وَظَبي مِنَ الأَتراكِ قانَ مَحاسن

لَدَيهِ حَياتي إِنْ يُردْ وَمَماتي

My gazelle from the Turks has exquisite beauty

In his hands are my life if he wishes, and my death

فَبَين العُيونِ السودِ مَوتي أَحمَر

وَبَينَ الشّفاهِ السّمرِ منهُ حَياتي

So between the black eyes lies my red death

And between the brown lips, from him, is my life