أَشدو وَتَشدو حَمامات الأَراك وَما

أَشجان هاتيك إِلّا بَعض أَشجاني

I plod on though doves in the bushes complain,

Their sad notes remind me of my sorrow and pain,

كَأَن مُنتَظِماً لِلارغوان عَلى الأَ

غصان مُنتَثر مِن دَمعيَ القاني

As sweet-scented herbs on the branches remain

Specked with teardrops again and again.