وتَسألُني قَصيدتيَ الجديدةْ

وأحلامي وأوهامي العَنِيدَةْ

And my new poem asks me,

as do my dreams and my stubborn fancies,

وأقلامي ويَسألُ كُلُّ حَرْفٍ

أُسَطِّرُهُ وآلامي العَديدةْ

and my pens; every letter asks,

each one I set down—and so do my many sorrows:

لِمَنْ سَجَدَتْ حُروفُ الشِّعرِ حَتَّى

كَتَبْتَ لِعَينِها أَحلى قَصيدة؟

For whom did your poetic letters bow, until

you wrote for her eyes the loveliest poem?

ينامُ النَّاسُ حَوْلَكَ في هُدوءٍ

وطَرْفُكَ أين لَحْظَتُهُ السَّعِيدةْ؟

People around you sleep in peace,

but your eye—where is its happy moment?

فقلتُ: نَعَمْ أَرَقُّ النَّاسِ لُطْفًا

وأخلاقًا وآراءً سَديدةْ

So I said: “Yes—the tenderest of all people in kindness,

in character, and in sound judgment;

تَخِرُّ لها القَصائدُ ساجِداتٍ

برغم البُعدِ، ليست بالبعيدةْ

before her, poems fall prostrate,

despite the distance, she is not far away.”