Ages long, several wounds

layers of healing ,

and yet it tears apart,

O Filastin, tell us of old days,

and how the war shadowed,

the beautiful land of yours?

They may choke you in the siege,

rob your innocent eyes,

kill your hope and dreams,

demolish every brick of your home.

Tell them.

The sand of Jerusalem shall speak,

the sky above the Hebron shall write the truth,

the sweets of Nablus shall carry your fragrance,

the ruins and shrieks of Jenin shall howl in the deaf ears,

so the wind shall tell your stories,

from where the Jesus was born.

From pain and sufferings,

out from the shatters of life,

and the drops of blood,

you shall heal and revive,

to resist once again, and again.

Rise and rebel,

can they imprison the wind?

or terminate the dazzling light?

Grow, O beloved,

for the rivers shall flow,

and the folk tales go,

by the same warm lines,

“there was in the oldness of times…”

Nurture hope, O precious,

jonquils and poppies will grow,

on the holy land of Solomon,

the olives shall feed the Filastīn,

and the gazelles will protect the mountains,

the songs of victory,

on the street of Ramallah,

we shall sing.

Heal to resist, O warriors,

with the love of your land,

flowing in the blood of your veins,

vanquish the venom of hate.

Let Al-Quds unfurl its divine wings,

and we shall bow to Al-Hakam,

to the eternity, in peace,

for the Just to triumph.