أُمَّهاتُ الثِمارِ بَينَ الرَوابي

تائِهاتٌ يَلبَسنَ خُضرَ الثِيابِ

Mothers of fruits amidst the meadows stray

Wearing their robes of green in disarray

وَبَناتُ الكُرومِ تُجلى بِما قَد

صاغَهُ الماءُ مِن عُقودِ الحَبابِ

While daughters of the vines reveal the beads

That water wove as necklaces of seeds

فَاِلهُ ما دامَ لِلشَقيقِ خَلوقٌ

تَنثُرُ السُحبُ فيهِ مِسكَ الضَبابِ

For as long as cornflowers their being keep

Clouds strew their musky mists as they weep