يا سائِلي عَن حالَتي

لا تَسأَلَن عَمّا يَغُمُّ

O you who ask about my state

Do not ask about what saddens me

عَمّا المُصابُ بِفِتيَةٍ

كانَت مَواهِبُهُم تَعُمُّ

About those youths of noble traits

Whose talents did encompass me

وَحَصَلتُ بَعدَهُم عَلى

مَن هُم لِقَلبِ الدَهرِ هَمُّ

And after them I found a folk

Who are to time's heart a constant woe

قَومٌ أَنامِلُهُم حَصىً

وَوُجوهُهُم صَخرٌ أَصَمُّ

A folk whose fingers are like pebbles

And their faces like rocks hewn hard and slow