بَدا لَنا الخال في وَرديّ وَجنته

ما بَين رَيحان زاهي خَدّه النَضرِ

The cheek's green mole in his rosy garden appeared

Among the blooming sweet basil's tender greens

فَقال قُل في جَمالي يا مُؤرّخه

أَرى بِلال يراعي الفَجر في السحرِ

He said, "Speak of my beauty, chronicler"

Methinks at dawn Bilal tends to the daybreak sheen