The eye, once parted from its homeland,
finds no familiar dwelling, nor any peace.
Moistened with tears that unsettle it,
it knows no slumber, nor the comfort of rest.
It once beheld beauty in every passing sight,
but now it sees no beauty anywhere.
O homeland, battered by the turns of time,
who was it that emboldened fate against you?
You were, for me, richness beyond all else—
may I never find in others what I found in you.
You were but a pristine garden,
noble in soil, fragrant in fruit and blossom.
They claimed compassion for you, yet harmed you deeply,
calling their harm a kindness.
They wronged you, brandishing sharpened blades,
and marched forward with their spears.
My heart—were it not for a sigh rising within it,
I would have denied it and doubted it was mine.
O bird singing upon a branch,
while the Nile waters that very bough,
add to my longing whatever sorrow you will,
if you, like me, have tasted sorrow.
You reminded me of what I have never forgotten,
and some memories renew grief.
You reminded me of Barada and its valley,
where birds sang alone and in pairs.
And of beloved ones whose love I concealed,
while passion for them burned hidden within.
How often I resist my tears, yet they overcome me—
when I wipe them away, they fall again.
I have memories in their land,
they are life itself—radiant and luminous.
The stranger is forever tormented:
when he arrives, he finds no ease; when he departs, no peace.