وَردَةٌ في يَدَيهِ تَنفحُ عِطراً

وَردَةٌ في يَدَيهِ تَنفحُ عِطراً

وَهيَ تَزهو فَديتها بِجناني

وَهيَ تَزهو فَديتها بِجناني

A rose in his hands wafts fragrance.

A rose in his hand, its fragrance wafts,

And it flaunts its beauty—I would ransom it with my heart.

As it blooms, I'd give my soul for its gardens,

وَجنَةُ الخودِ وَسطها بَعض شعر

وَجنَةُ الخودِ وَسطها بَعض شعر

أَلصَقته فيها مِنَ الزّعفرانِ

أَلصَقته فيها مِنَ الزّعفرانِ

A maiden’s cheek, with some hair at its center,

The apple of my cheek amidst some hair

Which I affixed there, made of saffron.

Where I had placed strands of saffron