قد تُخْبِؤُ البِكْرُ فِي كُتَيِّبِهَا

زَهْرَةَ رَوْضٍ كَالكَنزِ تَسْتتِرُ

The virgin may conceal in her booklet

A garden's flower, hidden like treasure

تَذْبُلُ فِيه حَتى تمُوتَ وَمَا

تزُولُ لكِنْ يَبْقَى لَهَا أَثَرُ

It withers therein until it dies, yet

It lasts, leaving behind its fragrance

تَخُطُّ رَمزاً وَعَلَّ مَا رَسَمَتْ

فِي لُغَة مَا هُوَ اسْمُهَا العَطِرُ

She etches a symbol, teaching what she drew

In a language not called perfume