طَالَ حزنِي لِنَشَاطٍ ذَاهِبٍ
كُنْتُ أُسْقَى دَائِماً فِي حَانِهِ
Long has my sorrow endured for gaiety now gone—
I was always served drink in its tavern—
وَشَبَابٍ كَانَ يَنْدَى نَظْرَةً
نَزَلَ الثَّلْجُ عَلَى رَيْحَانِهِ
and for youth that once was dewy with freshness:
snow has fallen upon its sweet basil.
Sol 5.6