كَأَن الشعر رَوض قَد جَنَتهُ

فَهوم السابِقين إِلى الكَمالِ

Poetry is a garden we have planted

Where the great minds run towards perfection

وَأَدرك بَعدَهُم قَوم بَقايا

تَوارت تَحتَ أَوراق الخَيالِ

And later some remnants are attained

Hidden beneath imagination's leaves

فَنَحنُ إِذا مَدَدنا لِلمَعاني

يَد الأَفكار تُعلق بِالمحالِ

So when we stretch our thoughts

To grasp meanings, we cling to the impossible