Come, let us tour the town and quaff wine from the bowl,
Oh pious ascetic, do the wise ever flee the tavern?
I am distraught when I see those weary eyes,
The heavy clouds of my sighs pour tears of hail.
If that fair youth of my heart had not ris'n one night, a full moon,
What would it matter that I, a sombre day, had ne'er been born?

Learn from the moth how to burn, oh soul, heed the moth,
When you glimpse that fiery face, hurl yourself with ardour into its flames.

Oh ailing soul, let me perish from ever-waiting,
Yearning for that flirting lad, my calamity, to emerge from his house.

Whenever I am at the side of that straight, slender stature,
My breast becomes a shell of nacre to clasp that unique jewel.

The heart proclaimed it: 'Yahya stole a kiss from his lover.'
Let the good news be known, sweet news from my foolish soul!