Ah my city, my lady,
the night of mourning has been too long
in your heart, the palm trees of love have withered,
sorrow has flowered,
the purest of your children have died
or live in exile.
When will the migrant day return, city of my heart,
when will we drink a toast to " Al-Tawil " and " " Aiban, "
eat spring cakes,
play with roses on a night in April,
when will joy's river wash our tears of exile away?