Your eyes are a thorn in the heart;

It pains me, yet I adore it

And shelter it from the wind.

I plunge it into my flesh

Hiding it from night and sorrow

And its wound ignites the lights of stars.

My present makes its future

Dearer to me than my soul

When our eyes meet, I soon forget

That once, behind bolted doors,

We were two.

Her eyes are Palestinian;

Her name is Palestinian;

Her dreams and sorrows;

Her veil, her feet and body;

Her words and silence are Palestinian;

Her birth … her death.

I carried you in my old notebooks;

You were fire for my verses,

Provisions for my excursions.

In your name I shouted to the valleys:

‘I know the Romans’ horses

Though the battlefield has changed.

Beware of the lightning

My song engraved on granite.

I am the fire of youth and the knight of knights.

I am the iconoclast.

My poems are eagles

Hovering over the Levantine borders.'