Safi, Morocco
A mother, plucking her heart off her chest,
Feeling bitter, to look strong doing her best,
Said to the last of her leaving sons, bravely:
This is your great day as a lover of the nation
To which you’re bound by great infatuation;
You’ve been chosen and responded eagerly;
Here’s my gift signed with my ample blessing
Here’s my heart, I ‘m not in need of its whining
Pulse or its stocks of love or of fear any longer;
Look at our homes falling one after one into pieces
And our trees in their very spring, unexpectedly
Losing their green leaves and raw fruits so early,
And this thunder in our heads that never ceases;
Take my heart and leave with my full blessing;
What’s the use of the moon without nightly rest
That of the sun if there’s no home to shine in,
Of a shield with no stout arms but a pelted chest!
Here’s my heart, I still have my alert, sharp ears,
At full attention, and eyes with bleeding tears
But so far able to register the coming event;
For, soon, when the scoundrels’ bellies in craze
Get filled, living on our blood, rejoicing our rage
When the curtains are drawn, undressing
Their artful treason, raveling out its maze,
Revealing their real, pale faces onstage,
I’ll take you the cheering news as it’s seen,
That of our small but plucky stone’s victory rings
And the cries of all the weapons facing our slings;
So go ahead like the martyrs gone before you;
My eyes will be mourning you to the last stitch
And before we meet in the hereafter anew
I’ll sow love in the eyes of our land, in every inch!
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