وَأَرضٍ تَهُبُّ الريحُ فيها مَريضَةً

حَسورٍ لِطَرفِ الناظِرِ المُتَأَمِّلِ

And a land where the sick wind blows

Enclosures for the eye of the contemplative beholder

إِذا اِحتَرَقَت مَجَّت سَراباً كَأَنَّهُ

مِن المنظِرِ الأَعلى مُلاءُ الغَواسِلِ

When it burns it rolls mirages as though they were

From the highest view, the lining of laurels