دَع اِبن حَريقٍ يَزدَهي بِكَلامِهِ

دَع اِبن حَريقٍ يَزدَهي بِكَلامِهِ

فَإِنّ رُحاه دُونَ طَحنٍ يُجَعجِعُ

فَإِنّ رُحاه دُونَ طَحنٍ يُجَعجِعُ

Let Ibn Hariq glory in his words;

Leave the son of Harīq delighting in his words,

for his mill clatters without grinding.

For his rest is less than the noise of grinding.

وَهَل شِعرُهُ إِلّا كَفارغ حمصٍ

وَهَل شِعرُهُ إِلّا كَفارغ حمصٍ

خَلِيٌّ مِن المَعنى وَلَكن يَفرقِعُ

خَلِيٌّ مِن المَعنى وَلَكن يَفرقِعُ

And is his poetry not like a hollow chickpea—

Is his poetry anything but hollow chickpeas—

empty of meaning, yet it pops?

Empty of meaning, yet makes a rattling sound?