ما كُنتُ أَوَّلَ مَن تَفَرَّقَ شَملُهُ

وَرَأى الغَداةَ مِنَ الفِراقِ يَقينا

I was not the first whose tribe was scattered,

And who faced the morn certain of parting,

وَبَدارَةِ السَلَمِ الَّتي شُوِّقتُها

دِمِنٌ يَظَلُّ حَمامُها يَبكينا

While the farewells, for which I yearned,

Were weeping, like a dove, without ceasing.