وخافِتِ الْحِسّ ما لَه جَسدُ

مِمّا بَرَاه الضَّنَى ولا جَلَدُ

Of faded passion he has no body left,

No refuge from the grief, no shield,

خطّت يَدُ السقمِ فوقَ صَفحَتِه

ما ليسَ يُعنى بفَهمِه أحَدُ

The hand of illness wrote upon his page,

What no one understands through intellect,

هَذَا قَتيلُ الهَوَى فلا ديةٌ

تُؤْخَذُ في قتلِه وَلا قَوَدُ

This is a martyr of love, no blood-money taken,

For his death, no retribution, no penalty.