الأَرضُ أُمُّ بَناتِها الشَجَرُ

وَالغَيمُ ثَديٌ لِبانُهُ المَطَرُ

The earth is the mother of her daughters, the trees,

And the cloud is their nursing breast, its rain their milk.

وَالقَضبُ أَوراقُها مَعاجِرُها

عَلى وُجوهٍ عُيونُها الزَهَرُ

The canes are their home, their children the flowers

That open their eyes on their faces.

فَاِعتَصِرِ اللَهوَ بِالصَبوحِ فَقَد

اَصبَحَتِ المُعصِراتث تَنعَصِرُ

So revel in the morn, for soon it will be over -

The presses will whir and the new wine will pour.