هَلْ جَابِرٌ جَائِرٌ بالوَصْلِ لَمْ يَجُدِ

أَمْ نَاصِرٌ جَفْنِي عَلى السَّهَدِ

Is there a tyrannical unifier who found no consolation in union?

Or a supporter of my eyelids against wakefulness?

مُنعَّمُ البالِ لا تُثْنِي مَعَاطِفَهُ

يَدُ الغَرامِ وتُثْنيها يَدُ المَيَدِ

He of happy condition does not fold his cloaks.

The hand of passion folds them, and the hand of sickness.

في جِسْمِهِ تَرَفٌ يَنْدَى بِهِ صَلِفٌ

إِنْ هَزَّهُ هَيَفٌ هَزَّ الضَّنَى جَسَدِي

In his body is a gentleness with which a ruggedness melts away.

If a passion stirs him, it stirs the grief of my body.

تَقَسَّم اسْمُكَ تَقْسِيماً أَردْتَ بِهِ

الصَّادُ عَيْنُكَ والبَاقِي على كَبِدِي

Your name is divided in a way you wanted,

The "sad" is your eye, and the rest is on my liver.