يا رُبَّ ظَمآنِ الوِشاحِ

يَفتَرُّ عن بَردِ الأَقاحي

O Lord of the thirsty pilgrim's garb

Relenting from the cold rocks

ما زِلتُ أَلثُمُ ثَغرَهُ

ما بَينَ رَيحانٍ وَراحِ

Still do I kiss his lips

Amid basil and meadowsweet

في لَيلَةٍ لَم تَتَّسِع

لِعِناقِنا مِنها النَواحي

On a night not wide enough

For our embrace in all directions

ما لاحَ وَجهُ عَشائِها

حَتّى بَدا وَجهُ الصَباحِ

Not until her evening face appeared

Did the face of morning arise