وَلَولا ثَلاثٌ هُنَّ في الكاسِ لَم يَكُن

لَها ثَمَنٌ مِن شارِبٍ حينَ يَشرَبُ

Were it not for three things in wine, the drinker

Would not pay it any worth when he does drink

لَها نَزَقُ مِثلُ الجُنونِ وَمَصرَعٌ

دَنيءٌ وَأَنَّ العَقلَ يَنأى وَيَعزُبُ

It has the fate of madness, an ignoble end

And reason shuns it, turning far away

وَلَولا ثَلاثٌ هُنَّ في الكاسِ أَصبَحَت

كَأَنفَسِ ما لا يُستَفادُ وَيُطلَبُ

Were it not for three things in it, wine would be

Like things of no use, not wanted or sought

إِماتَتُها وَالنَفسُ تُظهِرُ طيبَها

عَلى حُزنِها وَالهَمُّ يَسلى فَيَذهَبُ

Its potent skill to kill care, and the soul

Shows through its sadness, grief soothed, fades away