بِعَيشِكَ هَل أَبصَرتَ مِن قَبلُ أَحرُفاً

كُتِبنَ بِماءِ الحُسنِ في طُرَرِ الزَهرِ

With life's vision have you ever seen

Letters written with the water of beauty on the leaves of flowers

سَحاءَة قِرطاسٍ ثَنَتها كَما تَرى

مُلاعَبَةُ المِقراضِ سَطراً عَلى سَطرِ

The blankness of paper it has bent as you see

The playfulness of scissors, line after line

أَلَيسَ عَجيباً أَن يُعَوَّضَ كاتِبٌ

بِكافورَةِ القِرطاسِ عَن مِسكَةِ الحِبرِ

Is it not wondrous that a writer be rewarded

With the camphor fragrance of paper instead of the musk scent of ink