أَلا تِلكَ عَزَّةُ قَد أَصبَحَت

تُقَلِّبُ لِلهَجرِ طَرفاً غَضيضا

Alas! That same pride has now become

Turning away a tender, tearful glance;

تَقولُ مَرِضنا فَما عُدتَنا

فَقُلتُ لَها لا أُطيقُ النُهوضا

And saying, "We are sick," but comes not nigh.

I said, "I have no strength left to advance."

كِلانا مَريضانِ في بَلدَةٍ

وَكَيفَ يَعودُ مَريضٌ مَريضا

Both sick are we in the same little town,

And how should a sick man on a sick man rely?