إني وَمَا مَارَ بِالفُرَيقِ ومَا

قَرقَر بِالجَلهَتَينِ مِن سُرُبِ

Neither the cavalcades passing by, nor

The cooing of doves in the thickets

من شَعَرٍ كالغَلِيلِ يُلبَدُ بِالـ

ـقملِ وَمَا مَارَ مِن دَمٍ سَرَبِ

Of hair like silk dyed with henna and what

Blood was shed nor cut for the rites

والعِترِ عِتر النَّسِيكِ يُحْفرُ بِالـ

بُدنِ لحِلِّ الإحْرَامِ والنُّصُبِ

The musky scent where the pilgrims throng

To don ihram and pray at each stop

قد طالَ شَوْقي وعادَني طَرَبي

من ذِكْرِ خَوْدٍ كَرِيمَةِ النَّسبِ

Long was my yearning, confusion again

Recalled days with a noble maid

غَرّاءَ مِثْلُ الهِلالِ صُورَتُها

أَو مِثْلُ تِمْثالِ صُورَةِ الذَّهَبِ

Her face like the crescent moon so pale

Or a golden statue graced in its drape