لانَت عَلى المَسِّ بِالأَيدي جُسومُهُم

وَفي الصُدورِ لَعَمري يَنبُتُ الحَسَكُ

Their bodies prostrate in prayer,

And in their chests, I swear, bitterness grows.

في الحَربِ عَقلُ رِجالٍ إِن هُم قُتِلوا

وَفي الحِجا عَقلُ نِسوانٍ لَها مَسَكُ

In war, men’s minds, when their lives end,

And women’s minds, in pilgrimage, from which perfume flows.

تَمَسَّكوا بِحِبالِ النُسكِ في زَمَنٍ

وَلاحَ نَزرٌ فَخَلّوا ما بِهِ اِمتَسَكوا

They clung to the ropes of purity in an age

When all integrity faded, lost was their grip.