غلاَّبةُ القول بل خلاَّبة الخُلس

نِديَّةُ اللَّون أَو مِسْكيَّة النَّفَس

Her words, more alluring than a secret whispered

Her complexion, soft as musk, her spirit gentler still

لونُ الحَمانِن بل أَصْفَى وما خُلِقَت

من أَبيضِ الرِّيقِ بل مِنْ أَسْمَرِ اللَّعَسِ

The color of doves, more pure it was created

Not from white spittle, but from darkest licorice

لا كالنَّهار ولا كاللَّيل تبْصِرُها

كاللَّون ما بين لَون الصُّبْحِ والغَلَسِ

You see her not as day, nor as the night

Her color, between the dawn’s and the gloaming’s light