إِذا ما الأَمرَدُ المَصقولُ جاءَت

عَوارِضُهُ فَنَقصٌ في اِزدِيادِ

When the polished sword's edge grows blunt

Its cutting power diminishes.

يَموتُ المَوتَةَ الأُولى فَتُمسي

عَلى خَدَّيهِ أَثوابُ الحِدادِ

It dies a first death, then spends the night

Wrapped in mourning clothes upon its cheeks.

وَهَل يَستَحسِنُ الإِنسانُ رَوضاً

إِذا ما حَلَّهُ شَوكُ القَتادِ

What mortal man would favor a garden

Infested with prickly brambles' thorns?