لِلوَردِ عَلى شَوكَتِهِ اِستِسلامُ

ناداك وَصبحاً جَنَتِ الأَقوامُ

The rose surrenders to its thorns

Morning called you, garden of the people

قَد أَذهَبَ ماءَ وَجهي القَومُ هُنا

أَنّى هربي وَشيكَتِ الأَقدامُ

My face's water the people took away

Where shall I flee, my feet nearly stumbling