أآدَابِي عَلَى كِبَرِي تُضَاعُ

وَعَرفُ المِسكِ مِن نَثرِي يُذَاعُ

My manners in my old age are humbled

And the scent of musk is spread from my poetry

وَلَستُ بِعَامِلٍ أَجبِي وَأَجني

وَلاَ قَاضٍ فَيَكفِينِي الرَّضاعُ

I am not a worker toiling for others

Nor a judge, so suckling would suffice me

وَلاَ أَشدُو وَمَولاَيَ قَريبٌ

أَضَاعُونِي وَأَيَّ فَتىً أَضاعوا

I do not sing odes, and my master is near

They lost me, and which young man did they make lost