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Poem No.: 59 النص العربي: لا يوجد

Jerusalem, luminous city of prophets,

Shortest path between heaven and earth !


Jerusalem, you of the myriad minarets,

become a beautiful little girl with burned fingers.

City of the virgin, your eyes are sad.

Shady oasis where the Prophet passed,

the stones of your streets grow sad,

the towers of mosques downcast.

City swathed in black, who'll ring the bells

at the Holy Sepulchre on Sunday mornings?

Who will carry toys to children

on Christmas Eve?

City of sorrows, a huge tear

trembling on your eyelid,

Who'll save the Bible?

Who'll save the Qur'an?

Who will save Christ, who will save man?


Jerusalem, beloved city of mine,

tomorrow your lemon trees will bloom,

your green stalks and branches rise up joyful,

and your eyes will laugh. Migrant pigeons

will return to your holy roofs

and children will go back to playing.

Parents and children will meet

on your shining streets,

my city, city of olives and peace.

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