سَليم الكاتب املقصوف ظلماً

بايدي البين في شرخ الشبابِ

Salim the writer was unjustly slain

By the hands of fate in the prime of his youth

اتاهُ البين في العشرين لكن

عليهِ الحزن ليس بذي حسابِ

Fate took him at twenty, yet

Upon him was sorrow beyond all measure

لَقَد ارضى بتقواهُ الهاً

لديهِ قد تمتَّع بالثَوابِ

He was content with his piety to God

For him reward was assured

تَنوح لِفقدهِ الآداب حزناً

وَتَبكيهِ المعارف بانتحابِ

Literature mourns him, that he is lost

His circle of friends weep for him bitterly

غرسنا في الضريح لهُ قواماً

نؤَرّخهُ كغصنٍ في الترابِ

We have planted on his grave a monument

We date it like a branch in the dust