وَلَئِن كَبِرتُ لَقَد عُمِرتُ كَأَنَّني

غُصنٌ تُفَيِّئُهُ الرِياحُ رَطيبُ

Though I have grown old, I have lived long indeed—as though I were

a tender branch the winds bend to and fro.

وَكَذاكَ حَقّاً مَن يُعَمِّر يُبلِهِ

كَرُّ الزَمانِ عَلَيهِ وَالتَقليبُ

And so it is: truly, whoever lives long is worn away

by time’s repeated assaults and reversals.

حَتّى يَعودَ مِنَ البَلاءِ كَأَنَّهُ

في الكَفِّ أَفوَقُ ناصِلٌ مَعصوبُ

Until, from affliction, he becomes as though he were

in the hand, a bound arrow—nock-broken and headless—

مَرِطُ القَذاذِ فَلَيسَ فيهِ مَصنَعٌ

لا الريشُ يَنفَعُهُ وَلا التَعقيبُ

its fletching stripped away, beyond all repair;

neither feathers help it nor rebinding.

وَلَقَد بُليتُ وَكُلُّ صاحِبِ جِدَّةٍ

لِبِلىً يَعودُ وَذاكُمُ التَتبيبُ

I too have worn away, and all that possesses freshness

returns to decay—and that is utter ruin.