إِلى اللَّهِ أَشكو ما نَرى بِجِيادِنا

تَساقَطُ هَزلي مُخُّهُنَّ قَليلُ

To God I complain of what we see in our steeds

How little is their flesh as they weakly proceed

فَإِن يَكُ أَفناها الحِصارُ فَرُبَّما

تَشَحَّطَ فيما بَينَهُنَّ قَتيلُ

If siege has made them wither, then one may find

Amid their ranks, many dead left behind

أَنا الحُرُّ واِبنُ الحُرِّ يَحمِلُ مَنكِبي

شَديدُ القُصَيري في البَلاءِ طَويلُ

I'm free, and freeborn's son upon my shoulders

Long-suffering, staunch, amidst disasters and disorder