فَطالَ عَليَّ الليلُ حَتّى كَأَنَّهُ

قَد اِمتثلَ الهَجرَ الَّذي لَيسَ يُقلِعُ

The night stretched long upon me, as though

It had complied with the estrangement that never ceases.

وَطالَ اِنتِظاري لِلصَّباح كَأَنَّني

أُراقِبُ مِنهُ غائِباً لَيسَ يَرجِعُ

And my wait for the dawn grew long, as though

I were awaiting one who is absent and will not return.

فَيا شعرَ من أَهواهُ هَل لَكَ آخرٌ

وَيا وَجهَ مَن أَهواهُ هَل لَكَ مَطلِعُ

So O poetry of the one I love, have you an end?

And O face of the one I love, have you a rising?