رَوضُ الرَبيعِ مُفَوَّفٌ وَمُدَبَّجُ

هَل كانَ في صَنعاءَ قِدماً يُنسَجُ

The garden of spring is perfumed and embroidered

Was there ever in Sanaa a foot that could weave it?

عَجَباً لَهُ وَهوَ الصَحيحُ مِزاجُهُ

وَنَسيمُهُ دَنِفٌ عَليلٌ مُبهِجُ

Wondrous is it, though its air is pure and mild

Its breeze gentle, frail yet exhilarating

وَكَأَنَّما الغُدرانُ بَينَ رِياضِهِ

حُبكُ الدُروعِ بِمَرِّهِ تَتَمَوَّجُ

As if the branches amidst its gardens

Were linked coats of mail, intricately interwoven

أَشجارُهُ كَعَرائِسٍ تَختالُ بَي

نَ غَلائِلٍ مِن نَورِهِ وَتَبَرَّجُ

Its trees like brides gloriously adorned

In veils of its light, splendidly arrayed

وَالوُرقُ في العيدانِ كَالقَيناتِ

بِالعيدانِ تَرمُلُ بِالبمومِ وَتهزجُ

And leaves on the boughs like singing girls

Swaying with the boughs, dancing with delight

وَمُهَفهَفٍ غَرَسَ الجَمالُ بِوَجهِهِ

رَوضاً فَفيهِ عُيونُنا تَتَفَرَّجُ

And with its mesmerizing beauty the gazelle

Has planted a garden for our eyes to behold

عَيناهُ نَرجستانِ أُضعِفَتا وَفي

فيهِ المُدامُ بِماءِ مُزنٍ تُمزَجُ

Its eyes two narcissus beds, weakened, and in them

Wine mixed with cool water flows

وَالخَدُّ وَردٌ مُضعَفٌ لَكِنَّهُ

بِالآسِ مِن نَبتِ العِذارِ مُسَيَّجُ

And its cheek a double rose, yet

Fenced about with stems of lush ivy

يَفتَرُّ عَن نورِ الأَقاحي ثَغرُهُ

وَإِذا تَنَفَّسَ فاحَ مِنهُ بَنَفسَجُ

Its lips part to reveal the light of pearls

And when it breathes, the scent of sweet basil wafts

وَلِحاظُهُ فيهِنَّ هاروتٌ وَما

روتٌ سِواحِرُ وَهيَ لا تَتَحَرَّجُ

In its glances are Harut and Marut

Sorcerers who feel no shame

يُبدي لَنا أَغلى الجَواهِرِ وَجهُهُ

لا بَل مُحَيّاهُ أَجَلُّ وَأَبهَجُ

Its face reveals to us the most precious jewels

No, but its very existence is greater and most splendid

مُتَأَوِّدٌ كَالخَيزُرانَةِ قَدُّهُ

حِقفُ النَقا مِن تَحتِهِ يَتَرَجرَجُ

Its neck lovingly curved like a eucalyptus branch

Dove chicks sheltering beneath it murmuring

وَتَكادُ تَحسُدُ وَجهَهُ شَمسُ الضُحى

وَالبَدرُ لَيلَةَ تمِّهِ المُتَبَرِّجُ

The morning sun and the full moon night of its perfection

Gaze enviously upon its face

يا قاتلَ اللَهُ الحَمائِمَ إِنَّها

بِغِنائِها لِلعاشِقينَ تُهَيِّجُ

Oh how the doves are slain by God

For with their songs to lovers they excite

أَبكي وَيَشكو مِن فِراقِ هَديلِهِ

أَسَفاً وَيُنشِدُ في الأَراكِ وَأَنشُجُ

I weep and complain of the loss of their cooing

Sorrowfully, and in the shrubs I lament

سُبحانَ خالِقِهِ فَكَم مِن فِتنَةٍ

مِن حُسنِ صورَتِهِ عَلَينا تَخرُجُ

Glory to its Creator - how many temptations

Arise from the beauty of its form for us