يا عروس المجد تيهي واسحبي

O bride of glory, sway proudly and sweep through our sanctuaries with the trains of the shooting stars.

You will not see a single handful of sand upon her that has not been perfumed by the blood of a free, defiant soul.

Injustice trampled across her for an age, only to break and fall short of attaining its desire.

The arrogance of the nights flung itself against her doorstep, only to return with dulled fangs and blunted claws.

Truth never dies, no matter how harshly the fist of the usurper strikes its cheeks.

From here guidance tore open its garments and marched forth in wave after wave of processions.

It came to the world, making existence shudder with joy, intoxicated by its flowing fragrance.

It sang of the noble chivalry it recognized in its Arab youth.

A proud spirit too vast for his desert, which led him forth into a more spacious horizon.

He sprang forth to conquer, and beneath him the stallion's hoof drew blood from the forehead of a star.

His aspirations were the uprising of the earth from the darkness of humiliation and the humiliation of darkness.

And the release of light until every eyelid drenched in earth is quenched.

A dream that passed without wounding the honor of the endeavor or the nobility of the quest.

O bride of glory, our meeting has been too long delayed, after the deep anguish of the exile.

Our generations grew intoxicated in their vanity and slumbered while treacherous time plotted.

We awoke to find our necks weighed down by the shackles of the foreigner.

We called upon you, but heard nothing save a sigh drawn from your grieving chest.

We knew your precious bride-price, and we neither cheapened it nor calculated the cost.

So we bore every exhausted loyalty and walked above the crests of looming calamities.

We poured out free-flowing blood; so scoop up as much of it as you wish and drink.

Wipe away the orphans' tears and smile, touch the wound of the afflicted and rejoice.

We are those who built power out of weakness, a strength that refused to soften before the blazing tyrant.

How many a Maysaloun do we possess, shaking the dust of fatigue from her wings.

How often our swords have faltered in the arena, and our steeds stumbled in the lists.

From one stumbling, tumultuous struggle to another stumbling, tumultuous struggle.

The nobility of the leap lies in pleasing the Most High, whether the jumper wins or loses.