لِطُغيانِ خُفُّ مُذ ثَلاثينَ حَجَّةً

لِطُغيانِ خُفُّ مُذ ثَلاثينَ حَجَّةً

جَديدٌ فَلا يَبلى وَلا يَتَخَرَّقُ

جَديدٌ فَلا يَبلى وَلا يَتَخَرَّقُ

Ṭughyān has a boot that, for thirty years,

For the tyrant's shoes, unpatched these thirty pilgrimages,

Has stayed new: it neither wears out nor tears.

Still unworn, still unruptured, how should shoes wear out?

وَكَيفَ بَلى خُفٍّ هُوَ الدَهرُ كُلُّهُ

وَكَيفَ بَلى خُفٍّ هُوَ الدَهرُ كُلُّهُ

عَلى قِدمَهيا في الهَواءِ مُعَلَّقُ

عَلى قِدمَهيا في الهَواءِ مُعَلَّقُ

And how could a boot wear out, when it is forever

When the world itself is shoe leather to the very soles,

Hanging in the air upon her feet?

And time's feet forever lifted up and down, unrepaired, unstitched,

فَما خَرَقَت خُفّاً وَلَ تُبلِ جَورَباً

فَما خَرَقَت خُفّاً وَلَ تُبلِ جَورَباً

وَأَمّا سَراويلاتُها فَتُمَزَّقُ

وَأَمّا سَراويلاتُها فَتُمَزَّقُ

So she has not torn a boot, nor worn out a sock;

have worn out the stuff and fabric that clothe this world.

But as for her trousers, they are torn to shreds.