خَليلَيَّ بِاللَهِ لا تَحفِرا

لِيَ القَبرَ إِلّا بِقُطرُبُّلِ

O my two friends, by God, do not dig

My grave anywhere but in Qutrubbul,

خِلالَ المَعاصِرِ بَينَ الكُرومِ

وَلا تُدنِياني مِنَ السُنبُلِ

Amidst the wine-presses, between the vines,

And do not lay me near the stalks of grain,

لَعَلِّيَ أَسمَعُ في حُفرَتي

إِذا عُصِرَت ضَجَّةَ الأَرجُلِ

That I might hear, within my pit,

The clamor of feet when the grapes are pressed.