In my village, Etwebia, in the last drop of wine in the glass
I see the tree I planted in front of the guest room
I see its yellow flowers blossom in winter
where I used to sit with the red-chested bird
I drink my glass cold, the way I like it
and he takes peanuts from my hat the way he likes
Oh, my tree, my winter tree!
Oh, my Etwebia, captured by militias
I used to enjoy the pouring rain
I used to hear it falling through thirsty sand
Now, in a country ravaged by death, rain loses its sound
Drops tangle in blue, fall, fall, fall silent
A dog hides its tail in the darkness of night
The water rises high. The olive tree listens in
Translated from Arabic by Ashur Etwebi and James Byrne