Rub your face in the dust, say: This is my land!
Each particle sings that it is holy,
Free hearts lie buried in it,
How can I not make it my bed?
Stand at the Yarmuk, and look. Do you see,
The procession of history, with hope at its head?
The dust-trails rising from beyond the hill, On the plains, cavalry ranked in rows?
The songs of victory are heard even now,
The chants of love from every valley rise.
Or do you see the Yarmuk bathed in tears,
Hitting far, far beyond the hosts?
My country, you are seeds of hope,
Watered by the tears of my heart.
What has wounded you?
Speak! The ruses of your sons, or of your foes?
Do not say that this is dead ground,
For it embraces those who were truly alive.
Protect that generation in the womb of your earth,
For free blood still calls, and is heard.