Oh October,
I will tell of Laila, of how she kissed freedom.
Seven heavens attend to my poems.

Oh sun of Damascus,
Does the Tigris still send our wishes towards Baghdad?
On the Arabs’ horses
To the towers of the Hamdanids
Under the aegis of the Umayya.
Our camels bear the martyrs to the origins of freedom.

For nineteen years, oh my mother,
Laila has played the instruments of evenings
And the streets are filled with the laments of mothers
About the images of their children.

Nineteen years, oh father,
I have spent erasing
The history of my homeland
From the illusions of kings.

For nineteen years, oh brother,
I have lied by asserting
I approved the morning salute
Of the flags of our land.

Put down the Arabian swords,
For Laila has married a westerner.
She no longer tells the story of the moon,
Is no longer the purity of the nights.
Sheathe the Arabian swords,
Until Laila parts from the stranger
And returns to her roots.