دَهَتكَ بِعِلَّةِ الحَمّامِ فَوزٌ

وَمالَت في الطَريقِ إِلى سَعيدِ

Your prey with a fever is a prize,

And swayed the path to the joys inside,

أَرى أَخبارَ بَيتِكَ عَنكَ تُطوى

فَكَيفَ وَلَيتَ أَخبارَ البَري

I see tales of your house about you fold,

So how could the news of land escape your hold