وَمُهَفهَفٍ يَجرِي بِصَفحَةِ خَدِّهِ

وَلَماهُ مِن ماءِ الحَياةِ عُبابُهُ

With cheeks softly blowing like meadows in the wind

And the water of life flowing from his lips

مازالَ يَهتِكُ بِاللِّحاظِ قُلُوبَنا

حَتّى تَضَرَّجَ طَرفُهُ وَثِيابُهُ

He continues to steal our hearts from their sheaths

Until his eyes overflow and his garment is drenched

فَغَدا بِحُمرَةِ ذا وَحُمرَةِ هذِهِ

كَالسَّيفِ يَدمَى حَدُّهُ وَقِرابُهُ

So it was that his cheek took on the redness of this one

And the redness of that one, like a sword bloodied at its edge and scabbard