أَلِفَ المُدامَةَ فَالزَمانُ قَصيرُ

أَلِفَ المُدامَةَ فَالزَمانُ قَصيرُ

صافٍ عَلَيهِ وَما بِهِ تَدبيرُ

صافٍ عَلَيهِ وَما بِهِ تَدبيرُ

He has taken to wine, for time is short,

I befriended revelry though life is short

He grew fond of the vintage, for time is but short,

serene for him, and he has no forethought.

Pure yet without wisdom or plan

A life running clear, free of scheme or design.

وَلَهُ بِدَورِ الكَأسِ كُلَّ عَشِيَّةٍ

وَلَهُ بِدَورِ الكَأسِ كُلَّ عَشِيَّةٍ

حالانِ مَوتٌ تارَةً وَنُشورُ

حالانِ مَوتٌ تارَةً وَنُشورُ

And as the cup goes round each evening, he has

And with every turn of the goblet

And he finds in the cup, as it circles each eve,

two states: death at one time, and resurrection.

Death comes and goes in a haze

Two states: now a death, and now a rebirth.

كَأسٌ مِنَ الراحِ العَتيقِ بِريحِها

كَأسٌ مِنَ الراحِ العَتيقِ بِريحِها

قَبلَ المَذاقَةِ في الرُؤوسِ تَسورُ

قَبلَ المَذاقَةِ في الرُؤوسِ تَسورُ

A cup of aged wine that, by its scent,

A cup with ancient spirits whose scent

A glass of old wine that, by fragrance alone,

surges into heads before it is tasted.

Rushes through heads before the first taste

Ascends to the head before ever it's tasted;

صَفراءَ حَمراءَ التَرائِبِ رَأسُها

صَفراءَ حَمراءَ التَرائِبِ رَأسُها

فيهِ لَما نَسَجَ المِزاجُ قَتيرُ

فيهِ لَما نَسَجَ المِزاجُ قَتيرُ

Yellow, red-breasted, its head

Pale amber the color that tips it

Golden, with ruby-red breast, while her head

bears gray hairs from what the mixing water has woven.

Blended exquisitely by destiny's hand

Wears ringlets of mail that the mixture has woven.