حَكاهُ مِنَ الغُصنِ الرَطيبِ وَريقُهُ

وَما الخَمرُ إِلّا مُقلَتاهُ وَريقُهُ

Its tale he told from the moist branch, and its saliva,

Yet wine is naught but its tale and saliva.

هِلالٌ وَلَكِن أُفقُ قَلبي مَحَلُّهُ

غَزالٌ وَلَكِن سَفحُ عَيني عَقيقُهُ

A crescent moon, but the horizon of my heart is its place,

A gazelle, but the plain of my eye is its pasture.

أَقرّ لَهُ من كُلِّ حُسنٍ جَليلُهُ

وَوافَقَهُ مِن كُلِّ مَعنىً دَقيقُهُ

I bestowed on it the best of every beautiful thing,

And matched it with the subtlest of every meaning.

بَديعُ التَثَنّي راحَ قَلبي أَسيرُهُ

عَلى أَنَّ دَمعي في الغَرامِ طَليقُهُ

The excellent in repetition set out, my heart its captive,

Despite my tear in passion being set loose.

عَلى سالِفَيهِ لِلعِذارِ جَديدُهُ

وَفي شَفَتَيهِ لِلسُلافِ عَتيقُهُ

Upon his front teeth, new for flirtation,

And in his lips, aged for kissing.

وَأَسمَرَ يَحكي الأَسمَرَ اللَدنَ قَدُّهُ

وَخَدٌّ شَقا قَلبَ المُحِبُّ شَقيقُهُ

The brown-skinned one tells of habitual brownness,

And a cheek split, breaking the heart of his lover.

مِنَ التركِ لا يُصبيهِ شَوقٌ إِلى الحمى

وَلا ذِكرُ باناتِ الغُوَيرِ يَشوقُهُ

Of the Turks, no longing for truce anxieties him,

Nor memory of the abodes of Ghuwair desires him.

عَلى خَدِّهِ جَمرٌ مِنَ الحُسنِ مُضرَمٌ

يَشُبُّ وَلَكِن في فُؤادي حَريقُهُ

Upon his cheek a flame of beauty kindled,

It grows, but in my heart its burning.

إِذا خَفَقَ البَرقُ اليَماني موهِناً

تَذَكَّرتُهُ فَاِعتادَ قَلبي خُفوقُهُ

If the Yemeni lightning pulsates meekly,

I remember it, so my heart starts pounding.

حَكى وَجهُهُ بَدرَ السَماءِ فَلَو بَدا

مَعَ البَدرِ قالَ الناسُ هَذا شَقيقُهُ

His face tells of the full moon in the sky, so if it appeared

With the moon, people would say “this is its counterpart.”

على مثله يستسنُ الصبُّ هتكه

وفي مثلِه يجفو الصديقُ صديقه

For his like, passion violates propriety,

And for his like, a friend breaks faith with his friend.

أَرى الناسَ أَضحوا جاهِلِيّةَ ورده

فَما بالَهُ مِن كَلِّ صَبٍّ يَعوقُهُ

I see people have become the ignorance of his wild rose,

What's with him that bars every passionate lover?

وَلِلَهِ قَلبي ما أَشَدُّ عَفافَهُ

وَإِن كانَ طَرفي مُستَمِرّاً فُسوقُهُ

By God, my heart - how great is its chastity!

And if my glance persists in debauchery.

فَما فازَ إِلّا مَن يَبيتُ صَباحُهُ

شَرابُ ثناياهُ وَمِنها غَبوقُهُ

So none triumphs but he whose morning

Is the drink of its folds, and from them his ardour.