A humane poem from "Dulab," by the poet;

to appear soon from Dar al-Kitab

Our women pass the summer in your highlands,

and you pasture your goat-kids in our woods;

our bees wink at one another over your roses,

and our women hang out our clothes under one and the same sun.

Our loaf — we brown it on your griddle,

and you gather its firewood, and in your laughter is its basil;

our child feeds supper to your hens,

and your girl, in contentment, waters their chicks.

With the lashes of our eyes we gather up your tears,

and you warm your eyes against our cheeks;

our green crops drink from the water of your spring,

and your grandfathers and ours were friends.

At our dawn you wave your cluster of grapes,

and your wine lies aging in our jars;

our cloud casts its shade over your roof tiles,

and your jasmine spreads over the courtyard of our house.

We light our lamp with your oil,

and your anemones spring up around our rocks;

our blackbird nests in the window-niche of your house,

and your partridge clucked — and our blackbird answered.