يَا رُبَّ لَيْلٍ بِتُّ أُسْقَى بِهِ

يَا رُبَّ لَيْلٍ بِتُّ أُسْقَى بِهِ

مَشْمُولَةً صَفْرَاءَ كَالْوَرْسِ

مَشْمُولَةً صَفْرَاءَ كَالْوَرْسِ

Ah, many a night I spent being served

O Lord of the night whose drink I sip

Wine cooled by the north wind, yellow as wars dye,

Yellow, like withered flowers, it drips

كَأَنَّهَا فِي كَأْسِهَا شُعْلَةٌ

كَأَنَّهَا فِي كَأْسِهَا شُعْلَةٌ

مَقْبُوسَةٌ مِنْ كَوْكَبِ الشَّمْسِ

مَقْبُوسَةٌ مِنْ كَوْكَبِ الشَّمْسِ

As though it were a flame within its cup,

As if inside its chalice lies

Kindled from the orb of the sun.

A Piece of the bright sun that flies