ذَهَبَ الَّذينَ أُحِبُّهُم فَرَطاً

ذَهَبَ الَّذينَ أُحِبُّهُم فَرَطاً

وَبَقِيتُ كالمَقمورِ في خَلفِ

وَبَقِيتُ كالمَقمورِ في خَلفِ

Those I love have gone on ahead,

Those I loved are gone as if it mattered not

And I am left like one who has lost at gambling among unworthy successors—

Leaving me like a withered branch behind

مِن كُلِّ مَطويٍّ عَلى حَنَقٍ

مِن كُلِّ مَطويٍّ عَلى حَنَقٍ

مُتَضَجِّعٍ يُكفَى وَلا يَكفي

مُتَضَجِّعٍ يُكفَى وَلا يَكفي

Each harboring resentment within,

In every folded valley, anger-wrought

Reclining idly, provided for, yet providing for no one.

I lie, enough to rest, yet unrest finds