لا يَنزِلَنَّ بِأَنطاكِيَّةَ وَرَعٌ

كَم حَلَّلَ الدينَ عِقدٌ لِلزَنانيرِ

No pious man descends in Antioch,

how much has religion dissolved its knots for gold coins,

بِها مُدامٌ كَذوبِ التِبرِ تَمزُجُهُ

لِلشارِبينَ وُجوهٌ كَالدَنانيرِ

in it is wine like the mud of Tibar that they mix

for the drinkers, and faces like gold coins,

بيضُ لَوابِسُ ديباجٍ حَمَدتُ لَها

سودَ الإِياءِ وَشَعرِيَ الصَنانيرِ

white smooth silk I praised,

the black of coyness and my hair of bracelets.