شكوتُ إليهِ الحُبَّ كيْما يقلَّ من

حَرارةِ أحشائي ببردِ رُضابِهِ

I complained to him of love, so that he might quench

The burning in my entrails with a draught from his lips.

فجادَ ببُخلٍ أو بَموتٍ مُعَجَّلٍ

فأبديْتُ مَرتاداً رُضابَ رُضابِهِ

But he was stingy, his breath already stilled,

So I kept drinking from that draught of his being.