Dear mother, it gives me great pain,
To think that my days pass in vain;
And when friends ask about me, you weep,
Because I am thrown away, in a deep
Dungeon that my enemies built for me,
To curb my liberty and kill the free
Fighters whose voice fills the land,
And brightens tomorrow, reviving the sand.
Yet, although I am caught, taken away,
My cell shall soon see the light of day.
Inside our prison, we continue the strife
To bring about once more the wondrous life!
Mother, our day of liberty shall come soon,
When we shall neither weep nor swoon!



They robbed me of my water, oil,
The fruits of my sweat and toil,
The ray of the sun, the taste-
Of bread ; they laid to waste
The threshold of my lovely home,
And left me, homeless, to roam
In the twilight of the darkling plain ,
Limping, lonely, loaded with pain.
They treated me with cruel disdain:
But, though I suffer in their chain,
My proud dignity I shall retain;
And a million suns shall remain
In my blood, shining, defying their perfidy,
As I stand tall, despite my tragedy!


On my window sill roses used to grow,
And I always dreamt of a better tomorrow:
Grape vines, figs and olives used to flourish
Everywhere in the homeland that I did cherish;
My house used to bathe in the beams of the sun,
Full of mirth, joy, laughter, life and fun.
And, with my loved ones, I used to dream
Of bread for all, of a warm sun - beam.
But that was before the foreign invaders,
The thugs and hordes of Zionist intruders
Came like locusts descending on my land,
With blood - stained weapons of every brand,
And carried out large - scale devastation,
Plaguing Palestine with their dark occupation!


I may lose my livelihood,
I may stay without any food,
I may be forced to sell my clothes,
I may take menial jobs on the roads,
As a servant, a porter, or a mason;
Yet I shall never succumb, o, enemies of the sun!
I shall fight, I shall persist
To the last throb in my veins, I shall resist.
You may usurp the last bit of my soil,
You may send me to prison, to a life of toil,
You may grab my grandfather�s heritage
You may burn my poems, ban my books,
Or offer my flesh to your dogs;
Yet, enemies of the sun, I shall resist, I shall� resist!

Hands off our people, whose holy ire
Can only explode and blaze the fire:
How can you live on a ship and antagonize
An ocean of flames, that will surprise
You with a devastating conflagration ?
We tell you that our vigilant nation
Shall never succumb to savage repression,
Nor to you; acts of plunder and aggression!
We do not slaughter, loot or pillage,
Nor prowl the streets of e very village:
Nor do we harass, torture, or blackmail,
Nor do we make innocent people wail,
And then fill our ears with cotton and mud;
Because we do not feed on flesh and blood!

Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh.


Put it on record
I am an Arab
And the number of my card is fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the ninth is due after summer.
What�s there to be angry about?

Put it on record
I am an Arab
Working with comrades of toil in a quarry
I have eight children
For them I wrest the loaf of bread,
The cloths and exercise books
From the rocks
And beg for no alms at your door,
Lower not myself at doorstep.
What�s there to be angry about?

Put it on record
I am an Arab
I am name without a title,
Patient in a country where everything
Lives in whirlpool of anger.
My roots
Took hold before the birth of time
Before the burgeoning of the ages,
Before cypress and olive trees,
Before the proliferation of weeds.
My father is from the family of the plough
Not from highborn nobles.
And my grandfather was a peasant
Without line or genealogy.
My house is a watchman�s hut
Made of sticks and reeds.
Does my status satisfy you?
I am a name without surname.

Put it on record
I am an Arab
Colour of hair: jet black.
Coluur of eyes: brown.
My distinguishing features:
On my head the �iqal+ cords over a keffiyeh
Scratching him who touches it.
My address:
I�m from a village, remote, forgotten,
Its street without name
And all its men in the fields and quarry.

What�s there to be angry about?

Put it on record
I am an Arab
You stole my forefathers� vineyards
And land I used to till,
I and all my children,
And you left us and all my grandchildren
Nothing but these rocks.
Will your government be taking them too
As is being said?

So!
Put it on record at the top of page one:
I don�t hate people,
I trespass on no one�s property.
And yet if I were to become hungry
I shall eat the flesh of my usurper.
Beware, beware of my hunger
And of my anger!