رَوضَةٌ مِن قَرقَفٍ أَنهارُها

رَوضَةٌ مِن قَرقَفٍ أَنهارُها

وَغِناءُ الوَرقِ فيها في اِرتِفاعِ

وَغِناءُ الوَرقِ فيها في اِرتِفاعِ

A garden whose rivers are wine,

A garden of autumn leaves, rivers flowing,

And the gray doves’ song rises high within it.

The rustle of foliage ascending on high.

لا تَلُم أَغصانَها إِن رَقَصَت

لا تَلُم أَغصانَها إِن رَقَصَت

فَهيَ ما بَينَ شَرابٍ وَسَماعِ

فَهيَ ما بَينَ شَرابٍ وَسَماعِ

Do not blame its branches if they dance,

Blame not the branches if they chance to sway,

For they are amid wine and music.

Drunk as they are on song and sky.