بِروحي طَرْفُ الحِبِّ كَيفَ اِحمِرارُه

فَهَلْ هوَ مَخمورٌ لإِسكارِ عبدِهِ

With my soul, how red is the edge of love!

Is it drunk from intoxicating its slave?

وَما هوَ مَخموراً وَلَكنَّ عَينَهُ

بَديعَةُ مِرآةٍ حَكَت وردَ خدّهِ

It's not drunk, but its eye

is the splendid mirror that engraved the rose on his cheek.