يَا أُمَّ كُلْثُومٍ بِفَنِّـ

ـكِ أَنْتِ نَابِغَةُ الزَّمَانِ

O Kalthoum with your artistry, you are the genius of this age

You have attained heights, unattainable by mere wishes

بَلَغْتِ مِنْ عَلْيَائِهِ

مَا لَيْسَ يُبْلَغُ بِالأَمَانِي

You stand alone, with no equal or rival

The melodies of your singing mingle with the warbling of paradise

وَقَدْ انْفَرَدَتْ فَلا مسَا

بِق فِي المَقَامِ وَلا مُدَانِ

Hearts tremble in rapture and wonder at their pulses

Relish those refined chants and their subtle meanings

نَغَمَاتُ شَدْوِكَ فِي المَسَا

مِعِ مِنْ أَغَارِيدِ الجَنَانِ

Why does singing not get its due like rhetoric and oratory

When the sun borrows its brilliance from your radiance?

يَهْتَزَّ مِنْ طَرَبٍ وَمِنْ

عَجَبٍ بِهُنَّ الخَافِقَانِ

Long live the king! And to the arts through him, felicitations!

فَارُوقُ أَوْلاكِ الوِسَا

مَ وَفِي تَفَضُّلِهِ مَعَانِ

فَيمَ التَّغَنِّي لا يُرَا

عِى كَالخِطَابَةِ وَالبَيَانِ

وَالشَّمْسُ يَقْبَسُ مِنْ سَنَا

هَا كُلُّ مَرْقُوقِ المَكَانِ

عَاشَ المَلِيكُ وَلِلْعُلُو

مِ وَلِلْفُنُونِ بِهِ التَّهَانِي