ما هُوَ إِلّا الحِمى وَأَيّامُهُ

حَديثُ أَفكارِهِ وَأَحلامُهُ

It is nothing but his fever and its days

The talk of his thoughts and his dreams

يَبكي لَهُ قَلبُهُ وَناظِرُه

وَبِالَّذي تَستَمِدُّ أَقلامُهُ

His heart and his eyes weep for him

And for what his pens derive

لِلَهِ لَيلٌ هُناكَ أَوحَشَني

وَلا كَما أَوحَشَتهُ نُوّامُهُ

For God, a night there made me lonely

Not as his sleepers made him lonely

قَد كانَ يَبكي لِليَومِ عَنهُ خَلا

كَيفَ بِهِ بَعدَ ما خَلا عامُهُ

He used to weep for the day he was absent from

How about him after his year passed by