, it will not blaze.