[...]

O villages of [...]

You tore away from [...]

Fulfilled [...]

The [...] flutters

You rose [...]

Heights of [...]

Refuge of the [...]

And blazed with fury [...]

With the [...] blood

And upon the [...]

[...] the basin, and from

[...] fathers

[...] the sky

[...] sins

[...] the roses in

[...] and youth

[...] the blaze of forenoon

[...] mist spread abroad

[...] shining bright

[...] a blazing, surging flood

[...] in his ordeal

[...] lets loose a raven

[...] the crown of the hills

[...] and seekers

[...] a wide and open plain

[...] a forest for lions

[...] Lebanon a brother

[...] and companions

[...] his gaze within it

[...] free and spacious

[...] the bend

[...] the veil

[...] in it an example

[...] and turmoil

[...] the air toward

[...] riders

[...] the glory of the sanctuary

[...] necks

[...] O our cedar

Independence is nothing but a gift

we won as recompense by the blood of our forefathers —

the shame of the grandsons, if they go astray, and if

they turn their history to scattered dust.

The open spring is but a stirring

the poet felt, and its expanses turned green;

he traced roses upon the desert, and

in the scorch of the burning sands, cool moist shade.

In it lovers take their delight whenever

the world grows narrow and deals them torment.

Whoever finds his days sunk in darkness

seeks the light, though it gleam deceiving.

Hopes surge in the young man's breast,

and when they run dry, he sings of them falsely.

O mountains of the cedars, O sister of heaven,

death in you is sweet, after life there was sweet.

Memory has pierced deep into my heart, and

drawn the veil back from the depths of my dreams.

The joys of yesterday have turned to a funeral

that stifles the breath with grief and gloom.

For red tears I have bartered love,

and with the tears of life I have shrouded the rebab.

A page of life's freshness has folded shut,

which time's serenity used to recite like a book;

a flower in the garden of love grew heady

and faded into memory's unseen, a mirage.

The red has ebbed away in the cup, and what

good is it to the drinker if he meets only froth?

That singing nightingale has gone hoarse; the

feathers have flown from him, and the poet has gone gray.

Had I been granted there but one hour of joy,

I would have kissed the very rock, or kissed the dust.