كَم تَستَثيرُ بِيَ الصَبابَة وَالهَوى

عَنّي إِلَيكَ فَإِنَّ قَلبي مِن حَجَر

How often you try to stir passion and love within me,

Away with you! For my heart is made of stone.

مالي وَلِلحَسناءِ أُغري مُهجَتي

بِوِصالِها وَالشَيبُ قَد وَخَطَ الشَعَر

What have I to do with a beauty who tempts my soul

With her union, when grayness has already streaked my hair?

كَم بَِلجَزيرَةِ لَو يُتاحُ لِيَ الهَوى

مِن غادَةٍ تَحكي بِطُلعَتِها القَمَر

How many in Al-Jazira—if love were still granted to me—

Of young maidens whose countenances mimic the moon?

وَلَكَم بِها مِن جَدوَلٍ وَحَديقَةٍ

مِن صَنعَةِ الرَحمَنِ لا صُنعِ البَشَر

And how many a stream and garden are there,

Fashioned by the Merciful, not by human hands.

فيها اللَواتي إِن رَمَت أَلحاظَها

شَلَّت يَدَ الرامي وَقَطَّعَتِ الوَتَر

There dwell those who, if they cast their glances,

Paralyze the archer's hand and sever the bowstring.

قَد كانَ لي في كُلِّ خَودٍ مَطمَعٌ

وَلِكُلِّ رائِعَةِ المَحاسِنِ بي وَتَر

I once held a desire for every tender maiden,

And in every stunning beauty, I had a pursuit.

أَيّامُ شِعري كَالدُجى مُحلَولِكٌ

أَيّامُ عَيشي لا يُخالِطُهُ كَدَر

The days of my verse were like the night, intensely black,

The days of my life were unmixed with any distress.

ذَرني وَأَشجاني وَجِسمي وَالضَنى

وَيَدي وَأَقلامي وَطَرفي وَالسَهَر

Leave me to my sorrows, my body, and my wasting away,

To my hand, my pens, my eyes, and my sleeplessness.

أَأَبيتُ أَلهو وَالهُمومُ تُحيطُ بي

وَأَنامُ عَن قَومي وَقَومي في خَطَر

Shall I spend the night in amusement while worries besiege me,

And sleep, ignoring my people while my people are in peril?

صَوتُ المُصَفِّقِ مَوعِدٌ ما بَينَنا

ماذا أَقولُ لَهُم إِذا الديكُ اِستَحَر

The sound of flapping wings marks the appointment between us;

What shall I say to them when the rooster heralds the dawn?