يا ضارب العود أطربت الجماد بهِ

والعقل ما بين مفقودٍ وموجودِ

Oh strummer of the lute, you have delighted even unfeeling matter

While reason hovers between absence and presence

والروح من طربٍ كادت تطير هوى

لو لم تنادِ بها لا تتركي عودي

And the soul, intoxicated with rapture, is about to take flight

Were you not to call it back: Do not forsake my lute!