لا تَحسبنَّ فرِندَ صارمِه به

لا تَحسبنَّ فرِندَ صارمِه به

وَشياً أَجادَته القُيونُ فأَبهَرا

وَشياً أَجادَته القُيونُ فأَبهَرا

Do not think the watered pattern upon his keen sword

Do not think her piercing glance but transient,

Is ornament the swordsmiths perfected until it dazzled.

Or something lent by years now on the wane;

هَذا نَدى يمناهُ سال بمتنه

هَذا نَدى يمناهُ سال بمتنه

فغدا يَلوحُ بصَفحَتيهِ جَوهرا

فغدا يَلوحُ بصَفحَتيهِ جَوهرا

This is the dew of his right hand, flowing along the blade’s back,

This is pure radiance flowing from her essence,

And coming to gleam as jewels upon its two faces.

That turns the pages of her eyes to gems again.