أَمَا كفَى السيفَ حتَّى جرَّدَ القلما

يوماً يُريق مِداداً أو يُريق دَمَا

Has the sword not shed enough blood, that the pen must also

One day spill ink or spill blood?

فالموتُ إن أَسَر الهيجاءَ مقتَحِماً

والسحرُ إن نَثَر الآياتِ أَو نَظما

For if death seizes the passionate with spears,

Or if sorcery scatters verses or poems,

ربُّ القوافي الذي تأبى قريحتُه

إلا ابتداعاً ولا يَرضَى بما عَلِما

The Lord of rhymes, whose genius refuses

Anything but innovation, and is not content with the known,

كأنَّ تِلكَ المعاني في قوالِبها

راحٌ وكأسٌ يَضِلُّ اللبُّ بينهما

It is as if those ideas in their molds

Were comfort and a cup that confuse the mind between them.

هي العقودُ أَضلَّتهم محاسنُها

عن كُنهِها فَدَعَوهَا ضَلَّةً كَلِمَا

They are necklaces whose beauties have led them astray

From their essence, so they called them just words.