الأَرضُ أُمُّ بَناتِها الشَجَرُ

الأَرضُ أُمُّ بَناتِها الشَجَرُ

وَالغَيمُ ثَديٌ لِبانُهُ المَطَرُ

وَالغَيمُ ثَديٌ لِبانُهُ المَطَرُ

The earth is a mother whose daughters are the trees.

The earth is the mother of her daughters, the trees,

And the cloud is a breast whose milk is rain.

And the cloud is their nursing breast, its rain their milk.

وَالقَضبُ أَوراقُها مَعاجِرُها

وَالقَضبُ أَوراقُها مَعاجِرُها

عَلى وُجوهٍ عُيونُها الزَهَرُ

عَلى وُجوهٍ عُيونُها الزَهَرُ

And the boughs—their leaves are their headscarves,

The canes are their home, their children the flowers

Over faces whose eyes are blossoms.

That open their eyes on their faces.

فَاِعتَصِرِ اللَهوَ بِالصَبوحِ فَقَد

فَاِعتَصِرِ اللَهوَ بِالصَبوحِ فَقَد

اَصبَحَتِ المُعصِراتث تَنعَصِرُ

اَصبَحَتِ المُعصِراتث تَنعَصِرُ

So wring out pleasure with the morning draught, for

So revel in the morn, for soon it will be over -

the rain-laden clouds are now being wrung out.

The presses will whir and the new wine will pour.