تَدوسُ شَديدَ الدّوسِ في التُّربِ واطِئاً

وَمِنكَ بِتيهِ العجبِ يَشمَخُ معطسُ

You trample heavily on the soil walking low

And from your wondrous wandering a sneeze springs high

رُوَيدَك ما هَذي بِتربٍ وَإِنَّما

جِباهٌ وَأَجسادٌ وَعَينٌ وَأَرؤُسُ

Your soil is not mere dust but brows and bodies

And eyes and heads that see and think and cry