جُرحٌ تسافر فيه حُنجرتي

جُرحٌ تسافر فيه حُنجرتي

وتصبُّ منه قنابلاً رئتي

وتصبُّ منه قنابلاً رئتي

A wound through which my throat journeys,

My throat travels in a wound

And my lung pours bombs out of it.

And my lungs pour bombs from it

تسعون قرناً لا ذكرتُ شجىً

تسعون قرناً لا ذكرتُ شجىً

أطبقت فوق متاعبي شفتي

أطبقت فوق متاعبي شفتي

For ninety centuries I have not spoken of sorrow;

For ninety centuries if I recalled agony

I sealed my lips over my troubles.

My lips closed over my troubles

تسعونَ لا جُرحي استطال فماً

تسعونَ لا جُرحي استطال فماً

حراً ولا ألجمت حمحمتي

حراً ولا ألجمت حمحمتي

For ninety centuries, my wound has not grown into a mouth

For ninety my wound did not yawn

That is free, nor have I bridled my whinnying.

Hot and free nor did my sobs subside

أسرجت قلبي للهوى وفمي

أسرجت قلبي للهوى وفمي

وزوارقي الحرَّى وأشرعتي

وزوارقي الحرَّى وأشرعتي

I saddled my heart for love, and my mouth,

I saddled my heart to passion and my mouth

And my burning boats and my sails.

And my hot ships and my sails

ورحلتُ والآفاق مظلمةٌ

ورحلتُ والآفاق مظلمةٌ

قلبي على الأمواج بوصلتي

قلبي على الأمواج بوصلتي

And I departed while the horizons were dark;

And I traveled while the horizons were dark

My heart upon the waves was my compass.

My heart was my compass on the waves

وكتبت تاريخي بما جهلوا

وكتبت تاريخي بما جهلوا

من نَزْف شُرياني وأوردتي

من نَزْف شُرياني وأوردتي

And I wrote my history with what they did not know

And I wrote my history in what they were ignorant of

Of the bleeding of my artery and my veins.

From the bleeding of my arteries and veins

فيرى صغيري أحرفي تعبت

فيرى صغيري أحرفي تعبت

فيقول : ما للحرف يا أبتي

فيقول : ما للحرف يا أبتي

Then my little one sees my letters grown weary,

So my little one sees my tired letters

And says, “What ails the letter, Father?”

And says: What is wrong with you, my father?

فأقول : يا ولدي لهم لغة ٌ

فأقول : يا ولدي لهم لغة ٌ

في العشق .. لا يدرون ما لُغتي

في العشق .. لا يدرون ما لُغتي

So I say, “My son, they have a language

So I say: My son, they have a language

In love; they do not know what my language is.

In love .. they do not know what my tongue is

تسعونَ يا ولدي أموت هوى

تسعونَ يا ولدي أموت هوى

وأنُصُّ للأحداث جمجمتي

وأنُصُّ للأحداث جمجمتي

For ninety centuries, my son, I have been dying of love,

For ninety, my son, I die of love

And I raise my skull to face events.

And I point my skull to events

سينثُّ يا عيني صُبحُ هُدى

سينثُّ يا عيني صُبحُ هُدى

وتلوح من عُمق الدُجى سِمَتي

وتلوح من عُمق الدُجى سِمَتي

A dawn of guidance will drizzle down, O my eye,

Morning enlightenment will sprout, my eye

And my mark will emerge from the depths of darkness.

And my path will be glimpsed from the depths of darkness

وسيذكرون مواقفي ودمي

وسيذكرون مواقفي ودمي

وقصائدي الولْهى وقافيتي

وقصائدي الولْهى وقافيتي

And they will remember my stances and my blood,

And they will remember my positions and my blood

And my love-stricken poems and my rhyme,

And my delirious poems and rhyme

ويرى الذين حملت جرْحهم

ويرى الذين حملت جرْحهم

أنَّ الرِّياح تهبُّ من جهتي

أنَّ الرِّياح تهبُّ من جهتي

And those whose wound I bore will see

And those whom I carried their wound will see

That the winds blow from my direction.”

That the winds blow from my direction