يَقولُ لِيَ الحَدّادُ وَهوَ يَقودُني
إِلى السِجنِ لا تَجزَع فَما بِكَ مِن باسِ
The blacksmith says to me as he leads me
To prison, “Do not grieve, you’ve done no wrong,”
وَتَترُكُ عُذري وَهوَ أَضحى مِنَ الشَمسِ
Yet he ignores my plea though clear as day
