كَتَبْتُ وشَوْقِيَ يُملِي أسىً

سَريرةَ حُبٍّ وَشاها الجَلَمْ

I wrote while my longing dictated sadness,

A secret of love though silence was great,

ولو رُمْتُ خَطّاً لَها بِسِواهُ

تَلهَّبَ بينَ يَدَيَّ القَلَمْ

Had I made for her a line other than it,

The pen would have blazed between my hands