كَأَنّما النارنج لَما بَدَت

كَأَنّما النارنج لَما بَدَت

أَغصانه عِندَ ورود الشُروق

أَغصانه عِندَ ورود الشُروق

It was as if the bitter-orange tree, when there appeared

As if the orange tree when it showed

its branches at the coming of sunrise,

Its branches at the break of dawn

صَوالج المينا بِأَيدي المَها

صَوالج المينا بِأَيدي المَها

يَحملن فيها أَكرا مِن عَقيق

يَحملن فيها أَكرا مِن عَقيق

were glass mallets in the hands of oryx-eyed beauties,

The bracelets on the wrists of the lovely maidens

who carry within them balls of carnelian.

Were bearing in them more jacinth than ruby