رُبَّما ضَربَةٍ بسيفٍ صَقِيلٍ

دُونَ بُصرَى وَطَعْنَةٍ نَجلاءِ

Perhaps a strike of a polished sword

Without my sight and a clear stab

وغَمُوسٍ تَضِلُّ فيها يَدُ الآ

سِى ويَعيَى طبِيبُها بالدَواءِ

And plunges in which the hand of the blind man goes astray

And its doctor heals it with medication

رفعُوا رايةَ الضِرابِ وآلو

لَيَذُودُنّ سامِرَ المَلحاءِ

They raised the flag of beating and turned

To defend the salty Samarra

فَصَبَرْنَ النُّفُوسَ للطَّعنِ حتَّى

جرَتِ الخيلُ بينَنا في الدماءِ

So the souls were patient for the stabbing until

The horses ran between us in the blood

لَيْسَ مَنْ ماتَ فاِستراحَ بِمَيْتٍ

إنَّمَا المَيْتُ مَيِّتُ الأحياءِ

It is not one who died and rested with a dead

Rather the dead are the living dead

إنَّما المَيْتُ مَنْ يعيشُ ذليلاً

سِيّئاً بالُهُ قليلَ الرّجاءِ

The dead is he who lives humiliated

Evil, worried, of little hope