فَسَلِّ هَوى مَن لا يُؤاتيكَ وُدُّهُ

بِآدَمَ شَهمٍ لا حُلُوٌّ وَلا صَعبُ

Ask the love of those whose affection does not come to you

With a proud, yet neither sweet nor difficult, humanity

كَأَنّي وَمَنقوشاً مِنَ المَيسِ قاتِراً

وَأَبدانِ مَكبونٍ تَحَلَّبَهُ عَضبُ

As if I and engraved from flint, wearing a coat of mail

And bodies heaped up, clad by anger

عَلى أَخدَرِيٍّ لَحمُهُ بِسَراتِهِ

مُذَكّى فَتاءٍ مِن ثَلاثٍ لَهُ شُربُ

On a greenish-brown, his flesh in its saddlebags

A steaming youth, having drunk thrice, his drink

فَلا هُنَّ بِالبُهمى وَإِيّاهُ إِذ شَتا

جَنوبَ أَراشٍ فَاللَهالَهُ فَالعَجبُ

So no congratulations to him in distress, when he wandered

The sides of a bed, by Allah, how strange!

شَباطاً وَكانونَينِ حَتّى تَعَذَّرَت

عَلَيهِنَّ في نيسانَ باقِيَةٌ شُربُ

Winter and two Januaries until

In April, some drink remained for them