The Poem of Hassan bin Thabit in Praise of the Prophet
His countenance is radiant; to him, the seal of prophecy is granted,
An observable sign from Allah that shines and is witnessed.
The Divine has merged the Prophet’s name with His own
Whenever the muezzin calls out in the five daily prayers, declaring: “I bear witness.”
And it has been made distinctive through His name, to elevate it,
For the One on the Throne is praised, and this is Muhammad.
A Prophet who has come to us after despair and a period of cessation,
When idols were worshipped across the earth.
He became a luminous lamp and a guiding light,
Shining brightly like a polished sword.
He warned us of the fire and announced the paradise,
And taught us about Islam, so we praise Allah.
And You are the Creator of mankind, my Lord and my Creator,
With this affirmation, I declare before all people.
You are exalted, O Lord of mankind, above what anyone else claims,
Besides You as a god; You are the most high, the most glorious.
To You belongs creation and blessings, and the command is all Yours,
It is only You we seek for guidance, and only You we worship.
The Poem of Mahmoud Darwish in Love for the Homeland
Hang me from the fronds of a palm tree,
And execute me, for I will not betray the palm!
This land is mine.. and once I was
A shepherd, content and enamored.
My homeland is not a bundle of tales,
It is not a memory, nor a field to till.
It is not a light upon old tales and stories,
But a stranger’s rage against sadness,
A child longing for a holiday and a kiss.
It is the wind trapped in a prison cell,
And an old man mourning his sons and his field.
This earth is my skin and bones,
And my heart..
Soars above its grasses like a palm tree.
Hang me from the fronds of a palm tree,
And execute me, for I will not betray the palm!
The Poem of Nizar Qabbani in Love
Love me… and do not ask how,
Do not stumble in embarrassment,
Nor tremble in fear.
Love me… without complaints.
Does the scabbard complain when it receives the sword?
Be the sea and the port,
Be the land and the exile,
Be the calming weather and the storm,
Be the gentle and the fierce.
Love me in a thousand and a thousand ways,
And do not repeat yourself like summer..
For I despise summer.
Love me… and say it,
I refuse to be loved in silence,
And I refuse to bury love
In a grave of silence.
Love me, away from the land of oppression and repression,
Far from our city, which has been satiated with death..
Far from its fanaticism..
Far from its rigidity.
Love me, away from our city
Where love has not arrived since its inception..
The Poem of Al-Shafi’i in Love for God
To You, O Creator, I lift my desire,
Even if, O Generous and Gracious One, I am a sinner.
And when my heart hardened, and my paths narrowed,
I have made hope a ladder for Your forgiveness.
My sins became weighty, yet when I compared them
To Your mercy, O Lord, Your mercy became greater.
Your forgiveness endures on sins; You generously bestow,
Remaining ever-benevolent and gracious.
If it were not for You, no devotee would withstand Satan,
How could he, when he enticed Your chosen Adam?
I wish to know, will I be admitted to Paradise,
Or will I find myself in the fire, repenting?
If You forgive me, forgive a rebellious,
Oppressive sinner who does not part from wrongdoing.
And if You seek vengeance upon me, I am not hopeless,
Even if my soul were cast into the flames of damnation.
So blessed is the familiar during his mourning,
For his eyes overflow with tears from profound sorrow.
He stands when the night stretches its darkness,
Creating a solemn ceremony for himself.
He cries out if his heart recalls his Lord,
And in everything else, he remains speechless.
He remembers the days past from his recklessness,
And what wrongs he committed in his youth.
He has become a companion of worry all day,
A brother of sleeplessness and whispers when the night falls.
He says: “My love, You are my desire and my goal,”
For You are sufficient for those who hope, a treasure.
Are You not the One who nurtured and guided me,
And have You not remained generous and gracious towards me?
May he who possesses kindness forgive my faults,
And conceal my burdens and all that has preceded.
The Poem of Hafiz Ibrahim in Praise of the Arabic Language
I returned to my essence and accused my errors,
Called to my people, I entrusted my life.
They accused me of barrenness in youth; oh, had I
Suffered it, I would not have worried about my foes’ words.
I was born, yet when I found no peers
To support me, I nurtured my daughters.
I comprehended God’s Book in its words and purpose,
And I did not narrow myself on its verses and admonitions.
How then can I feel constrained today in describing tools
And organizing names of inventions?
I am the sea, within me the pearls are concealed.
Did they ever inquire of the diver about my shells?
Woe to you; my virtues will fade and wither,
And from you, even though healing is scarce, my afflictions.
Please do not leave me to time, for I fear
For you, that my death will draw near.
I see the men of the West possess pride and strength,
How many nations have honored themselves through their languages?
They came to their people with miraculous arts,
So I wish you would come with your own words.
Does a crow from the West elate you,
As it announces my demise at the spring of my life?
If you were to scare the birds, you would have known
What beneath them is tangled and scattered.
May God bless the bones resting in the heart of the island,
That are loath to bow and bend my neck.
I preserved my friendship in decay, and I preserved it
For them, with a heart that constantly mourns.
The West and the East are envious, silent,
In shyness from those skeletal remains.
I witness every day in the newspapers a trap
That pulls me from the grave without patience.
I hear the clamor of writers in Egypt,
So I know that the criers are lamenting me.
Are my people abandoning me – may God forgive them –
For a language that lacks connection with the narrators?
The dust of foreigners has inundated it as the saliva of serpents in the waters of the Euphrates.
It came in the form of a garment with seventy patches,
Made of varied colors and appearances.
To the cadre of writers, and the assembly is abundant,
I extended my hopes after presenting my grievances.
So either a life that resurrects the dead in decay,
And sprouts from those mounds my bones,
Or a death from which there is no resurrection,
A death that, by my life, is not compensated for.