إِنْ كُنْتَ يَا صَوْتِي غَيْرَ رَاجِعِ

فَتِلْكَ وَاللهِ مِنَ الفَوَاجِعِ

If my voice, alas, comes not back again,

That voice into pieces now quite slain,

يَا بُحَّة بُحِحْتهَا فَأَصْبَحَتْ

فصَاحَتِي مَذْبُوحَةَ المَقاطِعِ

O nightingale that sang! Thy song that rang

So sweet, alas! now broken all and vain.

أَلَحَّت العِلَّةِ إِلْحَاحاً عَلَى

حُنْجُرَتِي هَلْ مِنْ عِلاَجٍ نَاجِعِ

This sickness on my throat did sorely press,

No cure, alas! could give my pain redress.

أَيَرْجِعُ العَهْدُ الَّذِي يجْرِي بِهِ

قَوْلِي هَنِيئاً فِي فُؤَادِ السَّامِعِ

Can he sweet days recall when softly flowed

My speech that joy into men's hearts could rain?