عجبتُ لأهلِ الهوى أنهم

يعيشونَ موتى بأرماسهمْ

I wondered at the people of passion, that they

Live as dead with their spears

سكارى بكأسٍ سقتْ مغرماً

وما انقصَ الدهرُ من كاسِهمْ

Drunk from a cup that was served to a lover

Without the days diminishing their cups

كأنَّ الهمومَ بانفاسهم

تكونُ ويا حرَّ أنفاسهمْ

As if worries, with their breaths

Would exist, and oh how hot are their breaths