لانَت عَلى المَسِّ بِالأَيدي جُسومُهُم

لانَت عَلى المَسِّ بِالأَيدي جُسومُهُم

وَفي الصُدورِ لَعَمري يَنبُتُ الحَسَكُ

وَفي الصُدورِ لَعَمري يَنبُتُ الحَسَكُ

Their bodies were soft to the touch of hands,

Their bodies prostrate in prayer,

Yet in their breasts, by my life, thorns grow.

And in their chests, I swear, bitterness grows.

في الحَربِ عَقلُ رِجالٍ إِن هُم قُتِلوا

في الحَربِ عَقلُ رِجالٍ إِن هُم قُتِلوا

وَفي الحِجا عَقلُ نِسوانٍ لَها مَسَكُ

وَفي الحِجا عَقلُ نِسوانٍ لَها مَسَكُ

In war, if they are killed, their blood-price is that of men;

In war, men’s minds, when their lives end,

Yet in reason, theirs is the wit of women wearing bracelets.

And women’s minds, in pilgrimage, from which perfume flows.

تَمَسَّكوا بِحِبالِ النُسكِ في زَمَنٍ

تَمَسَّكوا بِحِبالِ النُسكِ في زَمَنٍ

وَلاحَ نَزرٌ فَخَلّوا ما بِهِ اِمتَسَكوا

وَلاحَ نَزرٌ فَخَلّوا ما بِهِ اِمتَسَكوا

They clung to the ropes of piety for a time,

They clung to the ropes of purity in an age

And a trifle appeared, so they abandoned what they had clung to.

When all integrity faded, lost was their grip.