يا مَن مَباضِعُ دَستِهِ بِشَباتِها

تُدمى العَروقَ وَتَخرُجُ الأَعصابا

O one whose hand crumples it with roughness

Bleeding the veins and tearing out the nerves

أَكثَرتَ وَطأَكَ في قَصائِدِيَ الَّتي

لَو أَنَّها وَطِئَتكَ صِرتَ تُرابا

You have overdone your treading in my poems

That if they were really trod by you, you'd be dust

إِنّي وَإِن أَصبَحتُ بازاً أَشهُباً

لِأُجِلُّ نَفسي أَن أَصيدَ غُرابا

Though I become a grey-feathered falcon

I'd still prize myself to hunt a crow