لا تَلُمني عَلى الدُموعِ الجَواري

فَهِيَ عَوني عَلى فِراقِ الجِوارِ

Blame me not for shedding tears of sorrow,

They comfort me when friends depart afar,

كَم لَئيمٍ يَلَذُّ بِالعَيشِ صَفواً

وَكَريمٍ يَغُصُّ بِالأَكدارِ

How vile is he who joyfully lives ignobly,

While the noble grieves with life's disquietude.

لا يَفي الوَصلَ بِالصُدودِ خَليلَيَّ

كَما الخَمرُ لا تَفي بِالخِمارِ

No union with the beloved quenches my thirst,

As wine behind the veil which cannot inebriate.

فَاِسقِنيها لَعَلَّها تَصرِفُ

الهَمَّ عَلى طيبِ نَغَمَةِ الأَوتارِ

Give me that wine, perhaps it will dispel,

My cares through charming melodies of the lute strings.

خَندَريساً كَأَنَّها في دُجى اللَيلِ

بِأَيدي السُقاةِ شَمسُ النَهارِ

A goblet as though amid the dark night's gloom,

In the cups of wine-pourers, sun of day.

إِنَّما العَيشُ في رِياضِ دمَشقٍ

بَينَ أَقمارِها وَبَينَ القَماري

Living is only in Damascus' gardens,

Among its moons and with dice for leisure.

قَد خَلَعتُ العِذارَ فيها وَمازِلتُ

عَلى حُبِّها خَليعَ العِذارِ

I have shed my chastity there yet remain,

Enslaved by love though virtue I did mar.

مِثلَ ما قَد خَلَعتُ أَثوابَ مَدحي

بِاِختِياري عَلى بَني بَختِيارِ

Just as willingly I shed the clothes of praise,

By my own choice for the clan of Bakhtiyar.

مُعشُرٌ كَالغُيوثِ في حَلبَةِ السِلمِ

وَفي الحَربِ كَاللُيوثِ الضَواري

A folk like rainclouds in the plain of lances,

And in war like ferocious roaring lions,

بِقُلوبٍ كَأَنَّها مِن جِبالٍ

وَأَكُفٍّ كَأَنَّها مِن بِحارِ

With hearts firm as the mountains,

And palms generous as the oceans,

وَكَأَنِّ الإِلَهَ جَلِّ بُراهُم

مِن فَخارٍ وَالناسُ مِن فَخّارِ

As though God—Glorious is He—molded them,

From clay, while people were made from potters.