وَقَتكَ صُروفُ الدَّهرِ يا ابنَ مُقَلَّدٍ

وَلا زِلتَ تَدعو سَعدَها فَتُجيبُ

The turns of fate have worn you down, O son of one who wears necklaces,

Yet still you call upon its happiness, and it responds,

وَراحَت رَزاياها عَلَيكَ شَفيقَةً

كَأَنَّ الخُطوبَ الطَّارِقاتِ قُلوبُ

Its calamities have been gentle with you,

As if the striking afflictions were hearts,

وَلا صَحِبَت كَفَّاكَ غَيرَ صَوارِم

لَها في صُدورِ الدَّارِعينَ وَجِيبُ

You have no weapon but blades

That pierce the armor and mail of warriors.

تُنَفَّرَ عَنكَ الحادِثاتِ كَأَنَّها

غَوان وَبيضُ المُرهَفاتِ مَشيبُ

Events shy away from you as though they are

Abyssinian slaves, while the white-haired are youthful.

فَقَد زالَ داء كُنتَ فيما أَماطَهُ

كَما ثُقِّفَ الخَطِيُّ وَهوَ صَليبُ

So the illness you had has passed away,

Just as a cross was removed from a Christian,

وَقَد يُصقَلُ الهِندِيُّ وَهوَ مُذَرَّب

وَيُمسَح عِطفُ المَرءِ وَهوَ أَديبُ

An Indian idol may be polished

While the side of a cultured man is adorned.