في آمِدِ السَوداءِ بَيضٌ ما اِنثَنَوا

في آمِدِ السَوداءِ بَيضٌ ما اِنثَنَوا

إِلّا حَكَوا سَمَرَ الرِماحِ قُدودا

إِلّا حَكَوا سَمَرَ الرِماحِ قُدودا

In black Amid are fair-skinned ones who never sway

In the dark night's bosom there is a whiteness that never grows dim

without resembling tawny spears in stature.

Except when the spears brandish their date-wood shafts like thunderbolts

تَخَذوا مِنَ اللَيلِ البَهيمِ قِلانِساً

تَخَذوا مِنَ اللَيلِ البَهيمِ قِلانِساً

وَمِنَ النَهارِ مُباسِماً وَخُدودا

وَمِنَ النَهارِ مُباسِماً وَخُدودا

They took caps from the pitch-black night,

They made cloaks for themselves out of the benighted brute night

and smiling mouths and cheeks from the day.

And out of the daytime smiles and cheeks all rosy red