أَمِن بَعدِ سِتّينَ تَبكي الطُلولا

وَتَندُبُ رَسماً وانِياً مُحيلا

After sixty, does the night still weep

And mourn a faded, transient trace,

وَقَد نَجَّمَ الشَيبُ في عارِضَيكَ

وَجَرَّ عَلى مَفرِقِكَ الذُيولا

While gray has speckled both your cheeks

And braids have draped your forehead's grace?