بِلَيْل كَانُونٍ عَرَفْتُ الْجَوَى

لَوْلاَ صَبَا لَكَفَّ مِنْ ظَلْمِهِ

In a December night I felt the passion,

Were it not for the morning breeze, its darkness would prevail,

طَالَ بِهِ نَفْحُ نَسِيمِ الصَّبَا

فَاشتَعَلَ الإِصْبَاحُ فِي فَحْمِهِ

The morning breeze blew on it,

And the dawn was kindled amidst its ashes.