أَلا إِلّا تَكُن إِبِلٌ فَمِعزى

كَأَنَّ قُرونَ جُلَّتِها العِصِيُّ

Except you be camels, mere goats would do,

Their horns like reeds cut down when crops renew.

وَجادَ لَها الرَبيعُ بِواقِصاتٍ

فَآرامٍ وَجادَ لَها الوَلِيُّ

In spring’s rich prime, each dam bursts milk anew

While noble hands prize what is pure and true.

إِذا مُشَّت حَوالِبُها أَرَنَّت

كَأَنَّ الحَيَّ صَبَّحَهُم نَعِيُّ

When udders swell, the tribe at dawn reviews,

As though gray hairs found youth in morning dew.

تَروحُ كَأَنَّها مِمّا أَصابَت

مُعَلَّقَةٌ بِأَحقَيها الدُلِيُّ

Back from the lush they rove while droplets strew,

Pearling their teats with drops of silver hue.

فَتوسِعُ أَهلَها أَقِطاً وَسَمناً

وَحَسبُكَ مِن غِنى شِبعٌ وَرِيُّ

Thus tribesmen thrive on curds and milk renewed,

When filled bellies leave minds content and shrewd.