سَلَبتِ عِظامي لَحمَها فَتَرَكتِها
عَوارِيَ في أَجلادِها تَتَكَسَّرُ
You robbed my bones of their flesh, leaving them
bare within their skins, splintering apart.
وَأَخلَيتِ مِنها مُخَّها فَتَرَكتِها
أَنابيبَ في أَجوافِها الريحُ تَصِفرُ
And you emptied them of their marrow, leaving them
as pipes in whose hollows the wind whistles.
خُذي بِيَدِي ثُمَّ اِرفَعي الثَوبَ فَاِنظُري
ضَنى جَسَدي لَكِنَّني أَتَسَتَّرُ
Take me by the hand, then lift the robe and look
at my body's wasting—though I keep myself covered.
وَلَيسَ الَّذي يَجري مِنَ العَينِ ماؤُها
وَلَكِنَّها نَفسٌ تَذوبُ فَتَقطُرُ
What flows from the eye is not its water;
rather, it is a soul that melts and drips away.
Sol 5.6