ولربَّ نائحةٍ على فَنَنٍ

ولربَّ نائحةٍ على فَنَنٍ

تُشْجي الخليَّ وما بهِ شَجوُ

تُشْجي الخليَّ وما بهِ شَجوُ

And many a lamenting bird upon a bough

For there is a mourner for lost arts

Saddens the carefree, though he has no sorrow.

Who stirs the emotions though nothing hurts.

وتَغرَّدتْ في غصنِ أيكتِها

وتَغرَّدتْ في غصنِ أيكتِها

فكأنما تغريدُها شَدْوُ

فكأنما تغريدُها شَدْوُ

And she warbled on a branch of her thicket,

And she sang from her lover's branch

So her warbling seemed like song.

As though her song itself was heartfelt.