أَحَقاً عِبادَ اللهِ أَن لَستُ رَائياً

سَنامَ الحِمى أُخرى اللّيَالى الغَوَابرِ

Is it true, O servants of God, that I am not lovesick?

The wild cows make their marks at nights of passing clouds,

كأَنَّ فُؤَادِى مِن تَذكُّرِهِ الحِمى

وَاَهلَ الحِمى يَهفو بِهِ رِيشُ طائرِ

As if my heart from remembering my beloved

And the people of that land are stirred by the feathers of a bird.