Come, you whose life has passed seventy

Were you sleeping that it went to waste?

You were always making leaves

But you didn't think about leaving

When they set the heavenly market on Judgment Day

They give ranks according to good deeds

You bring as much goods as you bring

And if you are poor, you bring shame

The more crowded the market

The more scattered the heart of the poor

If five out of fifty dirhams are missing

Your heart becomes wounded by the claws of sorrow

When fifty years have slipped from your hand

Take advantage of the five days that are left

If the poor dead had a tongue

They would cry out in lament and sorrow

O living one, as long as you can speak

Do not close your lips from mentioning God like the dead

As our days passed in heedlessness

You at least count a few moments of opportunity