سَلْ بِي وَبِالأَيَّامِ تَعْرِفْ

أَنِّي ابْنُ دَهْرٍ لِيْسَ يُنْصِفْ

Ask about me, and from days gone by learn

That I'm a son of Time, so rarely fair.

وَبَلاَغَةٍ مَعْرُوفَةٍ

سَهُلَتْ وَأَخْطَأَهَا التَّكَلُّفْ

With eloquence known far and wide

Comes ease, not pretense and contrived air.

وَسُطُورِ خَطٍّ مُونَقٍ

فِي الطِّرْسِ كَالنُّوْرِ المُفَوَّفْ

Lines in flowing script, illuminated

On leaflets, glow as wafting light so fair.

وَالْخَطُّ لِيْسَ بِنَافِعٍ

مَا لَمْ يَكُنْ خَطَّاً مُصَحَّفْ

But lines bring gain not, however fine,

Unless as Sacred Text they shine out there.