بَقيتُ مَعَ الحياةِ وماتَ شَعْري

بشيبي فالقذالُ به يُنقّى

I remained with life while my poetry died

With my gray hair, disgrace purifies it

فشَعري لا يُكفَّنُ في خضابٍ

ولا ينفكّ للأنظار مُلْقى

So my poetry is not shrouded in dye

Nor is it exposed to gazes

وَتَركُكَ مَنْ شَجاكَ الموتُ منه

بِلا كَفَنٍ لِحُزْنٍ فيكَ أَبْقى

And he whom death took from you

Left you without a shroud, with sorrow remaining in you

فَلا تَخضِبْ مَشيبَكَ لِلغَواني

فَتَغنى عَنهُ ناعِمَةً وتَشقى

So do not dye your gray hair to please the vain

And then sing happily while suffering miserably

فشاهدُ زورِ خَضْبكَ لَيس يُعْطى

بِباطِلِهِ مِنَ الغاداتِ حقّا

For the witness of your fake dye is not given

With its falsehood, truth from the youth

فَلا تَهوَ الفتاةَ وأنْتَ شيخٌ

فأبعدُ وَصْلِها مِنْ صَيْدِ عَنْقا

So do not desire the young woman while you are an old man

For attaining her is far from capturing a neck