I know not how to complain, Adib
The world has bled wounds that will not heal
O “Beaini” of the horizon,
We are not a mirage
Or dust, or sand, to be melted
We are surely the sons of the white rocks
Its head is close to the Garden of Eternity
We are one people, kneeling before God
All of us, in my homeland,
Are beloved neighbours
No Druze, no Christians, no discord
Ask Islam about us, it may answer
You have always given the land glory
So, it became independent,
And the stranger departed from it
The cedars sang a melody for the heroes
You are the rhythm
And the wondrous melody in it
Ah, son of the Shouf,
Is my poetry enough for you?
You are from me;
You are my soul…
You are my cousin.
**
