What witch are you, that entangles our hearts
    in your curls?
You are a gazelle who sets traps in the holy sanctuary
    of the Kaaba

Your lashes are Tatar soldiers, and you the warlord,
    Hulagu
Your reign has ravaged the country of the spirit,
    the Baghdad of the heart

Both Hizir and Jesus have sacrified themselves 
    to the water of life of your lip
You are the drink of water for which the soul
    of Alexander thirsts

Oh my love, my sun, you are the adornment of the nine
    gardens of the skies
You cannot be compared to the beloved's cheek,
    you are the wild rose that blooms alone

Oh, Nâilî, the beloved's brows scowl
    with anger
When you say of her mouth, it is as fine
    as the tip of her curl