شَكَوتُ إِلَيهِ الحُبَّ أَبغي شِفاءَه

حَرارَةَ أَحشائي بِبَردِ رُضابِه

I complained of love to him, desiring his cure

The heat of my insides with the coldness of his rain

فَجادَ بِبُخلٍ وَهوَ مَوتٌ مُعَجَّلٌ

فَابدَيتُ مُرتاداً رِضاهُ الرضا بِه

Yet he was miserly in his giving, though death was hastened

So I feigned acceptance, pretending to be pleased with him