At sunset, when the road's breath is warm, I'll depart.
I came here on foot, and on foot I will depart.
Tonight, the spell of exile will be broken;
tonight, I will wrap my empty sofra.1
Around the nights of celebration, O neighbor,
you will no longer hear the sound of cries.
That stranger2 without a piggybank, he'll depart
and that little girl who has no toys - she, too, will depart.
I who have walked struggle's horizon, its length and length
I who have only been seen on paths and roads
I whose bread was brick-hard
whose sofra, if any, was full of hunger -
every mirror reflects my broken image
every structure, every stone bears imprint
of my laboring hands
and whether they look at me with kindness or hostility
all men know me:
I stood up even as the sky broke its back,
I kept faith even as they all turned to ibn Muljams.3

How can I not return?
There, my refuge

there, my brother's tomb

the mosque, the mihrab,4

the sword waiting to kiss my head.5
Here there is only the prayer's call,
there we exclaim God's greatness. We rise.6

Here I am broken-winged, afraid of breaking again,

there skies and skies of flight.

I've got a leg and a cane

and my other leg is there.
I am broken as I pass by you tonight
humbled by your infinite heart.

I know the silence of your cold nights

the lone grief of loss.

Like me, you've seen

only the severed heads of stars,

had not a father but his ashes,

walked the streets of exile,

carried burnt corpses on your shoulders.

You've bled as I was scourged,

fed on rocks as I ate seeds and water.
Though our barren land produced
few grains worthy of harvest

though we broke your lasting calm

though my child threw a stone at your window

though I am guilty before the law

fit for grave punishment,

friends, don't dishearten me

give me your blessing, even if it's a lie.

I'll leave behind all that I do not have,

I swear on our Imam,7 I won't take anything

other than the dust of his heram.8
May God bless your piety and grace your lives,
grant you your prayers,

a skyful of blessings, fullness

of your children's piggybanks.

And the bread of your enemies - whoever they are -

may it turn to brick.