وَمُستَرِقِ النُخامَةِ مُستَكينٍ

لِوَقعِ الكَأسِ مُختَلِسِ البَيانِ

The stealthy drinker of wine, in poverty submerged,

Who keeps his drinking secret, his words disguised,

حَلَفتُ لَهُ بِما حَجَّت قُرَيشٌ

وَكُلِّ مُشَعشَعٍ مِل خَمرِ آنِ

By the Kaaba I vowed, and all the idols there,

By every image worshipped with offerings of wine,

لَتَصطَبِحَن وَإِن أَعرَضتَ عَنها

وَلَو أَنّي بِحيبَتِهِ سَقاني

You'll face the morning soon, though now you turn away,

And if love's fever burned me, its cure was your wine,

فَطافَت طَوفَتَينِ فَقالَ زِدني

وَدَبَّت في الأَخادِعِ وَالبَنانِ

You drank two rounds, and said, “Give me more and pour!”

The wine flowed into veins and arteries,

فَلَم أَعرِف أَخي حَتّى اِصطَبَحنا

ثَلاثاً فَاِنبَرى خَذِمَ العِنانِ

I knew not where it led, until the morn we woke,

And the third round galloped off with reason's rein,

فَلانَ الصَوتُ فَاِنبَسَطَت يَداهُ

وَكانَ كَأَنَّهُ في الغُلِّ عانِ

Then voices rose, and hands reached out to serve,

As though we sat enthralled by wine again,

وَراحَ ثِيابُهُ الأَولى سِواها

بِلا بَيعٍ أُمَيمَ وَلا مُهانِ

All garments gone but one, no sale, no shame,

A clanless orphan, stripped of honor's robe.