Good Morning, Dear mother! Good Morning, Dignified Mother I write you from captivity forts, Where I am thrown
My comrades here, as dear as my soul, Who pour victory in my veins
I write from the bottom of my wounded heart From my eye light, from whatever decorates earth: flowers, grass and jonquil
Dear mother: how is night in our alley? How does our son look? What about our land, its stones are they still as they were? I still adore all that when I used to pick the wild mint and JASMINE
MUTASEM, My son, what has time done with him? Does he still smile? Still laugh?
Are his eyes still as beautiful as the color of chestnut? Is his breath as fragrant as fresh flowers?
It is said, he grew older. Now he is able to hoist the flag and soon will start stoning enemies He has become experienced in fits and starts
What about LINA? Are her eyes as pretty as honey? Are her brads as black as night? She is also growing older; she is breathing MUSK and amber She is in love with the land, all parts of it. She loves the Olive oil and the thyme. She dresses the wounded, when she bleeds, narcissus comes out that likes the land as she does Let them understand dear Mom I never felt defeated, nor has the occupant achieved victory, nevertheless of my wounds. Let them grasp the fact, that my roots are as strong as the roots of Cypress and cinchona My roots go deep down underneath Earth, Very, very deep. My existence on this land is prehistory, And, it will continue to exist. A love story, Has been created between me and this land I consider my death on this land, As a rebirth towards achieving my victory, My dream
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