سُقياً لحربٍ جنيتُها عبثاً

سهامُها الراحُ بالرياحينِ

Watering a war I reaped in vain

Blessings upon a war I waged in jest,

Its arrows gone with the gentle breeze

Whose arrows are wine mixed with basil leaves,

ومنجنيقُ القذافِ بربطهُ

وقَذفةُ الضربِ بالرواثينِ

And its catapult tied up with ropes

The catapult of the hurler is his lute,

Its missiles struck down in the meadows

And the strumming's volley targets the breath,

يديرُها كلّ أحورٍ غنِج

وكلّ خُمصانةٍ من العينِ

Turned by every squint-eyed flirt

It is directed by every wide-eyed coquette,

And every bleary-eyed drunkard

And every slender-waisted beauty among the fair,

فهذهِ حربُنا ولذّتُنا

ليست كحربٍ لذي المجانين

This is our war, our pleasure

For this is our war and our delight,

Not like the war of the deranged

Not like the wars of the raving mad.