Green Tunisia, I have come to you as a lover

On my brow, a rose and a book

For I am the Damascene whose profession is passion

Whose singing turns the herbs green

A Damascene moon travels through my blood

Nightingales . . . and grain . . . and domes

From Damascus, jasmine begins its whiteness

And fragrances perfume themselves with her scent

From Damascus, water begins . . . for wherever

You lean your head, a stream flows

And poetry is a sparrow spreading its wings

Over Sham . . . and a poet is a voyager

From Damascus, love begins . . . for our ancestors

Worshipped beauty, they dissolved it, and they melted away

From Damascus, horses begin their journey

And the stirrups are tightened for the great conquest

From Damascus, eternity begins . . . and with her

Languages remain and genealogies are preserved

And Damascus gives Arabism its form

And on its land, epochs materialize