بأبي الذي كتبت يداه تحيتي

وكسا الكلامَ بنعسةِ الأجفانِ

By my father who wrote with his hands I send my greetings

And clothed speech with the drowsiness of eyelids

وأرى محاسنهُ على ألفاظهِ

ودموع عينيهِ على العنوانِ

And I see his virtues on his words

And the tears of his eyes on the title

وكأنما كانَ اللسانُ يراعَهُ

ومدادُه من مهجةِ الولهانِ

As if his tongue was keeping watch over it

And his ink was from the inner depths of passion

فكتابهُ عندي وكتْبي عندهُ

غنجُ الحبيبِ وآهةُ الثكلانِ

So his book is with me and my poems are with him

The cooing of the beloved and the sigh of bereavement