لَمّا اِفتَحتُ كِتابي مُنشِئاً بِيَدي

ما بي إِلى وَجهِكَ المَأمولِ مِن قَرَمِ

When I opened my book, starting with my hand

I have nothing left for your hoped for face but tears

وَدِدتُ لَو أَنَّني وَالدارُ نازِحَةٌ

أَسعى إِلَيكَ بِرَأسي حاكِياً قَلَمي

I wish that I and this house had moved on

So I could come to you, narrating with my head my pen

فَحينَ لَم أَحكِهِ مَشياً عَلى بَصَري

حَكاهُ شَوقاً بِدَمعٍ مِنهُ مُنسَجِمُ

So when my walking did not narrate it to my sight

My longing narrated it with a tear from it harmonized

فَلَو غَدَت هَذِهِ الأَقلامُ ناطِقَةً

شَهِدنَ لي بِالَّذي شاهَدنَ مِن ذِمَمي

If only these pens became articulate

They would testify for me concerning that which they witnessed of my tears

وَكَيفَ أَنساكَ لا نُعماكَ واحِدَةً

عِندي وَلا بِالَّذي أَولَيتَ مِن قِدَمِ

And how could I forget your favors, while not one

Remains with me, nor what you have accorded of old