بخش 3 - سحر با ناقه گفتم نرم تر رو

That dawn I asked naqah not to run quick, Its rider is feeble, too old and sick.

In a dancing prance move but she runs more, That sand to her feet is a silky floor.

She needs no reins O I teamster hence! Like my own wits she has the same sense.

From its wavelike trot a plea I would form, Like me she is captive of heart’s own charm.

Yet tears moist vivid in jet black eyes, My heart thus burns from his morning sighs.

That burnt my conscience was the sole wine, Flowing with his gaze like wavelets fine.