Awake, my beloved, awake! For my spirit calls to you from beyond fearful seas. My soul stretches its wings toward you over angry, foaming waves. Awake, for movement has ceased and silence has stilled the clamor of hoofbeats. The footsteps of passersby have ceased, and sleep has embraced the spirits of men. I alone remain awake, for longing pulls me to safety whenever slumber would drown me. Love draws me nigh to you whenever apprehension would pull me away. I leave my bed, beloved, fearful of dreams of oblivion concealed within the blankets’ folds. I throw down my book, for my sighs have burned the lines from its pages and left them empty and white before my eyes. Awake, awake, my beloved, and hear me!

—Thou, my love! I heard your call from beyond the seas and felt your wings brush me. I awoke and left my chamber and went into the fields. My feet and the hems of my robe wet with night dew, I stood beneath the flowering almond tree and listened to the call of your soul, my love.

—Speak, my beloved, and let your breaths flow with the wind blowing back to me from the valleys of Lebanon. Speak! Only I shall hear, for darkness has driven all creatures to their nests. All the people of the city are drunk with sleep, and only I remain to listen.

—My love, the sky has woven a veil from moonlight and thrown it over the body of Lebanon.

—My beloved, in the darkness of night the sky is a thick cloak, trapping the smoke of factories and the breaths of death, concealing the ribs of the city.

—The villagers lie in the huts they have built among the walnut and willow trees, my love, and their souls race toward the theatres of dreams!

—Heavy loads of gold have bent men’s backs. Their caravans are weary from climbing the rocky paths of desire. Cares have made their eyelids heavy. They have thrown themselves upon their beds, my beloved, their hearts tormented by the phantoms of fear and despair.

—The ghosts of past ages walk by night in the valleys. The spirits of kings and prophets hover about the mountain peaks. My thought turns toward the theatre of memory and shows me the glories of the Chaldeans, the splendor of Assyria, the greatness of the Arabs.

—The dark spirits of thieves stalk the alleys by night and passions as adders’ heads appear in the slits of windows. Through the twisting streets blow the breaths of the sick mingled with men’s dying gasps. Memory pulls away the curtains of forgetfulness, showing me the vices of Sodom and the depravities of Gomorah.

—The branches sway, my love, rustling with the purl of the valley brook. They echo in my ears like the Song of Solomon, the psalms of David’s lyre, the melodies of Mawsili.