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Torn are - my wings like - all Arab's
Fake - like our speeches - is our history
Broken - like our words - is our pride
Marc, will you tell them about my country?
The glass of the churches,
The voices of the minarets,
The tears of the chandeliers,
The pharaonic engravements,
The seas, the Nile,
the green banks and golden shores
The lands that summarize
-both- the history and scent of a rose
Will you tell them about my people?
Tell the stories of the tribes?
Will you teach them the words you've learned?
so our language never dies
Will you mention how our landscapes change
- with seasons -
to embrace the rain..
How the wounded sun touches our land
To heal it's pain..
Marc, don't mention our shame,
our weakness and indifference..
It's all in vain
Don't mention our history..
I've forgotten..
the age, the dates, the names..
Lies, are what they teach us in schools,
Lies, are what they put into our brains
Don't even call us Arabs, for we are not Arabs
we are the remains of their remains..
the word ''pharaonic engravements'' here, refers to the hieroglyphics written on the ancient tombs and that were the original form of language in Egypt...
Special thanks to Anna for correcting my grammatical and spelling mistakes in this.. thanks Anna..
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