إليهم قصيدي وما أنظم

وشعري وما في دمي يضرم

To them, my verse and all I compose,

And my poetry, and all that burns in my blood.

إليهم إلى اخوتي اللاجئين

إلى اخوتي يوم يدعو الدم

To them—to my refugee brothers,

To my brothers, on the day blood calls.

إليهم وإن سكنوا في الكهوف

وفوق روابي الأسى خيموا

To them, even though they have dwelt in caves

And pitched their tents atop the hills of sorrow.

إليهم سأشدو بشعر الحياة

ومنهم بروحي سأستلهم

To them I shall sing the poetry of life,

And from them, with my soul, I shall draw inspiration.

إليهم وإن حطمتنا الخطوب

وأرهقنا الحادث المؤلم

To them, even though calamities have shattered us,

And the painful event has exhausted us,

وجار علينا الزمان العتي

وأنهكنا الناب والميسم

And ruthless time has wronged us,

And fang and branding iron have worn us down.

إليهم سأشدو بشعر الحياة

سأشدو وأشدو وأستلهم

To them I shall sing the poetry of life.

I shall sing and sing and draw inspiration,

فيصحو على شعري السادرون

ويستيقظ النفر النوم

So the heedless awaken to my poetry,

And the sleeping folk awake.