وجيشِ كظَهرِ اليمِّ تَنْفُخُهُ الصَّبا

يَعُبُّ عُبوباً من قَناً وقنابلِ

And an army like the back of the raging sea, blown by the morning breeze

Surging with waves, spears and missiles

فتنزلُ أُولاهُ وليسَ بنازلٍ

وترْحلُ أُخراهُ وليسَ براحلِ

Whose vanguards attack though not to settle

And whose rearguards march away though not to return

ومُعتَركٍ ضَنْكٍ تَعاطَتْ كُماتُهُ

كؤوسَ دِماءٍ من كُلىً ومَفاصلِ

And a fierce, terrible battle whose strokes

Are goblets of blood from kidneys and joints

يديرونَها راحاً من الروحِ بينَهم

ببيضٍ رقاقٍ أو بِسُمْرٍ ذَوابِلِ

They pass them leisurely among themselves

On thin, white pages or with jet black messages

وتُسمِعُهُم أُمُّ المَنِيَّةِ وسْطَها

غناءَ صَليلِ البيضِ تحتَ المناصلِ

And in their midst the mother of death makes them hear

The singing of the blades beneath the cleavers