Blood flows like a stream
from the branch of Olive
and from the den of memories
it overflows as a river of fight

¹Kufiya becomes red
as the shine of youthfulness,
as the praising song of truth,
taking pride in enduring pain

There arises the cry
of multiple generations
as the sprouting grain of the land
and the color of the earth darkens

As the brides of death,
torches of the land,
burn inside the people’s hearts,
hopes rise as acclamatory shouts

The fangs of the chariot
stab causing pain
to the tender hearts
and breaks the buds of hopes

A thousand torches fly away
through the river of hearts
the bone of life crumbles

Truth spreads
like a perennial tongue,
untiring hands
and unwavering voice

The fire flares up
beyond the oceans
along with the minds,
and the ring stones crack

The cloud of kindness melts
in the valleys of skies
as the green of Olive leaves
and as the dream of grief

The boundary walls that rankle
as a wound in the heart of the land crack
and the child’s steps stabilize

Do not throw again
manifold anxieties
to the mother’s heart
that is already a fire pit

We are immersed in fun,
in intoxicated sleep,
without uttering a single word
and finally, dream of this Olive leaf burns out.