1. If only standing in the valley's path was compulsory
If only your neighbor, O winter valley, was my neighbor

2. Perhaps from seeing my old fervor in it
I would frequent a touch for my poems' meanings

3. And upon me before my mustache turns white
And the custom of its youth necessitates my denial

4. And the tones of fervor depart from my melody
And the melodies of longing burn my oud

5. From the young women I would spend some of what I used to
Cling to despite gray hair my claws

6. So I touch longing in my memory's ruins
And I glimpse love in the rubble of my homes

7. And I do not see the white police distracted
From me disgusted by my news and my tales

8. And I do not care if their tents appear
Slandering the interpretation of my journey