صادَ قَلبي طَرفٍ سَحورِ

أَصهَبُ الشَعرِ مِن بَني سابورِ

My heart inclined to a morning visitor

Whose hair is soft like the people of Sabur

يَتَثَنّى كَأَنَهُ غُصنُ بانٍ

هَزَّ عِطفَيهِ في ثَرىً مَمطورِ

He sways like a bending bough

Shaking his shoulders over dusty ground

وَكَأَنَّ العِذارَ في الخَدِّ مِنهُ

زَعفَرانٌ غَضَّق عَلى كافورِ

As if the flowers on his cheek

Were saffron poured on camphor