Like the scent of incense, it is pleasing. And not a small amount. Like the entire Khalil thyme, all its benefits. Like a well, until its water suffices us. Like the Haj. Near and far. Like the month of Shubat, there is no binding on it. Like the poet who acts with his religion. Like the one who wears a cloak, she adjusts. And not little. Like the lamp, it shines on people. And burns itself. Like a blow to a generous enemy. With a whip and they refused him. Like the unlucky porter, he does not remember God. Like the wedding procession, eating and dancing. With a necklace on his neck and the mourners behind him. Like the invitation of the Marakeeb. From one feast to another. Like the scorpion, it stings and hides. Like the cinnamon stick, it suffices its mother. And the husband's sister and the mother-in-law. Like the evening, it is not lonely from those who are absent, nor is it comforted by those who are present. Like the chickens, their food is under their feet. Like the dates, they have no beginning or end. Like the grave, it does not return the dead. Like the pumpkin, it does not break except to be seen. Like the cats, they eat and are thankful. Like the graves, from the outside marble, and from the inside bones. Like the dog, it loves hunger and rest. Like the dog, it fears and frightens. Like the dogs of Al-Rawda, Harb and Zurqi. Like the scales, full and ناقص. Like you see me, O beautiful, I see you. Like the boat, it is on the bow.