Deir el-Ghazal — From Daad al-Dibs to Michel Trad

Still the enchantress passes along the paths
in her shawl spun from the beating of hearts,
walking in glory and coquetry, a walk like a drumbeat;
and still the moon spills out the silver in grains,
hems the fringes of the night and tints its pockets blue,
turns yellow with envy and begins to weep;
and still the nightingale comes from the south
bringing back the songs of longing at the sunset hours,
standing on the window ledge to make his complaint.
This is my beloved's land, innocent of every flaw.
In it beauty lies wrapped in a cloak of sweet scents,
and in it the moon and the sun have fought their battle;
and still it holds the dream-drunkenness of lovers,
gathering the stars of night and meeting the breeze;
and still, for the afflicted, it is the best of cures;
and still Deir el-Ghazal is the mother of the world —
but without you, Michel, she is all at a loss.

Deir el-Ghazal, January 7, 1946