نقولُ الشِعْرَ في كَذَبٍ مَتى ما

أصَبْنا صِدْقهُ أمسى كلاما

We speak poetry in lies whenever

We hit its honesty, it becomes mere words

كأنـَّا والحقيقةُ في صراعٍ

يُحيلُ حَـلالَ نشْوتِها حَراما

As if the truth and us are in conflict

Making the ecstasy of its permissibility forbidden

فَيأْسِرُنا بلا حرْبٍ ونرضى

ويُرْسِلُنا بلا سِلْمٍ حَماما

It thus captures us without a war and we accept

And sends us without peace doves

ومـا في بَحْرِنـا مــاءٌ لطيرٍ

وما كـنّـا لمن عطِشوا غَماما

And there is no water in our sea for birds

And we were not clouds for the thirsty

أبانَا الشعرَ، في موْتٍ وُلدْنا

على أعتـابِ قافيــةٍ يَتامى

Our father created poetry for us, in death we were born

On the doorsteps of an orphaned rhyme

لنا في كفِّ مَن حضَروا سَلامٌ

وفي كفِّ الغيابِ لَنا سُلامى

For us, in the palm of those who attended, there is peace

And in the palm of absence for us, there are greetings