So be it!
I must refuse death,
And burn the tears of bleeding songs,
And strip the olive trees
Of all their counterfeit branches.

If I have been serenading happiness
Behind the lids of frightened eyes,
That is because the storm
Has promised me wine
And new toasts and rainbows.

Because the storm
Has swept away the voices of lethargic birds
And the borrowed branches
Off the trunks of standing trees.

So be it!
I must be proud of you–
Oh, wounded city!–
You, a painting of circumstance
In our sad nights.

The street frowns at me,
You protect me from the shadows
And the looks of hatred.

I will serenade happiness
Behind the lids of frightened eyes
Since the storm began to rage in my country…

–Mahmoud Darwish