حُظوظٌ فَرَبعٌ يُحَظّى الغَمامَ

وَربَعٌ يُجادُ وَرَبعٌ يُدَث

Our fortunes are fourfold - one shrouded in clouds,

One generous, one talkative,

وَكَم حَدَثٍ مِن صُروفِ الزَمانِ

يُكَرِّهُهُ شَيخُنا وَالحَدَث

And how many events has time's tide washed up

That our elder scorns, but not the youth.

مَراسُ الأَذى وَلِباسُ الضَنى

وَسُقيُ الحِمامِ وَسُكنى الجَدَث

The millstone of harm, the cloak of sorrow,

The quenching of passions, the abode of dust;