ما سَمُحَت وَاللَهِ يا سادَتي

نَفسي بِبَيعِ المِطرَفِ الخَزِّ

Alas, my friends! Never would I sell,

These tapestries which fame and glory tell.

وَلا تَرَكتُ الطُرزَ مِن بَعدِ ما

كُنتُم تُسَمّوني أَبا الطُرزِ

Though now in ruins my old workshop dwells,

You still recall me as the Lord of Tapestries.

حَتّى وَهَت سوقي وَهَيهاتَ أَن

تَنفُقَ وَالأَشعارُ مِن بِزّي

My trade has failed; my goods no longer sell.

What profits verse when hearths no longer swell?

عامَلتَ خَبّازي بِهِ بَعدَ ما

عامَلَني أَمسِ بِما يُجزي

The baker, whom I’d fed full well,

Repaid me with ingratitude and lies.

وَلَم يَكُن وَاللَهِ في نِيَّتي

إِخراجُهُ لَولاهُ مِن حِرزي

By God! I had not planned at all

To sell his bread, except at need and call.

وَلي غُلامٌ وَجهُهُ طَيرَةٌ

في غايَةِ الإِدبارِ وَالعَجزِ

I have a boy, so fair of face,

Yet paralyzed, headstrong and weak.

يَسعى إِلى ما ضَرَّهُ مِثلَ ما

يُثنى عَليها دودَةُ القَزِّ

He seeks what harms him, like the worm

That bores the wood it feeds upon.

نَهارُهُ يَغدو إِلى السوقِ في

بَيعِ قُماشٍ وَشِرى خُبزِ

By day he sells some cloth, and buys us bread,

As evening through the marketplace he treads.