ما أَعجَبَ مَسحَ كَفِّ ذاتِ الرَّدعِ

ما أَعجَبَ مَسحَ كَفِّ ذاتِ الرَّدعِ

عَينَيَّ مِنَ البُكاءِ يَوَم الجِزعِ

عَينَيَّ مِنَ البُكاءِ يَوَم الجِزعِ

How wondrous that the dye-stained woman's hand should wipe

How wonderful the touch of her restraining hand

My eyes free of tears that day at the valley bend!

Wiping my weeping eyes in time of grief

ما تمسحُ جَفني وَهيَ لي راحِمَةٌ

ما تمسحُ جَفني وَهيَ لي راحِمَةٌ

لكن خَضَبتَ بَنانَها مِن دمَعي

لكن خَضَبتَ بَنانَها مِن دمَعي

She does not wipe my eyelid out of compassion for me;

She wipes not my eyelids, though merciful to me

But you dyed her fingertips with my tears.

But with my tears her fingers she doth dye