When I return dear motherland
You’ll take me in, in open hands
And all the wounds of Diaspora hounds
with love and tenderness, washed and wound
We shall pick together our long lost life
Relive those moments of hope and expectations
When your veil of green covered with illusions
Our simple existence throbbing with no gaffe
We’ll again for once shun little annoyances
That kept us forgetting the Mecca of our journey
Where the moon is love and the elixir is honey
No stinking dungeons no fresh blood fragrance
we'll call upon the God of our fathers
to redeem with blessing the heart of our hearths
it will be up to we to be or not to be
for when he says we will, we'll certainly be
then I'll lie down in the bossom of your being
at the blow of zephyr and scent of pollen
as all the wounds of diaspora hounds
shall vanish off at dear motherland
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem