قُل لِلَّذي أَحصى السِنينَ مُفاخِراً

يا صاحِ لَيسَ السِرُّ في السَنَواتِ

Say to him who boastfully counted the years,

Say to him who counts the years in boastful pride,

"O companion, the secret is not in the number of years,

O friend, the secret lies not in the span of years,

لَكِنَّهُ في المَرءِ كَيفَ يَعيشُها

في يَقظَةٍ أَم في عَميقِ سُباتِ

But in how a person lives them,

But rather in the man and how he lives them,

Whether awake or in deep slumber."

Whether in wakefulness or deep in slumber.

قُم عُدَّ آلَفَ السِنينِ عَلى الحَصى

أَتَعُدُّ شِبهَ فَضيلَةٍ لِحُصاةِ

Get up and count thousands of years on pebbles,

Go forth, count thousands of years upon the pebbles;

Do you count that as a virtue for the pebbles?

Do you deem that a semblance of virtue for a stone?

خَيرٌ مِنَ الفَلَواتِ لا حَدَّ لَها

رَوضٌ أَغَنُّ يُقاسُ بِالخُطُواتِ

Better than boundless deserts,

Better than the boundless, endless wastelands,

Is a small garden measured in steps.

Is a lush garden measured by mere footsteps.

كُن زَهرَةً أَو نَغمَةً في زَهرَةٍ

فَالمَجدُ لِلأَزهار وَالنَغَماتِ

Be a flower or a melody in a flower,

Be thou a flower, or a melody within a flower,

For glory is for flowers and melodies.

For glory belongs to the blossoms and the songs.

تَمشي الشُهورُ عَلى الوُرودِ ضَحوكَةً

وَتَنامُ في الأَشواكِ مُكتَإِباتِ

Months walk smiling over roses,

The months tread laughing upon the roses,

And sleep depressed in thorns.

While among the thorns they sleep in gloom.

وَتَموتُ ذي لِلعُقمِ قَبلَ مَماتِها

وَتَعيشُ تِلكَ الدَهرَ في ساعاتِ

Some die barren before their death,

The latter die of sterility before their actual death,

While others live forever in moments.

While the former live an eternity within mere hours.

تُحصى عَلى أَهلِ الحَياةِ دَقائِقٌ

وَالدَهرُ لا يُحصى عَلى الأَمواتِ

Minutes are counted on the living,

Minutes are tallied for the people of life,

While years are not counted on the dead.

While ages are not reckoned for the dead.

العُمرُ إِلّا بِالمَآثِرِ فارِغٌ

كَالبَيتِ مَهجورا وَكَالموماتِ

Life without achievements is empty,

Life, without noble deeds, is empty,

Like an abandoned house and the deceased.

Like an abandoned house or a barren wild.

جَعَلَ السِنينَ مَجيدَة وَجَميلَةً

ما في مَطاويها مِنَ الحَسَناتِ

It is deeds that make years majestic and beautiful,

That which renders the years glorious and beautiful

Not what the years contain of goodness.

Is the virtue concealed within their folds.