The Scented Sands I write to you before my slumber, And I seek your answer before the day. For the coward's eyes never sleep, never rest, As I watch you crumble, what am I to say? You haunt my thoughts, and you thrive in my heart, For the blood that's spilled, you are more than worth. But my eyes are yet to see your plains, And my hands are yet to feel your earth. My eyes have watched for too many days, That have passed like the water in between my fingers. Still, the silence, overcomes my hands, As the uncertainty teases, in my mind it lingers. The rifles never silent, nor the cries that sound, While upon the path the maidens wait. One after another, the green birds venture, From your pure grounds in a joyous state. Their blood descends upon your wounds, And perfumes the sand in your fertile plains. While their tears quench the thirst of the hopeful, Who've longed for freedom from their heavy chains. Oh mothers do not let the longing haunt, Your fragile hearts and your wandering minds. For your sons will be there to meet you again, And share with you blessings of wondrous kinds. As to us who've made the excuse of fear, To turn us away from your scented path, Whatever happens is good for the believers, And surely, for them, will be the last laugh. Woe to us, oh land of Umayyad, May your wounds be saved from cowardice tears, May your wounds be saved from lightened blood, And may you regain your prosperous years.