تَشَبَّبتُ حتّى قيلَ لي أَنتَ عاشِق

تَشَبَّبتُ حتّى قيلَ لي أَنتَ عاشِق

تَولع ولهاناً بخودٍ وذكرانِ

تَولع ولهاناً بخودٍ وذكرانِ

I composed love verse until I was told, “You are a lover,

I pretended until it was said to me, “You are a lover!”

Infatuated, lovesick, with a fair maiden and men.”

Passionately infatuated with a cheek and remembrances.

وَما بِيَ مِن عشقٍ وَلا مِن صَبابَةٍ

وَما بِيَ مِن عشقٍ وَلا مِن صَبابَةٍ

وَما لِيَ مَعشوق بَعيدٌ ولا داني

وَما لِيَ مَعشوق بَعيدٌ ولا داني

But there is no love in me, nor any passionate longing,

But I have no love, nor any infatuation,

And I have no beloved, distant or near.

I have no distant beloved, neither near.

وَما ذاكَ مِنّي غَير مَحضِ تَخَيُّل

وَما ذاكَ مِنّي غَير مَحضِ تَخَيُّل

لآتيَ مِن أَسنى القريضِ بِأَفنانِ

لآتيَ مِن أَسنى القريضِ بِأَفنانِ

And that, on my part, is nothing but sheer imagining,

That is not from me, nothing but pure imagination,

So that I may bring forth branches of the finest poetry.

Coming from the most artful verses and rhythms.